Lying in the tent on his back, he held the picture with both hands and illuminated it with the flashlight sticking out of his mouth. It was a picture of his wife. He almost envisioned her lying next to him in a sleeping bag. She would have been asleep already; she had not been a night-owl. Gripping the picture tightly, he struggled to keep tears from flowing out of his eyes. He turned the flashlight off and set it down along with the picture. The night was quiet, and through the tent he heard the gentle wind rustle the pine trees. The nearby creek peacefully trickled along through the forest. He attempted to focus on the surrounding wilderness, rather than on his painful memories. He sat there for a while until he eventually fell asleep. An indistinguishable sound woke him up. He sat listening, intensely focused on the noise from the outside. A low growling appeared out of nowhere, and it sent a jolt of adrenaline throughout his body. The growling began to grow louder, and he sensed a creature was stalking toward the tent. He heard snorting and sniffing, and the volume of the noises convinced him it was a large animal— most likely a grizzly bear. The sniffing came closer, and he feared the beast was right outside his tent. Eyes wide open and body frozen with fear, he listened as it paced around his encampment. His heart was beating intensely, and his jaw tightened harshly. After about a minute, the noise abruptly withdrew. Perhaps the brute had become bored and lumbered away. Not trusting his ears, he sat for an hour before deciding to go outside. He set his picture and flashlight in his day-pack, put it on his back, and grabbed the 12-gauge shotgun propped against the inside of the tent. His two-person Marmot tent contained a zipper to exit on either side of the tent. Last hearing the creature on his right, he slowly unzipped the left exit all the way. He poked his head out, and peered around before getting out. The night was ominously dark, and the moon was completely blocked by clouds. Shotgun ready, he observed the forest surrounding him and saw no animals. A sigh of relief escaped his mouth. *Thank God*, she would have said. That was one of her favorite lines; she used to say it at least ten times a day. He wiped the sweat off his forehead as he stared up at the bleak night sky, void of any stars. Beginning to think about her again, he tried to distract himself. The purpose of his trip was to get away from everything— a distraction from his sorrows. He studied the tops of the evergreen trees, thoroughly staring at each tree to examine its shape. A snarl from behind erupted out of the silence of the wilderness. A second wave of adrenaline crushed him with immediate force. He spun around aggressively and pointed his gun at the enormous, snarling, 800-pound grizzly bear that stood before him. Standing about fifteen feet away, the beast bared its sharp, threatening teeth, and he felt it attempting to impose its dominance over him. The blood inside him turned to lead, and his mind went blank. He struggled to overcome the mounting dread the bear established within him. He hadn’t felt such an overwhelming rush of terror since the day she died. Unexpectedly, the mental images of that day flashed into his vision. Sirens. Police cars. His bloody leg. An ambulance. Her eyes, gazing up at him as she slipped away. The bear pulled him back to reality with a primal, guttural growl that shook him to his core. His mind became clear. Keeping his gun pointed at the beast, he slowly backed away, step-by-step. The bear maintained a menacing glare and took a step toward him. He shifted the gun’s direction off to the side a few feet and pulled the trigger. The deafening crack caused the bear to recoil slightly, and he sensed its imposing dominance waver. He pointed the gun back at the bear and started to back away once more. The bear did not follow this time, so he kept going. He was now fifty feet away from it. He kept backing up until he reached the creek, about a hundred feet away. He barely saw the bear’s menacing glare penetrating through the wilderness. He felt the contents of his pack poking into his back. He was grateful that he grabbed his bag before leaving the tent. Disregarding the staring beast due to the distance between them, he crossed the creek. The water was icy cold and chilled him to the bone. Upon reaching the other side, he fell into a dead sprint through the forest. After running for twenty minutes, he dropped to the ground next to a large cedar tree. The bear was nowhere to be seen, so he rested. He slept through the whole night. The bright, uncovered sun woke him up along with the warm, brushing breeze. For a while he sat there, enjoying the beauty of the forest. Eventually, he opened his pack and took out the picture. He set her down, and his hands began to dig. They dug a sizable hole next to that cedar tree. When finished, he took one last look at her and placed the picture in the hole. As his hands covered the hole back up, a cleansing sensation washed over him, and he felt whole once more. He got up, found the trail, and began to head back to the trailhead.


I wrote this for Furious Fiction, but sadly I didn't win, or even get on their short or long list. It has been edited slightly to be bang on 500 words. I hope you enjoy \*\*\* There was a deep sigh as he leaned back against the bench. He could see the sun beginning to rise over the horizon, lighting the sky. His mother was in the hospital behind him. She wouldn’t be watching the sunrise. It had been three months since she’d slipped into the coma. Three months of praying that she would wake up. Of late night sprints to the hospital when some part of her system failed, only to be brought back from the brink by the doctors and nurses. Of listening to the machines beep. Of machines breathing for her. The doctor had come to him yesterday. “Sir, I know you might not want to hear this.” She’d said. “But the patient, your mother, she may never wake up from this. It says here on her file that she didn’t want to be kept alive if she wasn’t conscious. You need to start thinking about letting her go.” “Letting her go?” He’d roared in return. “Letting my mother go? It’s not as if she can just wake up if the machines are taken away. You’re asking me to *kill* my own mother.” “Sir, no. We’re not asking you to do that. We are informing you of her wishes. We will leave the decision with you.” The doctor had left, and he’d stayed at his mother’s bedside that night, holding her hand and running his thumb over the soft skin. He hated how she looked, tucked into the stark white sheets, her hair neatly pinned back. Her hair was supposed to be free, to hang about her face and get in her eyes. A bell rang in the morning air and he turned to watch a bicycle fly past, a woman, her hair loose and her feet bare. A woman who could have been his mother when she was younger. Their eyes met, and she smiled at him, her eyes crinkling at the corners. Then she was gone and around the corner. He stood, slowly making his way back to the hospital. There was a peace in his chest that hadn’t been there before. Perhaps she’d only had a passing resemblance to his mother, it was hard to tell with how fast she was going, but he believed that it was his mother, telling him that it was okay. The nurse on duty handed him a clipboard and a pen. He skimmed the words, his pen finding the page and leaving his signature at the bottom. Then he went back to his mother’s side, took her hand in his. The room was quiet now, without the beeping, without the hiss of the machines. But it did not feel dead. He cried when she passed on. As all children do when they lose a beloved parent. But he could still feel her fingers in his hair, comforting him. He could feel the warmth of her kiss on his cheek. It told him that she was still there, watching over him, as she always had.


So this is my first short story attempt and I wanted to portray what I think is my biggest fear in the form of a short story. Feedback is much appreciated He found himself looking at the bleak ceiling of his small room. His joints started to ache and pain as he slowly sat up on the edge of his bed. He felt a twinge of sadness as he stared at the picture of his deceased wife. He let out a long sigh and struggled to stand up. He tried to walk over to get his cane but his withered bones could only manage a slow shuffle. His shaky hands struggled to open the tray to take his medicine. He hated the idea of taking so many pills. He took pills for many things; heart problems, arthritis, depression... but he couldn’t keep track of everything anymore. He lived alone. He lost his wife of 50 years to cancer. He had two children, but they had left and started families a long time ago. In his bleak empty house, he couldn’t help but feel alone. He missed his children, but he lacked the means to pay them a visit. They rarely made time for him anyway. He was alone. He would always find himself thinking about the past because he had nothing else to do. Eventually, it always led to thoughts of regret. He found himself thinking of all the times that he didn’t do something, or all the times he wished he could’ve kept his mouth shut, how he should’ve spent more time with friends and family. He knew he couldn’t change the past, but the past was the only thing to think about. He had lived a life full of regret. He had gone through life only caring about himself. There was one thing he didn’t regret though. Meeting his wife, but now she’s gone. She was much more than he deserved, and he knew it. He knew that she would’ve wanted him to live on, but it was getting immensely hard. He had tried to go on without her. He had tried to find happiness without her, but he couldn’t. His body was starting to give up on him, he could barely move around on his own. His life was plagued with pain, medication, doctors, and loss. He couldn’t find anything that brought him happiness anymore. So what was the point? Why keep on going? Why should he keep on living his painful life? He found himself looking at his dresser. He started to make his way over. As he was walking he couldn’t help but think of his life, how he had went to school, got a job, and retired like anyone else. He opened the drawer and pulled out the pistol. He thought of his wife, of how happy she made him. How she’s gone... He lifted the barrel to the side of his head... what was he doing?! He couldn’t bring himself to pull the trigger, he couldn’t intentionally bring sadness to everyone he cared about, he couldn’t... He started to think, Would anyone even care in the end? Does anyone even care about him? Or is everyone just waiting for him to die? Most of his friends had passed on or slowly drifted away. His wife was gone. His children seem to have forgotten about him. Maybe everyone had already given up on him. What more did he have to accomplish? What point is there? With all these questions rushing around in his head, his finger lie motionless on the trigger.


"Hello, this is Brock." Static. A soft scuffle in the background. "Hello?" The distorted roar of air rushing into the microphone, followed by a muffled sound of heavy breathing. "Oi! Can you her me?" Now dead silence. Apparently there wasn't even enough sound on the other end to activate the phone's receiver. After a few seconds of listening I thought about hanging up, but then I heard a clang in the distance, the sharp sound of metal on metal, and footsteps, at least three pairs of shoes slapping against the ground and echoing through a confined space. This was unusual. The last three calls from this number had been near identical, timid voice reciting a simple message: "Help me. Please help me. I'm lost..." and then each time the line was cut before I could properly respond. Three times this person had called me, too soft-spoken for me to recognise the voice, or even identify a gender from the weak audio. But this call was different. The footsteps increased in volume, and urgency. A low, distant voice uttered something unclear in an authoritative tone and the footsteps responded, breaking their pace momentarily to comply to the instruction. "Who is this?" I asked hesitantly, "Are you alright?" but I got the impression this was an accidental redial, or something like it. The caller hadn't even spoken this time. All the same, I kept listening. "He ran this way," the low voice said, "They always do." He was much closer and clearer now, with and accent I couldn't quite place. South African maybe? Or Dutch? "Their newly formed eyes are unused to the daylight, so they flee to the nearest dark place: the underground carpark. I'm telling you, it's the same every time. They're like newborn babies - instinctive and predictable. "Spread out and look around," the deep voice continued, "Check behind the pillars and under the cars. The subject shouldn't be far, but I swear to God, if he does escape your punishment will be severe. I'm sure I need not explain the gravity of our predicament if that were to happen." The footsteps scattered, most of them seeming to drift away and diminish in volume. Nothing for a few seconds. Suddenly the panting was back, close and loud. Heavy footfalls at a fast jog and a sharp rapping sound on the mic periodically. The anonymous caller was making a break for it, and apparently their phone was in a loose pocket of some kind. A voice yelled from a distance, reverberating across the concrete interior space, and soon others responded in short militant barks. Then a gunshot, I was sure of it. The pursuers had resorted to firearms, and something told me these characters weren't the local police. Crack! The sound almost deafened me and I had to pull the phone from my ear momentarily to recover. Not a gunshot this time, the impact must have been right up against the receiver. My anonymous friend had dropped their phone. "Fuck!" This voice was strangely familiar but I didn't have time to think about it - whoever they were, their escape had been short-lived... The deep South African voice was back, and it was accompanied by the mechanical clacking of a semi-automatic handgun. "Subject four oh three seven, you have before you two options." Sentences were hard to make out so far from the source microphone, and my volume was at 100%. Up until this point I had to guess the odd inaudible word from the context. But then I heard a tap and my audio became a lot clearer. Deep Voice Man was louder and I could hear every word now. "Yes, good idea. Sit down, don't run. We can talk over this together." I guessed that 'Subject 4037' had seen the redialled number and put the call onto loudspeaker for me when he sat down - all without his captor noticing the phone on the ground. I kept listening. "You can come with me right now," Deep Voice went on, "Come back to your dark room with its soft bed and regular meals. The sun won't hurt you there, the noise-" he fired a shot at the ground, "...won't hurt you there. In that room your only concern will be a daily blood donation and weekly scan graft collections. Is that too much to ask for your safety? You are saving lives my friend, and you don't even have to work for a living - something many on this planet can only dream of. "On the other hand... if freedom is what you desire then who am I to take it from you? But you may find it less comfortable than you hoped. The world is a harsh, dangerous place my friend. You have been extremely sheltered in this facility, and I can guarantee, your escape would be just as difficult for you as it would be for us. The only real freedom I can offer you is a quick death, I'm not unreasonable. You aren't as valuable to us as you thought, there are many others like you. "Now which will it be?" Seconds passed. The silence grew. Finally, in a strong, confident tone I heard that familiar voice again, for the first time properly: "Brock Cullen, you are the victim of DNA theft and unauthorised artificial reproduction. Your biological property is being harvested for capital gain by false-" Bang! "Wrong answer." But I had heard enough. The familiar voice was my own.


Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men; the shadow knows!". But, who knows what lurks in the hearts of women? It's for sure that husbands don't, and neither does the shadow. Take my wife, please! (Sorry, old joke). We've been married for thirty years, and we went together for five years before that. So, you'd think I'd know her. Yet, it happened again last week. "Where's the flashlight," she said, as she opened a drawer in the kitchen. "I think I last saw it in the bedroom on the nightstand, but I'm sure it needs batteries," I said. "No problem", she said, "I have more in the freezer"(first place I would have looked). "What are you going to do?" I asked. "To do something I should have done a long time ago", she sneered. "I have to kill", and with that, dressed in a bathrobe, ear muffs, and bedroom slippers, she turned on the flashlight, slid open the sliding glass door, and entered the backyard. It was 40 degrees at 9:00 PM ,and she was gone for almost an hour. I was worried, but the football game still had three minutes to go. The door flew open. "How did it go?" I said. "Don't have time for chit-chat", she said, heading for the front door. "You have to strike when it's not expected. She didn't look well. I needed more popcorn. Twenty minutes later, the front door swung open, and I could hear sirens. "They're dead, and I feel great!" she said. "By the way, did you hear the fire engine?" I had heard that hunters shine lights in the eyes of swift animals such as deer to paralyze them in their tracks. My wife had managed to stop the swift-moving, hard-backed snail using the same method. And, as in the "Attack of the 50 Foot Woman", she steps on them--hundreds a night. It's a slaughter, the Iraqis had a better chance of winning. Night after night she searches them out. Not weather, company, or her favorite television show stops her. At any moment, as if she is some kind of controlled robot, she will jump to attention, grab the flashlight, and enter the war zone. Yes, Virginia, there is a terminator, and she is my wife! Neither the Shadow nor I will ever understand what lurks in the heart of my wife. How can a woman, who wakes her husband up in the middle of the night insisting that he catch a moth because it is going to dive-bomb her hair in the dark, be so vicious when it comes to the dangerous snail? "A little moth isn't going to hurt you, go back to sleep!" I say. She says, "he'll make me hurt myself." "Right", I thought. "That makes sense. Leave me alone, and go back to sleep." "No", she says, "Neither one of us is going to sleep until you catch him." "How do you know there's a moth in here?" "I heard his wings fluttering over my head. He's going to get in my hair, and I'm going to jump out of bed and run around the room bumping into things", she cried. It's like being around Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. She may be boarding on Sybil. Yesterday, there was a can of beer in our refrigerator. "What's this?" I ask. We don't drink, and alcohol is never found in our house. She wouldn't even let the roofers bring beer into our yard when they were working in 100-degree weather. "Are you going to wash your hair with it?" (I had heard that women will do this). "No!" She looked at me as if I had no understanding as to what was going on--which I didn't! "I'm giving it to the snails tonight". Had there been a "truce", and no one had told me? "The ladies on television said that snails are drawn to beer and will drown themselves in it", she stated triumphantly and proceeded to put out four saucers of beer in various parts of the garden. The next morning she found the saucers just as full as she had left them. "I don't understand", she said. "What kind of beer did you buy?" "Lite", she said. I didn't ask her why-- didn't want to know. "Next time, buy the imported kind", I volunteered. "Don't be stupid", she pouted. "This is serious." "Salt! That's the answer. The ladies on television said to try salt.


[content warning for transphobia and language] My mom was waiting for me at the front door when I got home from school that day. Based on her stormy expression and the report card crumpled in her fist, I could already guess which lecture she was gearing up for, so I swerved and went through the garage door instead.

“Chelsea!” she shouted after me, hurrying down the front steps so she could keep bothering me, “Get your ass back here. We need to talk about this.”

“No, we don’t,” I said, booking it as fast as I could towards the stairs. “And stop calling me that .” “This is getting out of hand. At this rate, you won’t get into college, and I will not let you end up like your uncle!” At the top of the stairs, I turned to look at her. She was standing four steps below me, one hand on the banister, and there was genuine anger in her eyes.

I leaned down, getting in her face a little. “What makes you think you have any say in how I turn out, huh? It didn’t work before, did it?” Her expression twisted, rage blooming on her face, but before she could say anything, I retreated into my room and slammed the door shut behind me. I could hear her yelling outside, but I did my best to tune her out. I’d gotten the last word, after all.

Letting out a heavy sigh, I finally let the weight of the day catch up to me. It hit me in stages–first through a headache that pounded at my temples, then a heaviness in my limbs that nearly sent me to my knees, and finally a deep and pervasive exhaustion. I let my backpack fall off my shoulder and crash to the ground before moving to the battered vanity in the corner. A message was already waiting for me in the mirror. Green letters, the “l”s curled at the ends.

Hello .

I picked up a “red” Expo marker from the cup full of pens on the desk and uncapped it.

Hey , I wrote back.

How was your day? asked the mirror. The “y” is curled too. Nathan has always had really curly handwriting–it was the first thing I knew about him, that he wrote in an elegant, sloping script. Founding Father-esque, one might’ve even said.

Honestly really bad. I got my chem test back and you were right I should've studied more I’m sorry to hear that, Noah .

Just that was enough to make me tear up. Something about Nathan’s calm words and steady presence eased the tension in my shoulders. And calling me Noah–he didn’t have to do that, didn’t have to include it in his message to get his point across, but it was like he was reminding me that he believed me. I briefly closed my eyes, letting the moisture gather in my eyes without shame. Nathan understood me. Nathan was here for me.

I was just trying to figure out which part of the truly terrible day to start with (the things Jason and his friends said at lunch? The comments I found on my Instagram page this morning? The way my old best friend, the person who was supposed to stand by me when no one else did, had looked at me from across the hall?) when I heard a knock on my door. Three knocks–the even rhythm and gentle force told me that it was my dad. I knew in my gut that this was a confrontation I wouldn't be able to avoid, so I quickly scribbled out g2g before swiping my palm across the mirror’s surface, smudging the words beyond recognition.

“Yeah?” I called, capping my “red” Expo marker. Stop lying, Expo. It’s pink.

I watched through the reflection as my dad opened the door and stepped inside, half shutting it behind him as he glanced around the room.

“Hey there, kiddo,” he said, his eyes catching on the mirror behind me. When I glanced back, the green letters were still there, sitting somewhere behind the glass, though I knew he couldn’t see them. I had spent enough time trying to convince him with no results.

“What do you want, Dad?” I said, not bothering to keep the tiredness from seeping into my voice.

Dad sighed, tapping his fingers against his arms as he crossed them. It was an anxious tick, one I recognized as him wanting to be done with this conversation.

“Why is your mirror pink?” he finally asked, ignoring my question.

I shrugged. “I’ve been making notes on it.” “We need to have a talk as a family.” Ah, there it was. Damning words, ones that foretold a very difficult next half hour.

Pushing myself to my feet, I tried to fold my emotions away into some corner of my body where the real world couldn't touch. I didn’t want to be vulnerable for the impending altercation, didn’t want any part of me exposed. I began to move past him to the stairs, but he grabbed my elbow before I could. “Try to be civil towards your mother,” he said.

I scowled. “I’ll be civil if she is.”

When I got to the kitchen, my mother and sister were already waiting, sitting in their respective seats. Mom’s face was stony, and her eyes latched onto me as soon as I entered. My sister, Lila, was focused on her phone, which she poked at with taloned hands.

“Nice of you to join us,” Lila said dryly. I sneered at her. What an ass.

Dad shot her a look before putting a hand on my waist, guiding me towards my chair. Sitting down in his own seat, he leaned forward, threading his fingers together and meeting each of our eyes in turn.

“I think,” he said slowly, “that we are long overdue for a talk. We’ve been kind of disconnected as a family lately.” Lila and I looked at him with twin unamused expressions, but Mom nodded eagerly.

“Yes,” she said. “You’ve both been insufferable lately, and it’s high time that we put an end to this. Lila, why the hell did we get another call from Mrs. Mohror today about your outfit?”

Lila made a face, clicking the button to turn her phone off and slamming it down on the table with a decisive thud . “Um, because she’s a prude? It’s literally just a crop top, you can’t even see anything!” She gestured wildly at me. “And why are you getting on my case? At least I’m dressing like a girl and not some kind of–” she spluttered, searching for words, “– hoodlum !” Easily distracted, Mom spun on me instead. “That’s its own problem! Chelsea, what is with you? You’re so beautiful, why do you insist on dressing like a boy?” “Now girls,” Dad said, apparently newly aware of what he’d started. “Let’s not–” “For the last time, stop calling me that !” I snarled, feeling blood rise hotly to my face. “If nothing else, at least–” “Girls–” “YOU ARE NOT A BOY,” Mom thundered, and the kitchen sunk into silence. Across the room, I could hear the dishwasher gurgling. Outside, the neighbor’s lawn mower hummed to life. I stared at my mother with fire curdling in my chest, anger turning my hands to fists and humiliation making my throat tight.

Mom put her head in her hands and let out a theatrically anguished sob. “ What happened to this family ? I have one kid who dresses like a slut and another who’s convinced she’s a man. You two are throwing away everything I’ve worked for. What did I do wrong?”

Lila rolled her eyes, throwing her hands in the air before tossing herself back into her chair. “Here we go again. Why do you always have to make everything about you?” In this, we were in agreement.

Mom’s head snapped up, and her eyes latched onto Lila. I used the brief interlude to get up and leave the room even as Dad called for me to stop. I had tried to be civil. I hadn’t even said anything. Now I was done.

Taking the stairs two at a time, I thundered back up to my room, slamming the door shut behind me. In a strange moment of déjà vu, I could once again hear my mother yelling outside, but this time, it was accompanied by my sister’s shrill voice and my father’s panicked rambling as he tried to calm everybody down.

Crossing the room, I collapsed onto the bench in front of the vanity. It felt like gravity was trying to drag me to the floor, and it was pulling at everything–my hair, teeth, bones. I picked up my “red” Expo marker again and ignored the sensation of sinking.

I’m back , I wrote, then paused with the tip poised over the glass. What do I even say to accurately describe what just happened?

Nathan responded first.

I’m glad to hear that , the mirror said. Are you alright? Not really I There was a long pause while I tried to find the words, long enough that a ? started to appear. I watched it form, saw how it started with a delicate curl and ended with a confident strike.

You first , I wrote instead, crossing out what I had already written. How was your day? Tell me something good that hapened Another long pause. I could feel him weighing whether he should push me for more details or not. He apparently decided to leave me be, because a second later, more words started to rise to the mirror’s surface. Alright , he began. I had a good day at work today. We were finally able to get the Huntington project approved, so we’ll be able to start the implementation phase within the next month. There was a bit of a rough patch during the cost analysis meeting, though. It seems like the board members might be the most challenging part of this project after all .

I read with rapt attention, trying to absorb every word as if it were my own. Nathan had always been a bit cagey with the details, but from what I could understand, he had the kind of job that people like me dreamed of. Creativity, ingenuity, artistry–he never used those words, but I could tell from the way he talked how much he relied on them and how much he loved it in turn. The challenge of a problem unsolved, the brilliant people he was surrounded with, the satisfaction that blazed through him after a job well done–he loved it, and I was insanely jealous. I wanted that for myself, wanted it with every fiber of my being. Every atom in my body was pulled towards it with magnetic force, and I craved it desperately. However, as much as I hated to admit it (and I really, really hated it), Mom was right; I probably wouldn’t get into a good college, especially not one that would let me do what Nathan did. So I did my best to commit each word to memory and tried to be satisfied with just that instead. (Nathan, true to form, was extremely supportive of me to an almost insane degree. Even though he refused to tell me what his job was , he encouraged me to keep trying despite my struggles in school, and though I appreciated his faith in me, it hurt every time, like little bee stings in my chest.) Nathan’s writing had slowed to a halt. He waited a respectful beat before cutting straight to the chase.

Now tell me what happened.

I had run out of time to stall. My own crooked writing joined Nathan’s curly lines, red scribbles under green script, and I told him everything. I told him about the cruel things Jason had whispered in my ear this morning and the hatred I found on my Instagram. I talked about the ice in my ex-best friend's eyes and the heavy 52 on my chemistry exam. As I kept going, I found that it got easier, that the words picked up momentum and got sloppier. The stress of the day, which had been a building, burning pressure, was finally starting to slough off of me and into the ink in the marker again, though it wasn’t completely gone. There was still the threat of being interrupted again for Family Feud: Round 2. Still, putting everything into words balanced something inside me, and knowing the words weren’t going straight into the void, that they were being read and consumed and understood, made me feel like this might someday be just another bad day instead of the end of the world.

Nathan stayed the entire time and observed with minimal interruption, only stopping me to ask the occasional question. By the time I was done telling him about the school day, I had covered my mirror in writing three times over. Each time I erased it, more pink clung to the glass, and I managed to gather a decent amount of it onto my hands as well.

Then dad wanted me to come downstairs so we could talk as a “family.” it got bad really quickly. Mom just cant keep her mouth shut. I sighed, leaning back again for a moment to stretch my back before continuing. Sometimes I think they're right that its all in my head. I was so sure that I knew who I was and that this is who I’m suposed to be. But maybe I am too young to know and I’m just wrong. I just hope that I haven’t screwed everything up for good.

Here, I hesitated. There was something else I wanted to tell Nathan, but I wasn’t sure if I wanted to put it into words; doing so would solidify my cowardice. It would prove my mother right. I wrote it out anyway. Why couldn’t I have just not said anything? It wouldve been so much easier if I had stayed quiet. I think I made a mistake. There it was: the ugly truth. If I hadn’t said anything, my father and sister would still meet my eyes when talking to me. If I had stayed quiet, I might not be having so much social trouble at school. If I had remained her silent, obedient daughter, my mom and I would still be like we were. All of these losses were the direct results of my own dumb decisions. I had been so caught up in finally finding the words to describe myself that I didn’t think about what they would say to the people around me. Regret curled around my throat and squeezed.

NO. Through blurry eyes, I watched as Nathan underlined the word. Once, twice. Three times. Noah, this is not your fault. You are not to blame for the way your family has reacted. I understand your doubt–I’ve been there, believe me, but you living your life the way you want to isn’t some slight against the world. It’s you trying to be the most honest version of yourself.

Tears were freely dripping down my face at that point. I tried to wipe them away without smearing pink all over my face, but I don’t think I managed. Closing my eyes, I sat back and let out a long breath, repeating Nathan’s words in my head. Not my fault. Not my fault. He wasn’t done yet, though.

And who knows. Maybe someday you’ll change your mind and figure out that this isn’t who you are, but that’s not wrong either. People are allowed to change–that’s just growth. You don’t have to know exactly who you are today.

Please don’t doubt yourself, Noah. I know this is hard. It’s unimaginably difficult, and you’ve been through a lot, but you’ve done such a great job and come so far. I am so proud of you.

This is what I needed, someone to tell me that I wasn’t crazy and that it isn’t wrong to want to be understood. A person who understood the hurt without being dismissive and could see the effort it took to stay composed. Once again, I clung to the words and tried to bury them in my chest, far down enough that they would never shake free. I spent a long moment collecting myself, stilled my trembling hands, then leaned forward and wrote, Thank you. For everything . Kind words. A steady presence. Green letters that curled at the ends.

Of course.

————————————— Hours later, I sigh and put down my green Expo marker. My wife looks up at me from where she’s sprawled across the bed on the far side of the room. “Noah, are you done yet? I think I want tacos tonight for dinner. The beef ones, not the chicken ones.” I laugh a little. “Yeah, sorry about the wait. The kid had a bad day." She stands and crosses the room, wrapping her arms around my shoulders and putting her head on top of mine as she reads what I’ve written on the mirror. I look at her in the reflection, watch her eyes as they flicker back and forth. She is the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen. “You’re really good at saying the right thing,” she says when she’s done. I hum noncommittally. “Not really, but I try.” The truth is that the younger version of myself is not always the easiest to talk to. It can be hard to reach him under the layers of hurt and rage and guilt and cling to him, and sometimes the idea of reliving all the old memories makes me want to walk away, even though I never would. These conversations are so important to me—when talking to Nathan, it was like I was finally tethered after an eternity spent floating, and I would never give that up.

My wife smiles at me.

“Trust me. You did great.”


Like a tidal wave he crashed through the first rank of shields and spears. Sweeping through them, his axe connected with flesh, muscle and bone. The smell of iron hung heavy around him, blood spilling like water from mortal fountains. This was his home, this was his domain. The frenzied screams of agony sounded far away, even though he could see writhing faces before him. He danced the dance of gods, to the music of death and decay. His every movement calculated, no one was left alone – or alive. Soon, the enemy soldiers began retreating. No amount of wages would ever be enough for them to face the warrior god. His friends and allies came rushing past him as he stood unmoving in silence, a single tear escaping his left eye. The ululating screams of victory roamed about in the forest. The trees danced in the wind as if they were celebrating. With limbs and armour in hand, his friends came back to find Aramon kneeling. They stood in silence with eyes closed, joining their friend and champion in prayer. The moment he rose up, he saw their grins widening. They quickly swarmed him and howled like wolves to the invisible moon. He too howled, but not for the same reason as them. *I live to see another day, Elmira. Our victory was almost absolute, but we did sustain losses. Losses that the earth can bear, but my heart cannot. Ra’ik fell today. I will forever remember his eyes looking up at me. In them I saw only scorn and disappointment. Even though he died a warrior’s death, the only death of honour that he knew of – I need to believe that he would have preferred to have died in silence, in his own home. I know I would. Being away from you is torture enough, but to constantly fear for my life takes its own toll. Being awake has become a nightmare and I wish for sleep to take me early each night. You see, I dream of our garden. Of our lives and our children that will one day roam about. I see their faces clear as day. Their smiles brighten my existence almost as much as yours. It is enough to keep me going. No matter what I see and experience in the hell that is war, I go on until I can feel your embrace yet again.* About two hundred warriors clad in leather and mail marched with eerie silence through the thick forest. According to their scouts, they were outnumbered three to one. However, they had the advantage of knowing this. Each soldier was expected to scout and learn the lay of the land. This way they were able to move through it swiftly and without much noise. It didn’t matter if they were on their own territory or far away. And they were definitely not close to home. So far they had been able to ambush their enemies and steadily dwindle their numbers without taking too many casualties. They pushed on until night arrived with its fierce darkness. The moon’s rays of light weren’t able to penetrate the thick canopy. Aramon missed its silver light and the shadows it formed within the forest, but found the warmth from the campfire to be sufficient. While enjoying ale and roasted boar, they talked amongst themselves loudly. They were sure enough that their enemies had no idea where they were, and so they were free to shout and laugh. Some reminisced about former battles, others tried to figure out what the enemy soldiers were fighting for. Even though they would fight to the death to protect their land, they couldn’t fathom why their enemies would. Knowing what came for them should be reason enough to surrender. Everyone but Aramon laughed as someone pointed this out, flagons of ale clashing together. The warm embrace of intoxication soon lulled them off to sleep. Lying on the forest floor, eyes closed but not being able to sleep, Aramon felt the cool summer breeze suddenly envelop him. It reminded him of the soft touch of his beloved and soon after fell into a deep slumber. Their force was perhaps outnumbered in size, but not in spirit. They had all communed with their god of war before preparing for what was hopefully the last battle of this campaign. After today they would enjoy the spoils of war and new land for their king to call his own. A mighty warrior king, Lothric stood taller than most men and his body was covered in scars from deadly battles. He alone refrained from using heavy armour, complaining about how it hampered his movements. His great axe was made by the clans’ best blacksmith and gilded with silver and gold. He stood before them now, a giant amongst men, his voice thundering as his eyes glittered with bloodlust and greed. On the other side stood terrified men. Men who had heart the terrifying tales from their comrades who’d survived previous skirmishes. They fought for their freedom and their land. They fought for their wives and their children. They fought for their honour. Nonetheless, they were frightened to their very core. They knew what the king was capable of. Gruesome and passionate, he slashed people in two while laughing maniacally. However, the tales of the one who danced through the battle, killing indiscriminately with cold eyes and an expressionless face made their bones quiver. Rushing towards the others, Aramon pushed away all thoughts of Elmira and any hopes and dreams that persisted within him. He had to become what he hated, a machine void of emotions. He had honed his skills over many years and a seemingly endless cycle of violence. He saw the fear in the faces of his enemies as he came closer. The frigid blood within their veins would soon soak the earth. These men had done nothing to Aramon, but any doubts or thoughts regarding their right to live was quickly squashed by his now glacial mind. Crashing into the first soldier, his force was overwhelming. His axe crushed bone, severed sinew and muscle like it was soft clay. He ducked, dodged and blocked attacks from all directions. It was like he had seen this happen a thousand times before and had rehearsed his role perfectly. Lothric saw this splendid choreography of death which was unveiling before his eyes. A roar of passion escaped him and he laughed loudly, his eyes widening as he stared down the soldier in front of him. “The god of death is upon us men! Run! Run for your lives! He will take your soul to the underworld and keep it caged for all eternity. Run if you value your souls!” The terror of their screams and their panicked eyes were but a distant hum for Aramon. His lithe and deadly movements ground to a halt as the people before him ran. He stood still, his breathing slow and steady. As so many times before, his fellow tribesmen ran past him, weapons ready and their minds bent on bloodshed. Aramon hoped that this truly was enough for the others to finally surrender. He looked around, the twisted faces of the fallen gazing upon him with fear and hatred. Not wanting to disrespect their bodies by forcing their eyes shut, he closed his own. *It is finally over. Lothric told us that we are staying for a few weeks more, but at least we can both rest easy knowing that the fighting is done. Regarding what you said in your last letter – I agree. I more than anyone wish that I could do something else than being a cog in Lothric’s war-machine. Alas, I have nothing else to give this world. I have no other talents. This terrible gift which was thrusted upon me by my poor excuse of a father. With every beating grew a rage which could only be harnessed through violence. If he knew that he was creating a monster or did so in ignorance, I do not know. The only man who could answer that question was killed by his creation on that fateful night that still haunts my dreams. I hate that my gift takes me far away from the one who gave me a life worth living. A life I fight to survive for. But my fate was sealed that night. Unknowingly I spun myself deeper into a web of violence until I was completely caught in it. Within that web is where I hide my deepest self, the one that only you have seen and no one but our children will ever see. Within that web I am caught, but somehow I also remain free. Trying to do anything else but what I hate scares me more than I have perhaps been willing to admit. I was bred not only to survive, but actually thrive in this hellscape. The cowardice propels me forward toward the ones they call our enemies. People with hopes and dreams and fears and love. I hope with all my soul that I will one day become a courageous man.


On Day 1, it was a usual night in the suburbs. Mrs. Lomen's dog barked, and the teenage neighbor was up late playing loud rock music. Through it all, I was surprised that I could hear the sound of a car roll up the street. It parked near my driveway, the engine ceased, and the headlights prompted me to look out the window to see what was going on. The driver was male, and he was trying to retrieve something out of the backseat where four other passengers sat. Unexpectedly, I felt his head shift toward the bedroom window, so I ducked down to avoid his gaze. When I thought the moment was right, I rose to the window sill and found that the men had disappeared. I had no clue where the men went, but I knew something wasn't right, and later, I found out that I was correct. My front door caved in, and I realized that a burglary was underway. Just when I finished barricading the door, the men came upstairs and began to spray gunfire. Unable to think or comprehend, I threw myself out the window on top of the black pavement. Breathlessly with an intent to move, I stumbled until I saw that the men broke into my bedroom and were about to shoot down at me. I quickened my pace and evaded the bullets until I met with Deputy Doug, the neighborhood policeman.

“What is going on,” exclaimed Deputy Doug.

“I've been a victim in an armed burglary!” I turned, gripping my side, like an athlete. “There are four of them!” Deputy Doug grabbed his walkie, "Stay here in the bushes, Im calling for backup." I crept into the bush while the officer ran down the street to assess the situation. Day two was devastating at best. I was at the police station when Deputy Doug informed me that the suspects fled the scene. He also told me that during their investigation, they found a lot of rummaging in my office. The perps stole photos, keys, books, and, most importantly, my Scouts documentation. That documentation contained all of my credentials and location information when I was a spy for the lookouts. It became clear that the burglars knew me and were coming to seek revenge for my intrusion in the past. After an hour in the deputy's office, we began talking about protection placement in a safe house up north. The house was tucked away on a grassy plain and had high-grade security details. A thick black wall wrapped the property, followed by a steal gate that allowed auto entry. Security cameras were placed in the ground, trees, rocks, and around the house. Even one false step would trigger the alarm and send you an electric shock. Sixteen burly security accompanied me at all times, even when I first laid my head to sleep in the bedroom suite by sundown. On day three, I woke up around 8:00 in the morning to eat breakfast. The chef had made pancakes and omelets along with a fruit platter. The bodyguards surrounded me as I sat at the table before the bay window to view the luminous surroundings. I saw a deer, a fox, and a bear who hunted the spring for fish. He kept bobbing but could never get his mouth on one to chow. His attempts drew me in repeatedly until one of the guards told me I had a call. "Hello," I answered. "Good Morning," It's deputy Doug. He continued, "I have some bad news." "Okay, tell me what it is," I muttered. "According to our data," he paused. "We have discovered that there has been a leak in your location."

I immediately stood up from the table and began to yell out, asking how this could have happened. Doug told me that the men hacked the safe house database and found my location. I needed to leave immediately, or I would be in harm's way. Day four consisted of endless paranoia. I kept thinking that at any moment, I could be shot by a sniper from the woods or blown up by a rocket. The security team told me that I would be okay if Id just relax and enjoy the smooth ride back to the police station to reevaluate. Once we arrived, I felt a sense of insecurity at the sound of a beeping noise. It increased each second and resulted in an explosion right on the roadway. The SUV whipped backward all the way until it stopped near the post office.

"Were under fire, we're under fire," a guard called from his walkie. Smoke flared the area along with a vivid fireball of madness. The SUV engine was down to its last spark before it blew me through a window onto the crumpled pavement. I believed that my life was at its end until I saw a bunch of figures gather to help me up to a durable car that sped near the sidewalk.

"Get him in, get him in," a voice bellowed. I felt the cushion underneath me as its stitching scratched my bare bottom. Whoever's car and who I was with, I was unaware. On day five, around 9 in the morning, I woke up to a cluster of chatter and keyboard typing. As soon as I saw the blue wall and an engraved police symbol, it became apparent that I was at a secure police facility. I gestured from my chair to peer down the hall to see that an investigation was underway. The police and security were studying the explosive car incident and compiling street surveillance to identify the perpetrators. As I listened more, one of them revealed that Dane Wilson had involvement in my hurried escape from the safe house and knew which street I would take. His team planted bombs there and detonated them when we reached. I wasn't surprised as he was known for being conniving and strategic. He relentlessly strategized for the enemy spy league and tried to take down friendly spy operations from the start. He was undoubtedly making a comeback, but I didn't know why?

Day six consisted of being suited with armor and questioned. The police told me that the armor was what all protectees had to wear. It was a big bulletproof get up that had room for two sizeable guns. One of them was a firearm and the other an eliminator with fifty thousand bullets in its magazine. I had to remain at the police facility while the authorities gathered more information about Dane and his hideout. I was questioned by a policeman about my past spy work against Dane. The policemen began, "We have received consent from your spy league to tell us about your work." "Yes, and I assume you would like to know about my work against Dane?" "Exactly so," the policemen agreed. I began, "I've encountered Dane many times and he always had something in store for his opponents. He set up boobie traps, concocted gases, used spy gadgets, and constructed disguises." The policeman took note of all I stated and reported it through a walkie talkie. The policeman asked, "Can you give me a list of his hideouts?" "When I left the spy league, he lived and operated in Shadysons, but he probably doesn't now. "Okay, good stuff, the policeman remarked. "We'll be back with you with information on the search."

Day seven was disappointing as the police did not find Dane. They searched Shadysons and various other places, but each location was empty. The fact that Dane was on the move and could strike at any moment was my biggest fear. For the day, I was moved into another secure room. The room I was in before needed cleaning. This new room was larger and had a surveillance monitor system on the wall. I saw a group of policemen talking outside, an ongoing conference in the meeting room, and the helipad. I was immediately thrown off the footage as the ceiling began to shake. A slight conversation ensued, presumably from the police, who I believed were preparing the helicopter. As time went on, steel fell from the ceiling, revealing a giant hole. Three men descended down three brown ropes that touched the floor. Bursts of smoke followed, obstructing my vision when I heard a voice. "We got a break-in," a policeman yelled. It was within a second when a wire sprung down and sucked me through the exposed ceiling. The men situated themselves to shove me in the police helipad, just before they took off into the sky. From below, the police made access to the scene gripping their guns to lock a shot on Dane. As every shot hit the helipad, Dane jerked and jerked until the shooting stopped.

By day eight, night and rain had fallen and made the circumstance even worse. The helicopter remained in motion but dropped unstable under the constant heavy rain pour. Out of the window, a cluster of flying police helicopters left the area, killing all of my hope for rescue. Eventually, we reached a cloudy spot, where a slight noise broke out in the cockpit. One of the men presented a cloth of noxious liquid and folded it twice. I immediately began to think about my passing and how my family would come to terms with it. What would they do? Would I be found? Would there be a long-lasting search? I had no clue.

On day nine, I woke up to a dim room that only had a chair in the center. To my left, a weeping man and woman huddled whom I recognized as Kent and Mariage Spadeson. They were fond partners of mine back in my spy days. It was visible that they had been in the room without food or drink for days when I saw Kent lick the sweat from his dirty arm.

"Is someone with us, is someone with us?" his wife slurred. I freed myself from the rope and crouched to the both of them to announce my presence. I waved, "It's me, Brent Carrington, your spy partner from long ago." The lady began to fight at me aggressively in an attempt to hurt me. She took a kick and a swing until her husband calmed her down. "It's Brice Carrington, our former spy partner from long ago," he ensured. The lady cried in apology, "Im sorry, Im quite delirious right now." We talked for about 5 minutes. In just that short amount of time, I found out that we experienced the same circumstance. Outside of the room, I heard a group of men talking about who would come in the room, so I ran back to the rope to resume my previous position. Dane came in with a dish of rice and chicken and forced Mariage and Kent to eat first. Upon her first bite, Mariage instantly threw up when she noticed dung. Kent became enraged and focused on Dane.  "Fuck you!" he called out.

I gestured for Kent to stop, but he continued to curse. Eventually, Dane had enough and slapped him before returning back to his seat. A moment of silence ensued before Dane revealed his intent.  "It won't be long before my thugs execute my plan."

"What plan and why?" I exclaimed. He stood up, embracing his voice, "My plan is to kill you all for drowning my brother in that flood twenty years ago," he turned his head to me, "Especially you Brent!" The rest of that night into the next day, we waited till the Thugs arrived. On Day ten, our actions would ultimately decide the outcome. A luminous ray of sunlight peered through a small crack in the room. The door burst open, and the Thugs had arrived and were instructed to increase the room temperature. The hotter it got, the more unstable we became, causing us to dose in and out of consciousness. Dane raised from the chair and walked to a lone water faucet by the door. He turned the knob with a squeak and broke it with a hammer. As the water gushed over the sides, it heightened up the wall. Dane caught one last look at the room and bolted the door to prevent us from leaving. As the final lock clicked, I ran to free Kent and Mariage before they swallowed too much water. I then took a piece of the rope and began to force it up the spout, even though the water kept flowing out. Kent stood lifelessly, analyzing the water-filled room for a way out.

"Ova there, ova there!" Kent breathlessly exclaimed. I turned to look and found that there was an imperfection in the wall. I clenched my fist, raised it to the wall, and bashed through to the other side. The more and more the wall caved, the sunlight entered and revealed a wooded area. I placed Kent and his wife before me and took the last position to ensure that no one was behind us. We met a busy roadway where a bunch of missing posters hung. I ripped one loose and ran up to a passing police car. The officer inside took one look at the picture and let us in the back of the squad car. "Im going to get you all to safety," he promised. I felt the shake of Mariage as she kept looking through the back window and moving back and forth in fear. I couldn't understand why until a car bashed into the back of us.

She yelled, "It's Dane, he found us!" The policeman kicked it up to about 100 MPH until we reached the police station. Dozens of armed officers ran out to support him and began to shoot at Dane's vehicle. One stray shot rang out and hit the gas tank, ending the reign once and for all.


[SCIFI] Sgt Major Ibin When we went through the Wormhole Gate to K9B7, a life sustaining planet the size of Saturn, we couldn't have dreamed of what we would face. There was of course some reliability to the pretense of fear, confusion, the unknown, and hostile contact. This was a whole new world, a revolutionary discovery for science and astronomy. Signs if life, possible structures visible from initial scans. So when they sent one company of Rangers to scout the region around the Gate, lets just say, we were concerned. But that concerned quickly turned to fear, and distress when half of 3rd company, 941st Army Ranger Battalion, did not arrive at the AO. We, did, not, panic. We are Rangers, we make others panic. Sgt Major Ibin Hawthorne, would not allow "panic" in his company, he was too stone cold killer to let that sentiment rest in pur minds. Company Commander Gibson and just shy of half the company made contact with our element 6 hours after initial insertion to the AO. Due to some Galaxtic trickery, or, malfunction Earth side of the Gate, they had been deposited far outside of the AO. Other side of the planet, far. Initial radio contact had their element moving overland on foot, and advancing on what seemed to be a structure of some kind. Seeing as how all our aerial and land transport were only now coming through the Gate on our side of the world, we did not see them reaching us any time soon, and that was an understatement. 18hrs in and Commander Gibson establishes radio link again. Hostile contacts have engaged in danger close scenarios. He reports several life forms from insectoids to reptilian predators what stalk the flora and undergrowth. The structure was a tower of some kind. Hewn from stone and hollow inside, bridges of stone blocks criss-crossed the hollow interior of the tower. Estimations put the tower at being a football field in diameter inside. 23 hrs in, we have lost all contact with our separated element as of 21hrs. Further Ranger companies have arrived and we have been cleared to advance towards and retrieve our lost Rangers. Full Combat load, NVGs, snipers, and a full medical team on standby. The trip would take 7 hours in the high speed hover carriers. Arrival at the tower was, utter, chaos. Company transponders marked the missing element as spread out halfway up the absolute giant tower. By giant, I am talking about brushing the clouds, giant. We circled the base without finding a place to access the tower without landing. All we could see were fires spreading from several explosion points down amidst the foliage. The Sgt Major ordered the pilot to get us to the top of the tower and see if we could work pur away down to the Commander's group. We were lucky, at the top of the tower there was an old platform just large enough for a single carrier to land and offload its contingent of Rangers. Sgt Major was the first off with the weapons team. From the platform there spanned an almost mideval bridge to to the interior wall of the tower. No railing, no sides, just a straight drop down through a rolled mess of bridges and.... smoke? Comms came alive, Commander Gibson was on the line, "net call, net call! Hostile elements are making another push. Reaper 1, engage with the Karl G. Demo the bridge below us if you have to, they can NOT over this position!" Far below, almost out of view amidst the tangle of cross ways, gunfire could be seen, and some strange green and blue flashes of light crossing back and forth between sides of the tower and along the bridges. I would later understand that the green and blue flashes were chemical fire balls launched by the reptilian, spider, lamprey like creatures assaulting the Commander and his people. Sgt Major Ibin wasted NO time, rifle teams were ordered down into the tower, weapons teams followed and took up covering positions above as we progressed down the interior of the tower. I should note here, that each bridge connected to a sloping ramp lined with tunnels and doors set into the walls of the tower. Old, rotting doors of wood hung limply from iron hinges. The smell, was awful. Decay, and musty, old, wet wood, covered in rot and mold. Every few hundred feet the ramp ended into another bridge. The decent, took, forever. As we drew closer to the lost units of our company, we could hear and see their battle in greater detail. Gunshots, grenade explosions, then came the roars and loud hissing screeches. We didn't know a that time what we were going to be facing when we relieved the Commander, but it did not sound like a puppy in a park. We met up with the uppermost edge of their formation, and they looked haggard. Not PT till you die on your feet, haggard. But, three days without sleep In constant combat, haggard. We foun out later on, they hadn't only gotten dropped off around the planet, but somehow, 2 days earlier than the rest of us. They'd been fighting and humping the terrain for more than 3 days. Without anything more than the ammo in their kits, MREs in their rucks, and the water collected, purified and distributed by the one purifier someone had snuck along in his ruck sack. Back to the fight. We slipped by the upper edge of our company sending them up towards the carriers above. Sgt Major was on the line with Commander Gibson, walking and talking Sitrep the whole way down. We passed Reaper 1, three Rangers with a Karl G launcher and an M107 50cal sniper rifle. Faces drawn, eyes bright with hate and adrenaline. As we passed by, the Sgt in charge of the team muttered, "creepy crawlies die just as well as anything". He wasnt looking at us, just staring down the scope of his 50cal. Hard, to the core. Commander Gibson was propped against a doorway, deep wounds ran through, THROUGH, his armored plate carrier. One hand was gone, and there was a bad burn on his right ear, or rather, where his ear should have been. But his still held his G18 service pistol and stared death and domination down the corpse strewn ramp beyond the barricade of debris they'd built. "Sgt Major," Commander Gibsons voice was hoarse and dry, "we are nearly black on everything heavey enough to stop the charge of the creatures when they come. We need to enacts fighting withdrawal, effective immediately." All business, missing hand, deep wounds, didn't matter, just another Tuesday for the Rangers. The Karl G thundered above us, and the 50cal. Spat green tipped death at something that didn't have the intelligence to realize that it didn't stand a chance against those rounds. But they still came. Somewhere behind and above us a weapons team opened up with the 240B, spitting 7.62 downrange in withering bursts. Screams of dying and butchered creatures rose from the ramp before us. My rifle team had followed with the Sgt Major, intent on relieving the exhausted and spent Rangers at the barricade. As the first, thing, rounded the bend in the ramp, Rangers opened for business. 556 rounds punched holes into thin leathery hide and spattered hissing purple blood into the air. They flooded the ramp, hundreds of them, as big as a Rottweiler, smokey gray skinned, large lamprey esk mouths dripping white drool as they galloped at us on spindly legs with three long claws for hands. We, slaughtered them, but they kept coming. Behind us there was flash of green fire and a concussion, BOOM. The weapons team was, gone. A breed of these creatures with lighter hides were able to launch chemical fire bombs from their round mouths, and our weapons team just took one to the.... well.... everything. Commander Gibson pushed off from the wall and keyed his mic, "Net call Net call, we are falling back to the top of the tower. Reaper 1 area denial rounds. I want teams setting claymore as we leap frog up the interior. Move it Rangers!" He then turned and at nearly point blank dumped his entire magazine into the slavering mouth of a beast that had somehow bypassed all of the incoming fire. Stone, cold, killer. Commander Gibson holstered his G18 and began to trot up the ramp and onto the bridge Reaper 1 held. A Karl G round smashed the bridge below us, I saw this as we backed out onto the bridge, firing into the oncoming horde. The flow of beasts slowed for a brief moment, then they began jumping the gap made in the bridge. We ran, leap frogging the rifle teams behind us, setting claymore mines and c4 charges that would slow momentarily the flood of lamprey creatures. They had begun to scale the walls of the tower, they long claws digging in and finding purchase in the old crumbling stone. We realized this first when Corporal Jakes was pulled down from the side of the bridge we were on. The creature lunged over the edge, spearing him with its one clawed hand and began to pull him towards the edge. Jakes didn't scream, he roared, while pulling the pin on a grenade. He rolled it into he ramp we had just left and then ruined the beast killing him with his sidearm. They both went over the edge, falling into the foggy distance. The climb up that tower would drain a person on a good day. But in the midst of a battle, loaded with armor, ammo, and supplies, being chased by hungry beats. It was so, so, much worse, and they were gaining on us. As we neared the final few bridges we could hear, and sometikes see the carriers lifting off to make room for an unloaded carrier to land and pick up Rangers. But they were on our heels, following us out onto every bridge, their screams and roars echoing all down the tower. Reaper 1 made a choice, then. They would stand and hold, buying enough time for the rest to make it out. Commander Gibson stared hard at them for a moment before nodding once and continues to wave wounded, spent and flagging Rangers forward to the carriers. Reaper 1 held, for long seconds they held. As creatures tore over each other in a mad, crazed, frenzy to get at the stalwart Rangers. My team were the last in line to load up, nearly black on ammo, 1 grenade among us, but no quit at all. I commed Sgt Major Ibin and requested the go-ahead to relieve Reaper 1 and get them out. We were one bridge above them and standing under the whirling blades of the carriers. Sgt Major considered us briefly, then swapped the magazine in his carbine and swept past us towards the ramp leading to Reaper 1. "Come on, Sgt Lang, we've got Rangers to bring home." Then he rounded into the ramp and we were after him. I left half the team on our bridge to fire down at the horde and help alleviate the pressure we would face. Then, at a trot, we pursued the Sgt Major. When we arrived behind Reaper 1, they were being overrun. We spread out, firing past our men at the charging beasts. Sgt Major Ibin was dragging the Sgt from Reaper 1, his chest bloody from teeth marks. We fell back, covering and running. As we made it up the last stretch of the final bridge, a Ranger behind me had his leg bown away suddenly by a green flash of chemical fire. Less explosive, but much more corrosive. I slid to a halt, turned and as I grabbed his carry handle and pulled, I looked up into the maw of a beast. Then it explodes into gouts of purple blood as Sgt Major stepped past me firing his carbine. He was smooth and precise. He waved me back and as I pulled the Ranger into the last Carrier I saw Sgt Major pop 2 frags and drop them at his own feet. He ran then, the boom of the grenades chasing his retreating form. As his feet touched the ramp to carrier it lifted off, and I barely caught his arm as it threw him off balance. Later I would hear him mutter "we still got boys down there. We'll be back, and we'll burn that tower into a hole in the world these creatures have never seen. Kill em real good.


The bright rays of Kaybok graced the ash-white sands of Zurewwa beach and its furry sunbathers like a warm blanket. Purple waves crashed on the shores. Hearing mooing sounds, I looked up and saw humanoid figures flying on the back of an immense bird. They passed before a moon twice the size of earth's. Although I'd been on Pathilon for over a month, I still couldn't get used to sights like that. I found myself accidentally stepping on a pair of tails. Guinea pig faced Abreyas, in the middle of a romantic moment, hissed like cats and growled at me in Wava. "Kigua, hib chuzka."  I made a hand gesture behind my butt to indicate the lowered tail of a cowering dog. "You don't have to insult yourself, jufae . Simply say,` `Nifu brimuomei, chiceo, hua yibya cequteb, zoor hib eilidapo kai jivo ticoh ceju.'" My date had arrived, looking twice as amazing as I'd seen her during my stay at the hospital. Her hair, purple with white splotches, had been cut in a Bob. She wore a red and black Rohego , the Abreya equivalent of the Chinese qipao , with a loincloth-like `skirt.' Puff sleeves, bodice scandalously snug around her two sets of breasts. Her body may have been covered in light gray fur, but I hadn't expected to see this much of it. I could barely get sounds out of my throat. "Mine is shorter." Then, to make it clear I wasn't talking about her outfit, "I mean, what you said is hard to remember. " Pillow's goat-like eyes narrowed the moment she caught me staring, then widened in...surprise? Disbelief? A faint greenish tinge crept up her cheeks. "I-I don't think you're stupid at all!" She turned her attention to the angry couple, defusing their upset with a rapid fire Wava conversation, basically the same stuff she'd just suggested. We retreated to a different spot, and I found myself again admiring the the delicate stitchwork on her bodice. " Umuacik.  I, uh, must have gotten distracted by all the scenery." I forced my eyes upwards, and saw her minus sign pupils narrowing once more. Flustered, I blurted, "That's a very pretty dress you're wearing. Do you generally wear things like that to the beach?" I'd seen other Abreyas wearing very little, especially the ones taking dips in the Rocbish Sea. They had fur coats ...Still, not polite to imply that your girlfriend should strip down. "Honestly, I don't yet know that much about your culture. Even on my planet, we have old picture books..." Great job, Dave, I thought to myself. Call her old fashioned. "I mean, picture books that show French ladies dressing up and having grand—" (Don't say old, stupid!) "Picnics by beaches...anyways, I like your outfit. " The green tint colored her plump cheeks a little more strongly now. Was I making her ill? I thought, perhaps, she hadn't intended this outing to be the romantic type - we weren't the same species.

"I thought we might go somewhere special after this. I know of...a restaurant. "

Knowing she meant a gejzol, which isn't exactly the same thing, I frowned at my outfit. Khaki shorts, flip flops, Hawaiian shirt. I had been dressed for the beach. "Does the place have a dress code?... Do I have to dress up, I mean?"  A smile appeared on her rodent mouth. " I thought we might do some shopping first. " I decided her green coloration had nothing to do with me. "Are you feeling ill?" Pillow looked at me like I'd gone crazy. " Yok!  What makes you think I'm sick?" I furrowed my brow. "Um, your skin was turning green. Have you seen any of our cartoons about seasick sailors—?" Her face got greener. " I'm blushing, okay?  Poniki! I can't believe you..." She covered her face with her frog-like hands, tail in submissive dog mode. "If it's any help, my face is turning pink right now." Pillow peered between her fingers. "I can hardly tell." I grinned. "I guess I should have known that's what it was. All it is is blood coming close to your skin. I did see some of that stuff at the hospital..." Her minus sign pupils rolled upwards. She didn't appear to have any sclera, just gold colored irises. "I still can't believe we're doing this." Inside, I was doing a little victory dance. "And I still can't believe you said guep. " "You pestered me until I gave in." "You could have just said yok." Pillow crossed her arms, snapping her tail like an angry cat. She appeared to be trying to make up her mind. "What is it about me that you find so interesting? Why not a human, or algotbrea?  Was it my... bad side mannerisms? " Her mangling of English colloquialisms entertained me. "It's bedside manner, and no, it wasn't just that.

You're beautiful , you know about Jesus, and Star Wars... I just really like you!" She still looked conflicted. "And you think something might come out of this." I answered with a shrug. "C'mon, it's just a date. You call them aldoyi , but it's the same thing. You go places with someone you like, see if you want to keep hanging out." "Fine. " Despite her annoyed tone, Pillow's mouth had curled into a smile, flashing a set of buckteeth. "Have you ever ridden on virkoga?" Shaking my head, I pointing to the huge mooing birds above us. "Those are the only animals I've been on, and you already know how well that turned out." Pillow giggled. "Virkoga are a little safer. They prefer to stay in the water." She tugged on her collar. "Speaking of witches, it really is hot today. Let's hurry up and go in." The comment made me stare. It couldn't have been more than seventy five degrees. "Seriously?

It's comfortable to me!  I guess it must be that fur coat—" I couldn't finish. While I talked, Pillow had been busy unzipping the back of her outfit. The moment she casually shrugged it from her body, I felt as if I'd lost the ability to speak. Beneath she only wore a sort of harness/thong combination, like the others at the beach. The design of this particular harness reminded me of black-purple cabbage, striking against the cream colored fur of her bosom and stomach. It covered the important things, like the double mammaries and... whatever she had down below.  I suppose the fur I just mentioned did an adequate job with the rest. "I brought swim trunks and a towel," I stammered. "Just a sec." Everybody there used lockers, shaped like enormous seashells, rented in sizes proportionate to what you were storing. You unlocked them with your tailprint, or, in my case, a hand print. The bathrooms also had been designed to resemble giant seashells, making the entrance a little funhouse-like.

Pillow giggled when she saw me coming out in my red and blue trunks. My cheeks flushed hot with embarrassment. "What." This made her giggle more. "You're right! You do turn pink!...And your wogban...` shorts ' are very cute." "Um, thanks." We strolled along the shore, watching small Abreya children splashing around a set of gray monoliths.

"What's that thing in the water?" "I don't know. It's one of our great mysteries. Like those Eastern Island statues you told me about." "It's Easter Island ," I corrected. "I'm guessing part of the mystery of yours is why they haven't weathered away from all the ocean water?" "Guep.  There are many theories but nobody knows. Maybe a human put it there?" I chuckled at the irony. "I...don't think so." Virkoga reminded me of dolphins, had they interbred with cockroaches and produce. I think Pillow's swimwear had been modeled after their skin, because they also resembled cabbage. Their fins were long and had a wing-like shape to them, though bearing a striking similarity to kale. After baiting a couple with food, we had a very interesting ride on their rubbery backs. Pillow had an easy time with hers, on account of her tail, but I kept getting thrown from mine, especially when it decided to take to the air and flip me into the ocean.

It did this a number of times - guess it must have liked me somewhat or it wouldn't have kept coming back. Pillow and I took a break on an island beneath a towering rock formation shaped like a Y. How that landmark didn't collapse, I have no idea. The flying fish things honked at us, wanting to play more, but when they saw us only rest and sunbathe, they lost interest and swam away. Pillow had chosen to sun herself a fair distance away from me, so I closed the gap a little. "Have you really thought this through?" she asked. "I know it's generally not proper to start talking about sex during the first aldoyi, but you asked me on a aldoyi , not a jufadoyi . I assume you know the difference." "Yeah. Jufadoyi means `a-friends-go-out.' We don't have a term like that, except maybe `friendzone,' but I know the difference." "So have you given any thought to the possibility that our reproductive equipment may not be compatible?" "I'm...not sure I care.

I really like you. " "Guep, I as well, but I have certain physical needs." "So do I. I mean, if...you know... things get to a certain point ...I'm sure we'll figure it out." Snorting, Pillow pulled a little electronic device out of her harness, clicking buttons. She showed me the screen. "Take a look at this and tell me if you're still serious." Definitely an eye opener. The female yuxhauba had two openings , to allow for the bifurcated male wumloq.

Tentacles were involved. Once she'd explained it to me, I couldn't think of anything to say for a long time. "Change your mind?" "This...kind of thing never slowed down the people on Star Trek." "What do you mean?" The green color of her cheeks told me Pillow had a pretty good idea, she just didn't want to admit it for some reason. "I mean... didn't you say something about going shopping and dinner?"


I sighed and put down my phone, letting this thought flitter through my mind. Recently, I have found myself increasingly thinking of the past and how many experiences I’ve lost to my memory. It’s not as though my mind has been failing me, but the reality of this life we live is that we lose things due to the passage of time. Every experience, interaction, thought, and even memory is fleeting. I have known this, and I accept this. But why do I often find myself trying to hold onto the past? ***Remember the summers where you practically lived outside?*** I brushed my hair out of my eyes and sat up. My bed faintly protesting against my movements. Yes, I do in fact remember those summers. The summers where heat was not considered a deterrence, but rather an excuse to play outside. Where raindrops were seen as something to dance in, rather than to run away from for fear of ruining an outfit. Where even the most mundane, trivial actions were turned into a game. Where I laughed and laughed all day long, returning home after dark with a tired throat and a wide smile. I remember those summers and I remember them fondly. ***How did we get here?*** I swung my legs over the side of my bed and hopped off. This thought lingering in my mind as I slowly approached my window. The window was small and double-paned. The white paint was slightly chipping and the glass was covered in fingerprints of varying sizes. I had always considered cleaning it, but now it would be as if I was compromising its history. Each fingerprint, each smudge had its own story and was tied to a particular moment in my life. Cleaning the glass and erasing my prints is no different than erasing a part of me. I leaned in and pressed my forehead against the cool glass, like I had done many times before. Even this simple action brought comfort to me. The truth is, I’m not sure how I got here. I remember finding joy in the present one day, and the next constantly looking back, longing for the days that were. *Ching!* Behind me, my phone buzzed. It was alerting me that I had received a text. It was most likely from my friend Celia, inviting me to another party. It seems as though that’s all anyone wants to do these days. ***Remember when you would wish to grow up and get invited to parties?*** I chuckled, pressing my forehead more firmly against my window. Aligning my gaze with the tiny stream of water that was beginning to form from the rain. If I had known what it actually meant to be 22, I never would have wasted my wish. I am quite happy with my life. But where did all of the whimsy go? How come the warm breeze no longer dances on my skin whilst playing in my hair? When did the snow stop cascading on me, trying to impress with the individuality of each flake? When did the vibrancy of hue and the pleasant aroma of nature fade? I can still smell it, but not in the same way. I closed my eyes, plunging myself into darkness. The faint patter of the rain hitting my window, filling my ears. In the distance, a bird was tweeting. Suddenly, as if someone had pressed play on a tape recorder in my head, a song flooded my mind. ***“Weightlessness, no gravity.*** ***Were we somewhere in between?*** ***I’m a ghost to you, you’re a ghost of me*** ***A bird’s eye view of San Luis*** ***Mmm mmm mmmmmmm….”*** ***San Luis. By Gregory Isakov. A very good song indeed.*** I sighed and opened my eyes. It was raining slightly harder now. ***The weather must be in mourning also.*** I let out a soft chuckle, but not because I found anything humorous. I turned away from the window and slowly approached my bed. My phone was in the center, alight with messages from a few of my friends. Without reading them, I started typing out a response; “Okay, coming!” I already knew what they would say. Within seconds, I received their responses. They sent a mixture of emojis and “K”’s. ***So it is about going to a party. Of course.*** I grabbed my jacket and started heading to my door. When I reached out to grab the handle, I turned one last time to look out the window. ***The rain is coming down really hard now.*** My phone started buzzing again, most likely due to my friends becoming agitated by how long I was taking. I quickly texted them back; “Sorry, I’m just grabbing my umbrella!” I then shoved my phone into my pocket and reached for my umbrella and purse. I never even noticed that little voice in my head urging me to leave the umbrella behind. I never even realized that each time I refused to acknowledge her, the less I was able to hear her. I never even knew that while I was busy mourning her, she was also mourning me. For the me that she was could no longer recognize the me I had become.


The rhythmic thumping of heels on the pavement is descending upon me at an accelerated rate. As the tapping sound escalates, the rapid echo of my pulse reverberates with a thunderous boom in my ears.

At the thought of being followed, my hands grow clammy while I struggle to keep a steady breath. Picking up my pace, too terrified to sneak a glimpse over my shoulder, I opt for crossing the street with as much casualty as I can muster given my wobbly knees.

The footsteps fade as if retracting in the distance, flooding my bloodstream with sheer relief as the adrenaline begins to recede. I release a shaky sigh and sneer at my ridiculous overreaction to this apparent false alarm. I have spent the last three days in attendance at an Interior Design trade show concluding with tonight’s award ceremony. I am silently berating myself for not choosing a hotel in closer proximity to the convention—being that there wasn’t a single taxi cab in sight and finding myself having to trek the twelve blocks back, in an unfamiliar city, at night, no less.

Not that I was afforded much time to prepare. Expletives towards my co-worker, Jan, are swirling through my gray matter on an incessant loop since I wasn’t even supposed to be here to begin with. She had had a last-minute change of heart about attending (specifically a spontaneous jet-setting invitation to Mexico) and true to form, used her flirtatious relationship with our boss to her advantage, squirming her way out of her obligations without consequence.

Queen manipulator that she is, she convinced Mike—whom she calls Magic Mike , further fanning the flames of his ego—to assign me to go in her place, making it feel as if a bounty had been put on my head.

Never mind that I, myself, had had plans for my only niece’s first birthday party. Now I am left with visions of pink balloons evaporating into thin air like a distant memory. And never mind that I had a hot date to boot (which in my world is as rare as a bona fide live Unicorn, rainbows, glitter, and all).

For starters, I’m much too dedicated to my career as an interior designer for luxury homes. Coupled with the fact that, as much as I despise admitting it, I have a propensity of being categorically socially awkward when it comes to half of the human race—particularly the opposing gender.

Therefore, it’s safe to say my dating life is practically non-existent. To miss out not only on a date but a hot one at that, is getting my Irish up. Declaring that I am miffed about the sudden turn of events would be a gross understatement. The under-exaggeration of the decade, quite frankly. Feeling silly for having crossed the street in an attempt to ditch my imagined stalker, along with regaining a sense of safety (my spewing disdainful thoughts towards Jan and Mike excluded), I make my way back to the opposite sidewalk.

Immediately, the same click-clack of fine Italian leather soles on the concrete returns sending prickling chills up my spine. Out of primal instinct, I spin around so fast to confront whoever is tailing me that I nearly lose my balance.

Fear is now replaced by a palpable anger thick as mud. An eerie sensation mixed with the fragrant aromas of nearby restaurants, the fumes of car exhausts, and the stench of alleyway dumpsters hijack every cell of my being. I’m frozen in place of the lack of comprehension that not a soul is remotely to be spotted behind me. I tense in confusion because my intuition keeps flashing its warning lights from the deepest well of my gut. My attempts at shaking this off and chalking it up to the last few exhausting days bustling from vendor to vendor are obliterated as a man dressed all in black steps out from behind a lamp post. My heart lurches back into overdrive. “Miss, pardon me for startling you,” his tone is warm and matches his charming demeanor.

From the flickering, buzzing light above, I’m able to discern his handsome features. He begins to take a step forward, however, upon observing my unease, remains rooted in place. He extends his hand slowly, “You dropped this back at the conference hall.” he says, producing a kind smile. In his open palm lies my business card wallet that I could swear I had slipped into my pocket, leaving the venue. My hand impulsively shoots up to pat the empty side of my trench coat. On closer inspection, I notice his all-black attire—slacks, buttoned, collared shirt, vest, and tie—is the same uniform as the catering professionals working the award gala. Suddenly, the memory of taking a mini quiche hors d’oeuvre off his tray earlier in the evening hits me, quieting the distrust and assuaging my nerves. “I don’t understand how I could have dropped that. You wouldn’t believe how lost I would be without it. Truly, thank you.” I manage to force out the words that had been lodged in my throat, yet my voice is breathless and low, registering barely above a whisper.

Reaching to retrieve the wallet, I let out a small light hearted laugh. His reaction is to flash me a nonchalant smirk as bright as a thousand-watt neon sign, the effect further settles my jitters. “This may sound foolish but I thought I was being followed. Then I started to ponder if I was merely overcome by a case of paranoia. I apologize for being so jumpy.” I offer, not knowing what else to say in this bizarre situation. “It was my fault, I should have called out. My intention wasn’t to scare you.” With his hands in his pockets, his eyes glance down to his feet in a sheepish manner.

He seems almost embarrassed to have inflicted fear upon me. He looks up with a dimpled grin and with slight hesitation, generating the effect of innocence, and offers to walk me the rest of my route. After a tiny beat, I accept, being that I don’t sense the smallest inclination of menace exuding from him. The walk back to the nearest corner of my hotel whirls by in a flash with easy small talk exchanged between us. I feel like I’m in a daze as if my body has turned liquid or is gliding under the surface of water. I figure it’s probably from the rush of emotions and the spike of epinephrine swimming in my veins, all in just the last half hour.

As we arrive, a small voice chastises me for allowing him to escort me. I hush the voice, reminding it that this guy is harmless. “Well, this is me. Thank you again for chasing after me to return my wallet. And for accompanying me back.”

“Without being too direct, would you care to continue our conversation over a nightcap?” He ventures shyly. “As much as I would love to, I am spent and have an early flight in the morning. Potential raincheck for the next time I’m in town?”

His composure begins to change, he hardens in a way so imperceivable that it could easily be missed. His smoldering gaze darkens right before my eyes as he pulls something shiny from his pocket. I figure it’s his cell phone, wanting to exchange numbers.

As he stammers insidiously that he had hoped for a different outcome, I realize too late that he is holding a taser gun. Everything fades to black and my last thought is Fucking Jan, I hope Mexico was worth it.


The power was all in her words, all in her mind, all in her vision . She was from the 2nd Universe , an original Seraphim Angel. She had been born from original source light, and for limitless time / space she had danced in the sky as a golden star , just being , shining and radiating. Her consciousness had grown over time , and her radiating soul frequency had alchemised her essence into an original Seraphim Angel She had been specially selected by divine source to guard and serve and love the humans on earth, as he could sense a rare empathy, compassion and vulnerabilities which were very rare in the Seraphim, who had witnessed plenty of human suffering from  above, but knew nothing but love and light themselves. Of course their job was to help humans which they relished, but nevertheless there was a certain loving detachment there , knowing the drop in the ocean which was one human life. She had guarded human souls for eons of time from there, had intervened and helped , and thought that she knew everything about human suffering , love, joy and everything in between. She longed to experience the pleasure and pain herself , while also guarding and helping humans at the same time, as she had been trained too. She was so excited to descend and ground ,and be an angelic human . Even Angel's can become tired of spiralling between galaxies, lifes , planets , multidimensional aspects, and parralel realities. Her soul knew she was limitless, a warrior , a guardian angel ,here on the earth plane . To serve, to guide and to transmute , but also to experience all shades of human life. Her higher self was immense , her power was limitless , her light was from the grand central sun; out of this world, out of this universe. Her power was in her eyes , and her soul, and her mind . She was attacked since birth for it,  but for the first ten years she could still feel her soul, her light and her power. She could still talk to unicorns and fairy's and the divine. So when the attacks came, both from humans, and dark souls she could rise back into the sun each day, and put the shadows behind her, into a box like black butterfly's. They would flap a bit and try and get our during the day ; but would surrender to be free at night. And so it went on.... until she turned 11 and started high school. The fairy's stopped coming, and when she tried to reach the divine at night the entity's would trick her, terrify her back into her body, so she numbed out, and became encased in darkness and fear. Her power was drained every day, she no longer knew who she was, she could not see any sun, never mind the grand central one . Everybody could sense her difference, her otherwordlyness, and her unusual appearance with light blue eyes , and golden hair brought out verbal taunts, similar to the days of the witch trials. The words freak and hideous became part of her talk to self. She no longer had glimpses of her inner angel, and forgot what light looked like, both inside and out. After she left school she started to run, both externally and internally . Everything triggered her , and her internal voice always told her she was stupid , ugly and her life was ruined . And so it became so. She was only attracted to dark things, cruel things , people and situations. Anything and everything that could drain and take every bit of her power. Being an angelic , now forgotten to herself, she had limitless power to be feasted on. So she surrendered her power to the darkest of souls, both within people and in the spirit world. There was always more of her power to take, as she was a limitless light. A light she could not turn on for herself, a light she had forgotten a long time ago. She was so bright she could not see herself, she became the darkness that she so attracted in other. Lile other humans, she became the patterns, the voices; the dysfunction and the disappointment. She was aware as a human that her life was particularly tragic. That any time she had a glimpse of happiness, it was very brief . It wasnt her being dramatic , or negative, it was the prison planet she was trapped in as a Seraphim Angelic... not of this world, but yet cruelly tortured by this world. Yet the light she didnt remember still kept her going, she had moments of optimism, and sometimes a feeling that she remembered who she was. She travelled, she travelled to the other hemisphere and met who she thought was a great love, and bore two exquisite children to this dark force, the final seal in her suffering as a human. Throughout it all, her angelic aspect still guarded many, saved many lifes , although her human aspect split of, and forgot. And noone could help and save her. She loved her baby angels so fiercely, but when the hits and insults and cheating kept coming, the trauma on her angelic soul became etched into her energetic frequency. She ran from him, hoping she could make it ,hoping she could make a new start with her beautiful daughters. The attacks kept coming though inside and out , although the angelic she had now forgotten fought , fought like the brave warrior she was . She begged so many times to be taken back, though it had been long ago since she remembered her soul origins. Her own birth family across the other side of the world , who had delighted in taking her power too , eventually disowned her, and her days were desperate and cruel fighting for her and her children, who also took her power. She went back to her origins one day slumped on the grass outside her small room, the light blinded her as she was taken home, to delight in her soul frequency and spread her wings untethered once more.