“As a young boy he was never very good at making friends. He didn’t really seem to like the other children in his class and chose to kick sand in their faces rather than play tag with them,” The woman chuckled at the memory. “Did he get in many fights then?” The man was scribbling away on his notebook. “Oh no not really. He was a sweet kid, all his teacher adored him at that age. He only ever attacked when provoked. You know how children can be, trying to assert their dominance. He was an easy target, but soon he learned, a lot younger than most, that if he just ignored them they would go away.” “That is impressive, especially for such a young boy.” “Oh yes he was a bright child. My sweet Ethan. I worried about him not making friends, but then he started talking about one of his classmates more and more.” “Do you remember the other child's name” “Oh yes of course. Max. They seemed to be getting close and I was happy he had found someone to get along with. Growing up can be so hard especially when going at it alone.” “When was this?” “Oh Ethan must have been 12. Starting puberty, oh dear all those raging hormones. He was starting to become a moody teenager already. I couldn’t stand the thought of my Ethan growing up but what is a mother to do? Boys will be boys. He started spending all his time with Max. They were inseparable those two. Always out on adventures in town. I’d hear from shop keepers all the time about them seeing Ethan running around wild. I use to get scolded for that you know, Letting him have so much freedom. What exactly could I do? Lock him away? He was as stubborn as his father had been. “Soon though I began to worry about him. He started pulling away from me. I know thats to be expected from a teenager, but we had always been so close. He was my angel. He became very secretive always locked up in his room. Sometimes I’d even hear him shouting. When I went up to investigate he’d just look at me and say something like ‘Max and I got into a fight’.” “Tell me more about his friend Max.” “Oh what is there to tell? Pre-teen boys are always a mystery to their mothers. I never even really saw him much to be honest. When ever he came over they would stay up in Ethan's room. As quiet as mice those two. He was clean, never left a mess, unlike Ethan always spread about. Most of the time they were out of the house. Either in town or over at Max’s I assume. Though I got the vibe Max didn’t have a good home life.” “Why is that?” “Anytime I’d ask Ethan about it he’d mutter about something or other. The story always shifted. I had a feeling he was hiding something his friend didn’t want spread around. I worried about Ethan being exposed to anything, but then again thats life. “High school was the hardest. Ethan got into all kinds of trouble. He was a smart kid, but always failing, skipping class. He got busted with pot a few times, but back then all that got you was a smack on the wrist. “He never spoke to me now. I tried to control him I did, but he just never seemed to listen. I think that Max kid was turing him against me. Bad influence and all. My Ethan would never have.... He was a sweet kid. A good boy, it was Max, it was all Max.” There was a long pause. “Can you tell me about the day when it happened?” “Ethan was always an easy target, an outsider. He was bitter toward the world, never had he seen a kind hand in it. Not his waste of space father nor those bastard teachers who never gave him a break. Everyone just wrote him off. They didn’t see him the way I did, the sweet little boy he was. Oh Ethan...” “Do you remember what happened?” “He was rarely home those days, always out with Max. That rotten seed of a kid. Always filling his head up with these... ideas. He used Ethan. I swear it! It was all Max’s idea, he just didn’t have the guts to do it himself!” “Yes, but what happened? You need to tell me.” “His father was a hunter, stupid man never could hit a target three feet in front of him. Thats probably why he left all his guns when he took off. I kept them in the attic, didn’t know what to do with them. I hated the damn things, wanted to get rid of them. I was getting around to it, I was just so busy. “I don’t know when Ethan found them, I bet it was Max any how. Going through my things. The two of them must have been shooting in the field. I found bullet casings once. Never gave it much thought, there are hunters all around. Thought one of them had just wandered onto my property. I never knew...I never knew..” “Where were you when it happened?” “At work. The police came and took me away. Everyone was staring at me. Like it was my fault. It was Max! All Max, oh if I ever get my hands on that child... For what he did to my sweet boy. Ethan would never hurt a fly, not unless provoked. Thats how he always was. Kids can be so mean, trying to assert their dominance, it wasn’t his fault. Ethan I know it wasn’t you baby I know, mama knows.” “Ma’am your son killed 5 of his school mates at point blank range, and then himself, with a hunting rifle You need to accept this.” “No no no no no, it was Max, it wasn’t Ethan. Max did it. Max...” She began to mutter on and on. The Doctor could tell the session was over. He got up and left the room leaving the woman rocking herself on the bed. A nurse was waiting in the hall. “How was she today?” “Better I got her to remember the actual event, and some things leading up to it.” “Did she mention Max?” “Oh yes, she blames him for the whole thing in fact.” “Well she isn’t wrong. Schizophrenia rarely leaves the person in control. This “Max” persona may have simply just been a projection of Ethan’s darkest desires, but she had to know Max was never real.” “I can’t say when she realized he wasn’t real, if it was before or after. Obviously now she is in denial, but she knows. Mental illness is genetic. This is the best example I have seen of this in all my years.” The doctor began to walk away down the hall. “Do you think Ethan knew he wasn’t real?” “We will never know will we. All that died with him, 20 years ago.


I couldn’t get out fast enough. The kitchen sink was full, the laundry piled high and the recycling bin overflowed. It was a flight or fight moment, and I chose flight. I had nowhere to go really so I started driving towards the beach. The perky, pony tailed, Lululemon stroller-pushing runner also annoyed the shit out of me. I watched her effortlessly run up the hill that I could barely walk up and of course, she turned onto the street that I had sinfully coveted.

A small sign caught my eye. “Estate Sale Today” it read with an arrow pointing right. Since I had no destination, I turned. There were cars parked all over the street. A steady stream of people were walking in and out of what looked like the worst house on the block. It was probably still worth millions. The house looked like it had not been updated in at least four decades. I imagined it in its prime. Shaggy carpet that caressed bare toes. Small disconnected rooms including a kitchen that was completely hidden from view. Soon this house would boast a newly renovated open concept kitchen. If walls could talk. This had been someone’s dream home. I touched the dishes and knick Knacks that were strewn onto the tables. How many meals had been served on those dishes? What plans had been made? What stories were shared? “Everything on this table is a dollar.” I looked up to see a tall slender woman wearing a name tag that read: Anna, Coastal Realty. “Is the house going on the market?, I asked her. “Yes, she replied. Once the seller has settled the estate.” “The owner was a widow that left the house to her nephew who is not interested in keeping it. He lives on the East coast. Here is my card, if you are interested.” I took her business card and slid it into the pocket of my shorts.

At the next table were no less than 100 bird figurines. There were glass birds, ceramic birds and metal birds. One of the birds caught my eye. It was a sandpiper carved out of wood. It was different from the other birds in her collection. I picked it up and turned it over, looking for an artist's signature, like they do on that TV show. The only thing on it was a roughly carved W. I laughed at myself for thinking I could somehow distinguish art from junk.

The next table was covered with books. The theme of birds continued. Books on bird identification, birds of the Sierras, coastal birds, and one copy of “A Field Guide To Identification Birds Of North America” published in 1966. I decided to buy it and take it to the beach with me. I figured the birds in 1966 were the same birds we have now.

As I left behind the people scouring through this woman’s home, I imagined my own life being picked through by strangers. The dishes my mother gave me when I got married.The chipped mug that I kept because my son had given it to me when he was four. The torn hat my mom had liked to wear when she was gardening. I looked in the rearview mirror and caught a glimpse of myself. My eyes were puffy and the wrinkles on my forehead made me look perpetually worried. Like the house, I had a very lived in look. At the beach, I plopped onto my towel and took in the scene. There were a few surfers but mostly the beach was full of summer tourists. Young dads towing an array of beach toys hoping at least one would keep the kids busy long enough for him to sit in a chair and eat his sandwich in peace. Women of all shapes and sizes, tugging and adjusting their bathing suits to either hide or reveal certain body parts. On my right, a young couple stretched out on their towels soaking up the sun while on my left, a woman was completely covered up, under an umbrella exposing only her toes.

I put on my wide brimmed hat and took out the bird book to see if I could identify the shore birds. I tried to memorize them so that I could impress my family next time. After successfully identifying three birds, I put the book down to look for dolphins, which I did every time I went to the beach. I looked out towards the horizon. My mind drifted to the house, no home, I had just been in. It had felt like such an intrusion. People judging her possessions, giggling at her birds. Would people laugh at my life? I looked around at all of the shiny new people that would one day feel unrecognizable. Suddenly, I wanted to go home.

When I went to pick up the book, something slid out from between the pages. It looked like a book mark so I carefully opened it to the page. It was a black and white photo of a young man, maybe in his early twenties? He was sitting at a picnic table and he had something in his hands. I turned it over. “Last camping trip with Billy.” I put it back in the book wondering if I should return the photo to the family. So I drove back to the house. I took the photo in and looked around for Anna. As I passed the bird table I again noticed the wooden bird and it hit me. I looked at the photo. The wooden bird on the table was what Billy, William, was carving in the photo. I looked around for Anna. She was talking to a man in a suit. No local wears a suit in the summer. Anna was making large motions with her arms as if saying, “Imagine this room with…”. I took the bird to the checkout table, paid my one dollar and went home.

The photo and little bird are now on my bedside table as a reminder. A well lived life is measured by the wear of the carpet, the chips in the plates, and the lines across our foreheads. If it is still shiny, it was never important.


Yesterday I sat at my window watching my grandchildren illustrate the pavements with coloured chalk. I was caught off guard as I sat and watched them splash colours carefree on the grey gravel canvas. I almost didn't recognise the same pavements I grew up on. It was like I blinked and one world vanished into another and for the first time in a while yesterday; I remembered. I remembered a time when I sat watching out the same window and witnessed my city in flames. I remembered a time, colours meant territories. I remembered a time, those very same pavements were illustrated differently.

I have always had a dysfunctional relationship with my home, yet my love for it remains true. My love for it was why I had stayed here when so many during the years of turmoil fled. Even in its darkest days, I could still envision a future where the pavements spoke not of blood, hatred or division. When I watched my grandchildren yesterday, I was reminded that they were my inspiration as a young man; before even knowing their names. When you are born into a world of chaos, division and hatred, you are forced to make choices quickly. As a young man, I had a choice about what part I wanted to play in history. I asked myself one night as a young man, walking these pavements, "What role would you be proud to tell your grandkids you played?" That question acted as a catalyst, and it was not long after I posed it to myself, I found myself enrolled as an ambulance driver for the streets of Belfast. My grandchildren may never read my name in a history book, but my attempts to heal Northern Ireland's streets are evident if they walked these pavements. During the years of the conflicts, I witnessed how rubble and destruction would litter this city's streets, and it was always irrespective of the colour the pavements were painted. Both sides required my ambulance, and both sides would end up smeared with blood. I never regarded individual tragedies as points scored to the opposing side. Every time I had to uncover a body or reassemble a blown off leg, I considered it a loss to both sides' humanity. I watched men on opposing sides cry the same, bleed the same and die the same. I found it hard to find any justifiable cause for the continuing of division and strife when I stood amidst a bomb site. I often thought about the leaders of the Northern Ireland conflict. I wondered if they had stood alongside me at every one of those scenes would they have made the journey to peace so long and tedious.

The streets of Belfast were often the frontline of conflict. They were noisy places. They cried of justice during the Civil Rights marches. They rang with the shrill of bin lids, hitting against pavements during the Hunger Strikes. They howled with destruction at every bomb, riot and ambush. The noise the streets emitted during the years of conflict often made many people numb. I watched as the conflict dragged and the death count piled, how people started to jump less at the sound of gunshots. Babies could sleep through nights of sirens. The sound of broken glass became as commonplace as the sound of rain.

As an ambulance driver, I was more than accustomed to these penetrating noises. However, it is not the sound of bombs, bullets and bangs that follow me still; fifty years on from the start of my country's turmoil. The sound that still has the reach to startle me was the sound of silence. It was a particular silence that could be heard when I shut the doors of my ambulance. The bomb site's chaos often disguised the sound of individual lives changing forever, but in the back of my ambulance, a platform was created for that very realisation. That realisation came with the sound of harrowing silence. The sound was the same, no matter the tragedy. No matter the victim. No matter the cause. It was this sound of silence that used to follow us all the way to the hospital and then persisted in following me all the way home.

Sometimes I can still hear that same sound of silence whispering in the streets of my city. After a city goes to war with itself, the emotional remnants left behind are much harder to remove than the rubble from shop windows and burnt-out cars. I sometimes find myself driving past the Peace Walls and watch tourists emerge from black taxis to take pictures and sign their names. I often envy their outsider's eyes. I look at those same walls, and I can still see the bloodstains haemorrhaging from both sides, and I remember all those people I met in the back of my ambulance, who never got the chance to see their city being rebuilt. As a people, we have tried to learn from our darkest days, and we still have more to learn. A whole generation in this country has grown up without the fear of bombs interrupting their Saturday morning shopping. More and more communities are no longer defined by what type of church they attend on a Sunday or what colour of flag they fly outside their house. I know we have more rebuilding to do. I want to hear our streets in chorus with a new song. A song of redemption. A song of pride for this city and all the people who chose to call it home. I will always be proud that I was found during this city's time of need healing others on these same streets that my grandchildren are free to draw pictures of smiling suns and tall trees. Northern Ireland streets may speak of a complicated past, they may always bear the stains of conflict and division, but peace has started to be rewritten in the walls and streets. When I walk these pavements now, I see hope illustrated, and finally, I can rest.


“A half a pound and you can see it,” Brooks said as he dug into his flavorless bowl of hardtack and soup. The new private glared at Brooks “half a pound? Asking for a bit much ain’t you?” Samson, who was standing next to the private nudged the young man “just give him the money, when’s the next time you’ll see something like this?” To this Brooks nodded “he’s right.. make it 2 pounds” the new private offered a sighed and dug into the pockets of his coat and procured 2 pounds “2 pounds and I get to feel it.” Brooks lifted his eyes from his bowl and stared at him blankly for a moment “why do you want to feel it?” The new private merely shrugged, “if it’s worth 2 pounds I minus well get something a little more out of it right?” Brooks then stared at Samson who offered a shrug “fine.” Brooks finally said. “2 pounds and you can touch it”. He then set down his bowl and took off his cap so the pair of men could observe what remained of his scalp. The wounds have now long since healed. But it was clearly observable to the pair of men that Brooks’ scalp had been sliced clean off his head and had to be manually sewn back on his head. Which made it bald and his skin discolored all around. After a moment the private shook his head “actually I’m good”. Brooks then nodded and put his cap on and took up his bowl and continued to eat “yep. A Nakoda man took it when I was working in the fields not too far from the homestead when I was about ten. I didn’t see him coming until he came up behind me from a bush and blunted my head in with a sort of cudgel.“ at this point Brooks then paused for a moment “I suppose I must have been quite a prize as, when I awoke I found my scalp had been taken”. The private then nodded “oh my God.. that’s quite a story. I’m surprised you survived the whole affair”. Brooks then nodded “yep.. Nakodas are a savage people. But if there’s one thing they value amongst themselves it’s that taking a man’s pride is better than his life, my family wasn’t so lucky of course. I wished that Nakoda bastard took my life instead of theirs”. The new private then frowned and put his hand back in his pocket and pulled out three pounds and set it on the barrel next to Brooks “here.. for your trouble friend sorry for asking again”. Brooks then nodded and spoke “thanks kid” the private then walked past Samson and walked off down the Trench line. Samson then glared at Brooks “You should have said something when he gave you the extra pound you know”. Brooks nonethess shrugged as he finished his meal. “If he wants to feel sorry for me and my nonexistent family then he can. But what he doesn’t know can’t hurt him. Besides whether a Nakoda man took my scalp off or a sewing machine in Blackwater it doesn’t matter as long as they pay to see it”.


Hello everyone, just recently got recommended about this forum, and I really like it. This is my first ever attempt to write something, a 1900 word urban story, need all the feedback I can get about writing. Also English is not my first language so sorry about the poor choose of word and grammar.  **UNINSTALL** January 5th 2005, finally my package has arrived. The pirated copy of The Sims 2, bought from some forum I found online. I rushed to my room to open the package, inside there was 3 plain DVD disc. “The Sims 2 1/3” written with marker pen is the first DVD, I inserted to the DVD-ROM of the pride of my life that time, an all-black intel Pentium 4 CPU with 512 MB of RAM. I open the DVD folder, and then double click at the installation apps. The installation started, and while waiting a text arrived from Lisa my computer science lab partner asking about our MS Excel project. “I’ll get to it tonight” I text her, can’t risk my computer to crash if I open MS Excel now. “Ding” suddenly my speaker rang, “Please insert The Sims disc 2/3, then click continue” the notification in the screen said. I guess I’m stuck here, can’t risk missing the notification for the third disc. This piracy activity was a high-tension event for me. After inserting the third disc, the installation was successful, the manual text in the DVD said to copy the file in the crack folder in disc 1 to the installation folder. “I’m such a great hacker-man” I told myself proudly after copying the cracked folder. “It’s 7 o’clock, have you done it?” Lisa text me, so I replied “I’m doing it now”. Guess the game have to wait a bit, I then open the excel file of our project “The Body Mass Index Calculator” where you just put your weight and height then the file will count your body mass if it is: underweight, normal, overweight or obese. The formulas are very basic, but we have some trouble to automatically change the result cell colour according to the BMI category. It was Lisa idea, so people can have more awareness if their bodyweight is overweight or obese by changing the cell colour to red. Took me an hour to finally figure out the excel formula, but then the moment of truth. Time to open the game I just installed. I really loved The Sims, and they said this sequel is far much better. I clicked the icon, then the loading screen appear. The green crystal graphic, the loading music it was so amazing for me. I ended up playing it until way past midnight that day. Playing the best game of my high school days. “You look so pale dude” Lisa said to me in computer class the next day. “Yeah, work all night to complete our project.” And of course, playing The Sims 2 after that. “Aaaw, my hero. OK you can just sit down while I’ll do our project presentation.” “Fine by me, I’ll cover you if you can’t answer anything” I said to her. “Again, my knight in shining armour always ready to save the day.” She laughs, while walking to her laptop getting ready to do our project presentation. Her smile while saying that really brighten up my day, feels like I'm wide awake again. Lisa is a cheerful girl; we’ve known each other since primary school. We hang out in a same “gang” but actually I never really talk to her privately like in this project. We usually just hang out together with all our other friends. This project really makes me adore her, a fun girl, know exactly what she wants, and she always makes me feel that I’m a cool guy, which I know I wasn’t. I watch her doing our presentation with such confidence, I swear I can see her shine, or maybe it’s just the effect of sleep deprivation. After class, Lisa talks to me “Thanks man, you’re awesome. Sorry I can’t help to much in the formulas.” Again, with her cheerful personality. Her way of talking and the way she looks at my eyes while I’m speaking to her really makes me feel noticed. Is this my first high school crush I asked myself, but I immediately think “how can a beautiful girl, that everyone likes in school will like me.” Maybe this is the effect of listening to much Emo songs and their sad, rejected, melancholy song theme. “So, what are you doing after school?” She asks me, waking me from my thought. “Probably having a nap, I really need it. Why?” I asked her back “Yeah, you look pale. Actually, I was going to ask you out.” she said, blowing my mind off because I just been asked out by the coolest girl I know. “Maybe you can share some of the formulas in Excel so I can be more of a help next time” She continued. Of course this was about the project, what else would she ask me out for. “I think I’ll pass today, maybe some other time. I’ll share my formulas collection next time” I said to her, then we said goodbye. After school, I turn on my computer then start playing The Sims 2 again, I remember that year I can spend 4-5 hour a day playing. The game got so much freedom, you can create characters, design your dream house, and be everything. Playing this game is one of my happy moments growing up. A week after the project, Lisa texted me. “Hey, your kind of missing after school are you OK?” Wow, she noticed I’m not hanging out anymore after school, I texted back, “been busy doing some little project so stuck in my room.” Then I received another task from her “I bet your project is going to be awesome, can I look?” “Maybe when it’s ready” I replied, knowing I would never tell her that my project is playing a video game. Sometimes later at school, Lisa comes to my table. “Hey, you want to watch Lord of the ring together”. Wow, this girl is asking me to go out to watch my favourite movies. I really wanted to say yes but that time I was really addicted to the Sims 2, and going home to play was all I can think off. “Sorry, still got this project I’m doing” I answer, and yes this was going to be one of the epic bad decisions I make my whole life. Choosing to play a game over going out with this awesome girl. She looks disappointed, but then smile and said “OK, good luck with the project.” “Hey maybe you should get more sleep, that pale look doesn’t look good on you.” She said to me while walking away. Again, this girl just hit the spot, I can’t believe she notice me not getting enough sleep because of my gaming habit. After that we started to grew apart, she started to get busy with other friend and me with my The Sims 2 addiction. Sometimes we pass by and said hi, but no more real conversation. Until we finally graduated. We went to different college; I took the math major and she was studying public health. It was always her passion; she cares so much about people that she wants to prevent them from getting sick rather the become a doctor to heal the sick. That's why we have the BMI project. When she tells me about this, I was so amaze that this word was coming from a high school student the same age as me. While all I can think off is playing video game all the time. I never heard from her again after graduation. October of 2008, I was busy at campus when suddenly I received a phone call from my high school classmate. It was a very shocking news, that Lisa was involved in a car accident. She was going home with her boyfriend, the police suspected that her boyfriend was DUI and crashed a road separator at high speed. They both didn’t survive the crash. The funeral is going to be held this week. It’s been a few years, and I have a few dates in college but Lisa is still my dream girl, I still think that she was the perfect girl, and I remember crying that night after receiving the news. At the funeral, everyone I knew in high school was there. Everyone was talking about how she brightens up their life, and how she was the best friend they ever had. It was such a beautiful funeral for a beautiful soul. I wanted to cry, but I made a promise that in the funeral of the happiest person I ever know, I will say goodbye to her the way she always speaks to me, with happiness. And so, I said goodbye to my friend. “She really likes you, you know” Jamie said to me after the funeral. Jamie was Lisa best friend. “She tries to get closer to you, but you kind of shut her down.” She continues. This really shock me; I was too childish to realize it that time. To addicted to my video game, that I could not get the hint from Lisa. I just found out that I was the one rejecting the girl of my dream at her funeral. After the funeral I went home, it’s been 2 years or more since I come home. I know I need to fix this antisocial way of life. After catching up with my parents I went up stair. My room was just the way I left it; I sit down on the side of my bed trying to process everything that happens today. When then in my sight, there it was: my high school best friend, the black computer I'm so very proud off covered in plastic case to prevent dust. I plug all the cable in then turn it on, and The Sims 2 logo – the green crystal is still on the desktop. Then I remember the project I was telling Lisa I was doing. The project that makes me ignore her. So, I open the game, again that loading screen brings back all of high school memory. I open a save file and there she was. Lisa was there as beautiful as ever; I remember spending a whole weekend making her Sims to look as similar as her in real life. Even the way she smiles in the game really reminds me of her smile, every time I told her what I think we should do in our school project. She was there, and I was there in Pleasentview, the neighbourhood’s name of The Sims2. We are a married couple with 2 children. Our house was so big and white, with white fences. I work as an astronaut, and she was a painter. This is the project I could never told her; she will think I’m a psycho in high school if I told her I’m making her as a character in The Sims 2 and marry her. And so there it was, Lisa and I as a married couple in the game, I decided to play the game all night that day. She was really happy in the game – I was really happy in the game. Suddenly it was morning, and I decided to stop. I said goodbye to her. Kiss her one last time in the game and I close the game. I look at the mirror and my face look so pale because of no sleep from playing the game all night and remember what she said that day. “Hey maybe you should get more sleep, that pale look doesn’t look good on you.” I smiled and talk to my reflection, “Maybe you’re right”, and then uninstalled the game. After that I said goodbye for the last time, “Good bye forever my friend, my Lisa.


The question wasn’t actually a question. Of course it was good. She just wanted her friend to agree, and then the day could go on and she could keep working on that great story, and keep working on it until something came of it and she could put it somewhere for other people to see and agree it was good. Her friend nodded as she read and when she came to the final paragraph, she smiled and said, “it seems like the kind of thing you would write.” She felt like she’d been slapped across the face. “What do you mean?” This time it was actually a question. “Oh you know. Good versus evil and all that, it’s very you.” “Like how?” she asked, again, still not understanding. Her friend had not said it was good. She had said it was like the sort of thing she would write. That wasn’t ‘good’. “I don’t know,” her friend shrugged, “it’s just your kind of thing right? Bad versus good… fantasy and all that. I don’t know.” Her friend gave her back the notebook and she looked down at it. Suddenly, her mind was full of other times her friends had not called her stories good. She remembered that time her friends had taken her note book during morning break, and she had thought they had been just so excited to see the next exciting chapter she had been working on, and she remembered coming back to a classroom and finding all her friends huddled over her notebook, and they had been giggling. She had thought they were giggling at the right times with the story, but now she realized that was not what had been happening. They had been giggling at the stories. When they had seen her seeing them and they had suddenly scattered with snickers and she had taken back the book and no one had said anything, no one had said it was good. She didn’t call it good. She said it seemed like the kind of thing she’d write. What did that mean? Her eyes scanned the page at the excited scrawls across it, looking for what it was exactly that made anything particularly ‘her’, what it meant. She read through the dialog, through the world, through the story, but she could only hear one thing echoing. It was the kind of thing she would write. “There are a lot of stories about good versus evil.” she said to her friend, and she felt like she was somehow apologising. Her friend shrugged again. “I guess so.” But she said nothing more, could not be more unimpressed. She felt shattered, realizing that she might actually have bored her. That her story had been boring. She wondered if she finished it and put it somewhere for people to see, they would not call it good. They would giggle at it behind her back. Or worse, they would nod and call it the kind of thing she would write. She crumpled the papers and threw them away.


The phone rang late one night. She choked on her tears; didn't yell or scream. Her two children slept upstairs; innocent; dreaming. She gave them one last peaceful night. They'd have heartache their entire lives. She gave them one last peaceful night. One last peaceful night to dream innocently. Before her children stirred, she went to their room and sat down on the chair between their beds. Her husband sat in it two nights earlier as he read them bedtime stories. She struggled in desperation, wondering how to tell them about their father. Then they woke up. And she told them. And she stayed strong for her boys. She had to be stronger now that their Dad was gone. And she held them tight and kept her tears inside. When the phone calls from loved ones stopped coming and the news reporters left and her kids wept and slept restlessly upstairs, she was sitting alone on the couch. And she cried all the tears she held in that day. She wondered what life her children would have. She wondered what life she would have. She wondered why this had to happen to her family. Why did it have to happen to her? Years later, the widowed mother found love again. She married and her husband took the kids under his wing. He didn't always treat them perfect, but he cared about them and cared for them and was there for them when they had questions that only a father could answer. She didnt have to do it all by herself anymore. No more lonesome struggle. She didnt have to cry alone. She had a shoulder to lean on and he had a big heart and she was at it's center. And the tragedies of yesterday gave way to a beautiful future. The kids were in their teens. Their friends were always over and they were always welcome. She treated them with love and care, the kind of love and care only good parents can give. She talked to them when they seemed down and fed them when they were hungry and gave them a place to sleep if they needed it. She was like a Mom to her kids' friends. Those neighborhood kids appreciated it more and more each year they got older. When they were young, they didn't know how lucky they were to have someone like that in their life. As they grew older and saw more of the world and met more people, they realized how special and rare it was for someone to treat them the way she had. And they were thankful. Then the kids were grown up and they visited less and less and their friends didn't stop by as much and for the first time in 20 years, her house was quiet. And even though she missed her sons more than anything and missed some of their friends enough to think of them, she enjoyed the quiet. A woman who loves her children as much as she loves hers is deprived of peaceful sleep when they live so far away. But a woman who loves her children as much as she does supports whatever decisions they make and whatever dreams they choose to chase as long as they're pursuit is good and honest and worthwhile. She supported her sons and their dreams wholeheartedly. And her whole heart hurt because she was so far from her kids. Her younger son lived, and was a cook at, a spiritual community nestled somewhere in the mountains of northern California. Her older son studied audio/visual production in Rhode Island. He graduated and moved to New Jersey for a media job he scored in New York City. She helped her older son move to his apartment in New Jersey. He didnt talk to her much after he moved. He had a busy life: New job and a new apartment in a new state. For a kid who grew up in small town Massachusetts, a job in New York City was a big deal. She was proud of him. He was a good kid doing good things. She was only as worried about him as any good mother would be. Then she got the call that no good mother should get. The living have to carry on; they won't ever forget. His family and friends carried his casket to the altar. He wasn't catholic, but his mother was and this was the way she chose things to be. She deserved that choice. And after the proceedings, her son's friends came to her home like they did when they were teenagers. Everyone had heavy hearts, but they were bearing them together. They laughed and cried and told stories and cried more and some drank to calm their nerves. And then the services, wakes, and burial were over and she spent alot of time with her younger son who'd returned from California. Then he flew back. And she spent most of her time with her husband. He tried his best to comfort and support her. She still couldn't believe her son was gone. Her son died three years ago. On the anniversary of his passing, a few of his friends, her, and her husband go out to breakfast, then visit him at the cemetery. They leave flowers and shed tears and tell stories and smile. They remember him. She still sees her son everywhere she looks. She swears he reaches out to her. She sees owls too often to be coincidental and it all started after he passed away. She saw the first one after the wake. It landed on their mailbox and raised its wing like it was waving, then turned its head, and flew off into the night. She's visited psychic mediums, hoping her son will reach out. She got a message once at a show in Worcester, but it wasn't from the medium. She sat down for the show and turned around and saw one of her son's friends there, sitting behind her. Of all the shows and all the different seats at that show, her son's friend was at that show and happened to sit behind her. That was a message. It gave some comfort. Some things are too coincidental to be coincidence. Three years of mourning. Three years replaying beautiful memories over and over again in her head. It would never be easy, but it could be better. She wished she did things differently. She wished she tried harder. She wished she asked a question she never would've thought to ask her son in the first place. And she realized, from time to time, that it wasn't her fault. It was tragedy. Another tragedy. Another loved one lost. Another pain to bear. But she will never break. She's had to be strong before and she is strong now. She's strong because she has to be: She's been diagnosed with stage 3 cancer. She doesnt give up. She's fighting. And she will pull through. She's experienced tragedies that would break a person. She carrys on. She fights. She survives. She keeps going. Never stops. Her strength is inspiring. It's true and real and honest. This is a true story. The story of a strong, caring woman subjected to tragic events who chose to live outside, but in sight of, their shadow. Me? I'm one of her son's friends; one of the ones who goes to breakfast every year and visits him. The one at the psychic show. The one with a drink to calm his nerves. I heard the news about her diagnosis and I wondered how life could be so cruel. How could all that happen to someone so kind and caring? I dont know. It shouldn't. But it has. In writing this, I've realized something profound: No person becomes as strong as she is without facing extreme difficulty. And in writing this, I've changed the way I see her story. I don't see her as a victim of life and its cruelty. I see her as an indomitable survivor. She never gives up. We'd all be better people if we were as strong as her. I hope you'll think for her. Think true. Focus. Please. Then keep reading. She's going to survive. She's always found fortune in life, love, and happiness, even after tragedy and challenge. She is an inspiration.


In a humble village. One of simple people governed by gods. At the quiet edge of the world. Nestled away in a thick beautiful forest. On the cliffs edge, overhanging the ocean... Sat a house where weary travelers could rest their heads at the world's edge. Where some travelers were temporary, and others permanent. One such traveler had just made it to the small village. Just barely had he made it though. His muscles ached. His body urged him to stop, Yet his mind ran on an endless loop. An endless loop of self-preservation. He had heard stories of what creatures lie in the forest. An endless forest, full of gods and demons, a world tucked away from civilization. Stopping in the forest meant certain death. So the traveler didn't stop, he carried on, as the light began to fade from the world, as the Sun's final show of might waned, and the traveler's body was at its limit, he limped forward into a clearing. It was beautiful, as the setting sun lit the red tin roofs of the village with a golden light. Smoke trailed softly from the chimneys of the brick homes, and brought with it delicious dinner aromas. A hound or two stood a lazy guard outside a few homes. Dirt paths gently wound through the small village. Simple farm equipment sat outside most homes. Over the door of the nearest building hung a plain wooden plaque that read "Inn" "What a beautiful word." thought the traveler as he struggled to the doorway. The door was open, a single candle lit the room, and in the dim light, the traveler could faintly make out a bearded elderly man that beckoned him in. The traveler had barely scraped by, but the innkeeper knew the drill, and quickly ushered him to a room where he could rest his weary bones. As the traveler crashed into the neatly made bed, he would quickly sink beneath the waves and enter the realm of dreams. Quite some time would pass as the traveler rested, this was not the world he knew, this was the realm of gods and magic. His body had been pushed beyond the limits of a mortal body, and he would sleep for weeks in this state to recover. Upon waking, the man felt refreshed, but his stomach screamed for a meal, "How long was I asleep?" he thought to himself. But the wonderful aroma of fresh bread pulled him like a puppet on a string, and cut his thoughts short. Upon entering the main room of The Inn, the only person in sight was the old innkeeper. His silver beard flared out in every direction, like the Sun's light searching for shadows to vanquish. He was a thin old man, with a kind face, deep lines of aging ran across his face like a river carving through stone. His hair sported the same color as the beard and was thick, wavy, and long. His clothes were simple, clean, and slightly baggy on his frame. Yet even through his kind, calm, and elderly appearance, something in his eyes spoke to a hidden nature, like a spark of madness within him, capable of being released at any moment. His appearance made him welcoming, yet demanded respect. He sat at a small wooden table that had 2 chairs, one of which he sat in with perfect posture. With fresh bread in front of him, and two cups of tea already prepared, he beckoned the traveler to take the other seat. Sensing no ill will the traveler sat himself across from the innkeeper, and began eating the bread like a starving dog, only pausing momentarily to wash it down with a bit of tea. The innkeeper simply nodded and smiled as his guest inhaled the food in front of him. The innkeeper had seen many different types of people throughout the years, and most didn't have the best table manners. Upon finishing the bread, the traveler let out a light belch, as if cementing the uncouth first impression, but then took a more civilised position in his chair, and directed his gaze toward the innkeeper. "How long was I asleep?" blurted the traveler, breaking the brief silence. The Innkeeper simply replied "3 weeks". "That's impossible" the traveler said flatly. "Nothing is impossible on ground where the gods tread." the innkeeper quickly replied, and getting straight to the point, he then added, "You will spend many more weeks here if you value your life, for the forest is not safe to travel now." The traveler simply shot the innkeeper a quizzical stare, the innkeeper slightly nodded and shut his eyes in aknowledgement of the traveler's ignorance. With a deep sigh, followed by a heavy inhale, the innkeeper replied, "When the leaves speak their dying words, and the trees release them to the mercy of the wind, their beautiful corpses blanket the earth, and the lord of decay is ushered in." The expression on the traveler's face grew very stern and grave. He had heard of the gods and demons that walked the forest. That inhabited this land. That governed aspects of man, and the forces of nature alike. He also knew that staying in World's Edge for too long was dangerous, strange magics were present here and would surely affect him soon. "I must leave, I was strong enough to make it here, I'm sure I can survive the fall in the forest." stated the traveler plainly behind a slight grimace. The innkeeper seemed to prolong his stare, as if searching for hesitation, but the lone traveler showcased nothing of the sort. "Right...Then your stay here ends tommorow morning, enjoy the remainder of your stay, fresh bread will be here at the same time tommorow." the innkeeper said with sorrow in his voice. He promptly stood up, offered a kind smile followed by a quick bow to the traveler and then took his exit. The traveler was left at the table alone...With a thunderstorm of terrible thoughts in his mind. He pondered the meaning of the small poem recited by the innkeeper, he pondered his own judgement, but mostly, he pondered death. The traveler knew great strife, and had come to World's Edge to find a truth, perhaps a magical saving grace. Something to help his family back home. He was young, strong, and brave enough to make the trip. His parents were weak, his grandparents frail, and his village crumbled under a curse. Drought, famine, disease. These things hung heavy over his small village. World's Edge was not so different. It possessed a simplistic beauty, but it was a small primitive farming village, much like his own. Yet an intangible force could be felt here. In the air. In the soil. Even in the trees and leaves a strange aura was present. None of this helped the young traveler, it only gave him more questions. He would walk the village, and try to find the truth he sought. As he stepped outside the Inn, into the morning light, a picturesque moment held his senses captive. It was a brisk day, the sun shone brightly, but from afar. The sunlight glinted off of the tin roofs where it's rays pierced the cover of the treeline. A beautiful amalgam of leaves littered the ground, and in the light breeze, quite a few were tossed through the air on their departure from the tree. Golden, red, orange, copper, yellow, and a light brown all swirled together to form a beautiful palette in front of him. At the tip of the cliff's edge, spray from the river running near the village and straight off the cliff gave a pleasant ambient noise to the scene. People walked about in a lazy, but happy way, like they were generally enjoying their life. What birds remained, chirped a light tune. The entire village seemed at peace, the traveler's previous dark demeanor had been erased, his mood lifted simply from the sight of this place. He adjusted his stance, and preceded to wander around the village. He spoke to many people, he even visited the market, and the edges of the village. They all just seemed like normal people, all in excellent health, but other than that, they were just people. He heard stories along the way, but nothing he could use, nothing to save his village. He returned to the inn, very somber, in the late evening. The inn was dark except for a few candles. There was bread that had been recently made sitting at the table, and even a glass of tea that was warm to the touch still. The traveler indulged alone, in the silent main room. He sat at the table for a moment, anxious for the start of his journey tommorow. He hoped he had bought the right supplies at the market. He hoped the innkeeper's poem was simply superstition. He mostly hoped to make it home again. Drained and weary, the traveler took himself to bed. He would rest the best he could manage to. In the morning, he would brave the forest. This morning was different as the traveler awoke. There was a feeling in the air, a feeling he did not like. He quickly dressed and headed out. The innkeeper was not at the table. Fresh bread and tea was. He ate as much as his nervous stomach could handle. As he stepped into the street, he noticed a much different scene than before. A heavy fog hung over the village, and a small crowd of people stood at the clearing. The very same clearing he entered, and would leave the village through. The innkeeper was there. He walked at a calm pace to the clearing. He made it to the front of the crowd and stopped to face the innkeeper. "Thank you all for your hospitality..." he said turning to the crowd and then back to the innkeeper, "...and thank you for keeping my stomach full and body rested, old innkeep my friend." He said calmly. The innkeeper placed his hand on the traveler's shoulder, and in a hushed and caring tone said, "Are you sure that you must do this now? There is only one way this ends my friend...the gods make things happen here, that echo out to the rest of the world.. You see only a portion of their influence in your village...Here, World's Edge, the gods are everywhere. Their power is absolute.... I see much good in you, and I beg you not to leave this village, for the sake of your family and village." A long silence followed, the wind whistled lightly, and ominously from the forest. The traveler could not recall sharing this information with the innkeeper, yet this man knew exactly why he had traveled this far. It filled the traveler's head with even more questions. But he could not hesitate. "I must" replied the traveler, as he strode forth into the forest, knowing that if he looked back, his resolve would break. He simply kept moving forward, until he was sure the village was out of sight and earshot. He stopped momentarily, and took in a deep breath to clear his thoughts, then continued forward. He looked up, and noticed a few leaves falling from their previous summer home. "When the leaves speak their dying breath..." he thought to himself. The wind swept the leaf away soon after it detached. "...and the trees release them to the mercy of the wind..." At first everything was fine, but then, as if in response to his thoughts, the world around him began to shift. The fog seemed to thicken. His pace quickened slightly as he noticed the fog closing in, restricting his awareness. The fog became so thick, his vision was obscured past arm's length away. It was as if he had been swallowed by a rain cloud. He looked at the ground to ensure he stayed on the path, and it was covered heavily with freshly fallen leaves. "...their beautiful corpses blanket the earth..." The sound of the wind started to die off quickly. Birds no longer chirped. Everything fell silent. The traveler stopped, the only audible sound was his own heartbeat, and it was growing louder. The fog directly in front of him cleared. What stood in front of him was incomprehensible. It was about 12 feet tall, on all fours, and resembled a large stag. Its black rotted skin stretched tightly across a frame that was mostly bone. Living insects crawled to and fro and used various holes in the creature as tunnels and burrows. It's antlers were massive, stained heavily, strikingly symmetrical and resembled large hands with palms facing each other. It's eyes were mostly black, with a small brilliant speck of gold in the center that gave the eyes a very beady and terrifying appearance. A powerful stench pervaded the air around the creature. Heavily labored breathing could be heard from the beast, and wisps of it's putrid breath could be seen escaping the rotted teeth and nose as it's half visible ribcage would shakily rise and fall. Where it stood, all of the leaves and grass around it began to rot at a rapidly accelerated pace. "...and the Lord of Decay is ushered in." The traveler screamed, but could not hear his own scream, only the creature, he turn and ran. His legs pumped as hard and as fast as they could. His heartbeat had reached a fever pitch and his chest heaved as his powerful lungs sucked in air to fuel his escape. Only one thought existed in his mind. However, it was less of a thought, and more of a feeling. It was scrambling for survival against something that felt inevitable. It was his life summed up in one small thought. He felt like a worm, above ground, with a hungry bird hanging over him. He felt a journey ending, he felt himself ending. Then he stopped. He still heard the breathing. A voice entered his head, it would drown out every other thought or feeling. "Like a mouse surrounded by nothing, under the keen gaze of hunger...your heart beats fast my child, speak your truth, as your breath is finite." He could faintly hear leaves crunching as the creature closed in on him slowly. He didn't know what to say, yet he replied "My truth is love, my village needs me, I have to be their savior, I must.." "No. You must do nothing, your choices shape your journey, and your journey in this form must end." The deep resounding voice replied. This creature was close to him now. "My family, how will they survive, how will the village continue?" the traveler said softly. "All will be known, release your fear into the abyss from which it spawned, return to dust, and rest." the voice seemed calm, sure, and soothing almost. The stag approached the traveler and lowered its head level with the traveler. It then gently touched the tip of its nose to the traveler's forehead.... ...The innkeeper stood at the clearing still. There was a brief moment. A moment he knew well. A gentle frown crossed his face, it would stay for a brief moment. He then returned to his normal demeanor. The fog began to lift. The old innkeeper turned and slowly walked back to his Inn. And at the quiet edge of the world, the leaves would speak a soft eulogy. A eulogy for all life that was changing. Not a simple song of life's end, but a cryptic hymn of returning to the abyss.


Welcome, class, to theobiology. Today we will have an initial overview and demonstration of a few specimens in the lab. We move fast, especially since you all took cryptozoology and xenobiology as prerequisites, so keep up. You can read your syllabus at home. One main theme of this course that will be explored is how these species specifically required human feeding and care for reproductive purposes as well as belief or worship for their ichorous glands, rich in theomitochondria, to provide them with enough energy to live. As you see on the dissected cadaver, Theos zeusius has no actual kidneys, liver, or spleen. We theorize the thaumatological energies and structures in the ichorous organ provide these particular functions for him. The GI tract, heart and lungs, and genitalia (as evidenced by history, Har har) are all present. Here as well are two organs in his hands which seem to be not dissimilar from an electric eel's photovoltaic glands. Note the extensive musculature. The amygdala and medulla oblongota are enlarged, much like the egyptian crocodile, leading to a species that was likely impulsive, aggressive, and prone to multiple fights for dominance. This is somewhat similar to Theos dionysius, but instead of the photovoltaic glands, the sweat glands are modified to produce lysergic acid dimethylamide and ethanol. Doublegloving is mandatory for handling this specimen--none of you jokesters will be licking the toad here, so to speak. T Dionysius' extensive pheromone system also ties into the nervous system, with extensive development of the septal nucleus/terminal nerve, olfactory nerve and bulb, and limbic system, leading to a species that was likely hypersexual and prone to ecstatic fits. Pay attention now as we slice into the thoracic cavity of Theos poseidonicum, revealing internal gills as well as lungs! We theorize that unlike the previous two specimens being a thaumaturgically modified ape, this specimen actually shares a common ancestor with the common salamander, as evidenced by embryological studies and the presence of the mucus-producing glands on the skin. Note T Poseidonicum's extensive vasculature of the larynx and the kidney-like filtration organs present in the the pharynx, which help balance sodium levels of the mediterranean to something like the salinity of a brackish mangrove. Much like a sea turtle or frog or salamander, this species swam upstream to lay quickly-incubating eggs in streams, springs, and sometimes in specially dug out tunnels leading in from the stream if safety was not assured. The ancient Greeks attributed earthquakes to these tunnels, as well as due to the tendency of the young to emerge after an earthquake collapsed the tunnel. After molting and losing their tails, the young adults were often taken to be naiads or spring nymphs, due to their remarkably human appearance, but as carnivorous creatures they often spelled doom for those who were lured into the waters. Tomorrow we will be comparing and contrasting theese specimens to the laplandic/germanic specimens, specifically noting their coldweather adaptations and similar glandular structures such as the photovoltaic organs of Theos thorrata to T Zeusium. Everybody take your T Cupidocaea samples in the back for home study. Over the semester I'll expect you to follow along with dissections in class at each organ system and a weekly essay over a theobiological topic. Next week you'll be examining the oxytocin, dopamine, and seratonin production of the salivary glands of these household pets and their use as pairbonding tools and marital gifts in ancient Roman households.


I've done everything I possibly can over the years. Sometimes just to survive, other times in the hope that it can all come to an end. Everything has been to no avail. Here I am. Still. I'm Hope and I'm 315 years old. I look no older than 16 though. Time has stopped for me, but keeps on passing by for all those around me. Over the years, I have been eaten up by jealously of those that get to grow up, to live their lives and most importantly die as was intended. I bet you think I'm a vampire, don't you? I wish... I could just step out into the sun to end it all, if that was the case. Maybe a silver bullet could be my way out. Death by Garlic bread would be actually quite an amazing way to go... but no. Not a vampire. My heart beats just like yours, I breathe just like you. My problem is that my father was one of the magistrates during the Salem Witch trials. He was one of those that were responsible for the last death sentences handed out. I remember being in the court room on that day. I remember Margaret Scott locking eyes with my father after they sentenced to death and saying "Hope dies last". I remember the chill tingling up my spine, I remember admiring the woman for not giving up. Strange thing is, I don't remember the moment when I realized that wasn't a last attempt at positivity, but a curse. She cursed my father, with me as the vessel. The irony of it? I had argued relentlessly with my father about his part in those diabolical trials. I begged and pleased of him to step down, but apparently it had gone too far and if he did that, there would be questions as to why. It could risk our lives and open our family up for accusations. So he continued. Because of that... Here I am... still... I always like Margaret and would often sneak her some bread and cheese. She had been left destitute following the death of her husband. It's not like nowadays where there is some level of support in place, granted not the best, but so much better than it used to be 'back in the day'. That makes me sad. A person that I always found pleasant cursed me to this life. I was so distraught at my father's involvement in ther trials that I left that night, never to return to Salem until last year. I don't know what brought me back. I could barely fight it, so decided to 'go with the flow'... And here I am, living in the same house as I did back then. Granted, it's changed now. And the house has been split up into tiny apartments and by some coincidence I am in the part of the house that used to be my bedroom. My inability to age must sound like a dream. But I can assure you it's not. Imagine being 16 forever. Not being old-looking enough to be an adult certainly makes it difficult to do much of anything - I can only ever get menial jobs, live in dodgy areas, because that's what I can afford with my wages. I can't stay in an area more than a few years because questions start to raise. After over 300 years of working I am exhausted and must have earned a nice pension many times over. I’ve never been sick in the past – not even a cold. I wish for a terminal disease, surely cancer can beat me? Maybe I need to find that glitch in the 'system'.... who knows... With every war, every pandemic I have held onto the Hope that the end of the world is nigh. Unfortunately, us humans are a resilient bunch – we’re not going anywhere any time soon. As morbid as it is, I have a list on me of all female infants and young girls that have passed away in any area I live in, collected from cemeteries and obituaries so that I can steal their identities, their social security numbers and so forth. I feel dirty every time I do it, but if I can’t die, I need to survive. Next on my list is a little baby girl, who died 16 years ago. Hope Elizabeth Scott…. Happens to be my name, well apart from the surname... A coincidence that she shares her surname with poor Margaret? Her whole family perished in a fire in my old neighbourhood in Salem. She fought for weeks in ICU, before passing. With her death, came the end of her family’s linage. I’ve been in touch with a questionable type who will get me all my paperwork in place. This time it feels different. Is it a coincidence? Or maybe this is my way out? Maybe Hope does die last after all...


It was January, and Austria's picturesque beauty was white and wild in its 0–5 °C climatic conditions. I dropped in on Karla Pölzl, Alois Hitler's third wife. She was five or six months pregnant. He appeared and announced himself as "the trekker" from another time. He arrived in time to catch Klara hanging her clothes on the line. She hummed a tune to an opera she loved and knew well; her voice was like a songbird's. "I've come a long way today, and I'm wondering if I might trouble you with a glass of water, please," he said.

She jumped. "Sure. This is my last piece of clothing, so your timing is impeccable." She smiled, picked up the basket, and gestured that he should follow her.

She placed the laundry basket next to the big wash bin by the door, and we went inside.

"So, Mr., where are you coming from, and what's your business here?" She pumped the well, caught the water in a pitcher and poured him a glass. "I've come from another time. And my business is with the mother of a small boy who will become a leader of his people."

"Oh? This man sounds loved and revered by his people if he leads them—what could you possibly come here to discuss with the mother of this boy then?"

"Don't let me mislead you. He leads, but he is far from being revered. He is hated among races across the world. He ostracized and depleted many types of humans from the face of the earth."

"Why? What could possibly have been his reason for such heinous acts and crimes against humanity?" "What would you do if I told you I could show you? In a photograph from my time of some of the devastation that he did while he was in charge, "I guess I'd say, show me."

"Okay, look at this photograph and tell me what you see."

She gasped. "It's a shower and an oven next door to it. In the background, I see dead bodies in mass graves. What's wrong with the people in the photo?" "This leader I mentioned earlier obliterated those people in that picture from the concentration camps. The shower you see killed those innocent people laying dead there," he pointed to the spot where the mass grave was, "with poisoned gas. All stemming from the meniacle thoughts of this madman and his pleasure at knowing they would all die. The guards covered their ears so they wouldn't hear the people scratching inside the gas chamber while the people begged to get out." He paused long enough to see if she was listening still—she was—and continued, "Then the other prisoners who were considered workers were made to load those bodies up and put them into the oven. As they worked, they smelled the burning flesh of their loved ones or others they knew." "Oh, my goodness. What a monster! He should never have been born. Why would he do such terrible things to innocent people like that?" "Full of hatred and fear, his intolerance for other races and people, dissimilar to Aryans, clouded his judgment. The rest of the world never dreamed that his brutality was evil." "But why? What was the matter with his mother? Was she a prostitute? Did she die early in his life?"

"No, neither. The man was simply rotten."

"But surely there was more to it than just hatred."

"Look, Klara, there were 42,500 camps and ghettos the Nazis—and in particular the SS, his private creation of officers that surrounded him—created between the years 1933 and 1945. Do you know how many people he annihilated at that time? Take a guess." "I have no idea. Did you say 1933 to 1945?"

"15–20 million people may have died in the camps and ghettos created by the Nazis during that time. And yes, it only took twelve years for him to get most of his job done before the allies came in and emancipated the emaciated prisoners who starved where they stood."

"The story you tell is devastating and horrific. But what does any of it have to do with me?" She shrugged her shoulders and gave him a blank stare.

He gave her a sheepish look, and his face became stone cold. He looked from her eyes to her belly. She shook her head. Her hand covered her mouth in disbelief as she stepped back away from him and cradled her stomach in her hand. "No, oh no. This is not happening. You can't be serious. Are you telling me that my baby is that man?" "I'm sorry, Klara; I'm afraid it is. I've come to ask you to reconsider bringing up such a child to become a man."

"I brought up such a monster? Me and Alois? Why didn't we know he was evil? Why did we allow him to live?" "Alois hates the child already. And his relationship doesn't get any better once he sees the kid. Little Adolf, the name you chose for him, chose Alois' surname for his own. In the annals of history, the name Hitler would be likened to one of the worst human beings who ever lived." "What do you expect me to do now? Alois will never believe that something could go so wrong this far into my pregnancy."

"I thought about that. There are many babies born with their cords around their necks. There are also emergency births that result in a dead baby. Do anything but allow him to live. You must, Klara."

"I see."

"Do you want to be responsible for all of those deaths? Do you want that on your conscience?"

"No, I don't. But how can I hurt a poor, innocent baby?" "Your son ordered that all children who arrived at the camps be shot on sight. In front of their parents and other family members. And you worry for one baby?"

"I understand. I know what I must do now."

The man watched her fetch something from the cupboard. It was shiny, and he thought he saw a flash. He disappeared the way he came but left a bottle of evening primrose oil on the countertop for her. Left alone, she had time to think. Alois wouldn't be home for days.

She paced on the back porch, watching her laundry blow in the wind. She headed to the washing bin to grab the basket. She folded each piece of clothing as she took it from the line. With each fold, she thought more intensely about her baby.

The man was telling the truth. She had to kill this baby. What other choice did she have? She can't be the mother of such an evil man. She'll have to do something. But what? She passed the countertop and saw the bottle he had left for her. She grabbed it and knew what she had to do. She knew she would have a difficult time with it. But she went to her bedroom and prepared herself for the horrible thing that was to come next. Alois would believe it because of the losses they had endured with pregnancies in the past. She wept. And finished the entire bottle. And waited.


Jillian swept her overgrown bangs out of her peripheral vision and tucked them behind her ear. Her mousy brown hair was starting to unravel from the messy bun she had hastily thrown it in earlier that morning. Passing the larger dining room table, Jillian set the smaller table in her kitchen nook. Two of her great-grandmothers cups, slightly cracked but not broken; white bone with paisley flowers faintly caressing the cups. The sun would be shining through the bay window at 2:00. Just in time for tea. Jillian capered to the cupboard nearest the stove and perused her tea collection before settling on Oolong. A quick glance at the clock told Jillian she still had 15 minutes before Tess was expected. Not enough time for a shower but at least enough time to change her shirt and maybe run a brush through her hair.

               Forgoing her normal sweatshirt and leggings, Jillian quickly changed into her favorite denim skirt, ankle length and a purple, button down shirt. She left the top two buttons undone so her silver locket could be seen. After brushing her hair quickly, she headed for the kitchen and turned on the burner for the tea kettle. Not knowing what to do with herself, Jillian tided up her kitchen and living room, which did not necessarily need to be straightened. She took extra care to align her pictures of herself and Tess. She kept three on a shelf in the den, just above the T.V.  That way the kids could see pictures of Aunt Tess and not forget.

               The tea kettle whistled and pulled Jillian away from her pictures. As she turned with the kettle, Tess was standing in the doorway of the kitchen. The two shared the same features. Although the pair were not sisters, they were often mistaken for twins. Same brown hair, same soft, green eyes, and both women were 5’7” and curvy. Tess was much paler these days, however and thinner.                “I didn’t hear you come in,” Jillian softly sighed in relief, “I always worry you won’t be able to make it.”                “I didn’t want to make too much noise and startle you,” Tess replied as the women moved to the nook. Jillian poured the tea.

               “I’ve missed you,” they both said and laughed. This laughter was not the laugh of comics but the laugh of the melancholy.

               “How are you,” Tess asked.                “I’m ok. The kids are ok. Abigail just had her 9 th birthday. She got that diary that she wanted. Purple, of course. Everything is purple with a glitter pen to write with. Sarah told her she won’t have anything to write in it until she’s double digits. I can’t believe Sarah is already 13. I don’t know where the years go. Abby is always wanting to tag along with Sarah and, you know how it is at that age. Sarah’s just NOT having it.” More forced laughter. “She is discovering boys now. I saw the name, Brody written on her math notebook with a heart around it,” Jillian rolled her eyes. “I wished she would just focus on math. I can’t complain, I guess. Both girls are getting A’s. They’re good girls. They’re just growing up too damn fast. Before I know it Sarah will be married and Abby will be trying to tag along on the honeymoon!”                “How’s Tom?”                “Tom’s Tom. His job is good. They just made him head of his department. He is now in charge of all sales in the Chicago Suburbs and greater Indianapolis area. He’s been gone a lot lately. And when he is home, he’s on the phone, or in his phone checking emails, sending texts. Then there’s the spreadsheets and the metrics and the constant stream of questions from customers, sales reps, his boss, his bosses boss. His phone is constantly dinging.”                “Dinging?”                “Yeah, dinging.” Jillian made a dong sound several times while Tess laughed sympathetically.

               “That would make me crazy,” Tess laughed.                “It does,” confessed Jillian, “I set it to vibrate sometimes. I just can’t take the constant noise. Of course, then I have to listen to the buzzing. I wish you had gotten married and had kids.”                “Me too. Well, sometimes, but that would have made it harder later, you know?”                “I guess.”                This silence was uncomfortable for a beat and then Tess broke it by saying, “Well, you’ve told me about the girls, you’ve told me about Tom. How is Jillian?”

               Jillian swirled her tea in her cup for a minute or two before answering; considering how best to answer. How was she? Every day she woke early to make breakfast for Tom and spend a few minutes with him before he jetted out the door. Some days, that was the only time she was able to spend with him. Then it was time to wake the girls and help then get ready for school. She dropped them off, usually stopped at the store, cleaned the house. Occasionally she painted or journaled in the afternoon. Sometimes she took walks at the park preserve down the road. She liked to look for the crows. On Tuesdays and Thursdays she met with Dr. Lipstein from 11:00 to noon. She used to work. She had coworkers and lunches and responsibilities and a life. That was before. Before Tess was taken away from her.

               “I’m the same.” This came out in a rush of breath.

               “The same? You mean stuck. You are stuck. I am the one who is dead and you are stuck.” Tess didn’t mean to be funny. Or maybe she did. Tess was always funny that way. She was funny when she first felt sick. She kept her humor through all of her treatments. She laughed when she tried on wigs after her hair fell out from the poison that was relentlessly pumped into her body. She made jokes about not buying green bananas when the doctors told her the poison wasn’t working anymore. She comforted everyone who came to comfort her. Especially Jillian. Jillian didn’t want to be left alone. They had never been apart. Not since 3 rd grade when the Jillian moved to town and Mrs. Kirkpatrick introduced them. Jillian was very shy and Mrs. Kirkpatrick wanted to make sure they she had at least one friend to sit with at lunch. She paired her with Tess and they never looked back. They shared a dorm at ISU. Tess was the maid of honor in Jillian’s wedding, god mother to both her girls and the closest that only child Jillian would ever have to a sister. Jillian knew Tess was always straight with her. Even after death.                “You’re right. I am stuck. I haven’t been able to get back to work since…” her voice trailed off. Tess’ eyes shone with compassion.                “I know that. But you have to.”                Jillian nodded and swirled her tea. “I am so scared to go on without you. Dr. Lipstein says I am, was, dependent on you and I need to focus on myself. I need to get back to work. I need to have tea with my girls and not with…”                “A ghost,” Tess finished for her.                “Dr. Lipstein doesn’t think I have tea with a ghost. He doesn’t think you’re real. He thinks I sit here by myself and drink tea and talk to nobody.”                “Well, technically, I have ‘no body’,” Tess laughed at her own joke.                Jillian smirked a bit at the pun. It wasn’t the worst one that she has heard from Tess. She wished they could see each other more often.                “What do you do all day,” Jillian asked.                “I go about my business. I spend time watching people. Kids mostly. They can see me. When I wave, they wave back. That’s a nice feeling. Just being seen. I can’t be visible too much. After a meeting like today, I’ll have to rest for a long time. Months. It’s like sleep but more deep. I don’t dream. There is no tunnel or bright light. I just go to my grave and laydown on it. Then I sleep. When I wake up, I’m where I want to be. If I want to be near my mom, I’m at the nursing home with her. If I want to be with you, I’m in your kitchen. Don’t look surprised. Sometimes I’m here but you don’t see me. It’s too hard to be visible all the time. I just kinda peek in. Then I poof out and I’m somewhere else. Wherever I think of, I just am. I don’t walk or anything. Unless I’m really concentrating. Then I can. I tried to going to placed I’ve never been. You know how I always wanted to go Paris?” Jillian nodded and Tess continued, “Well, I concentrated really hard on the Eiffel tower and nothing happened. I think it’s because I’ve never been there. I can’t ask anyone because I’ve never seen another ghost. I’ve seen shadows of others. Like something in the corner of your eye. But there’s never anyone there. It would be nice to speak to another ghost. I have questions. It’s lonely. You’re the only one I can talk too. It would make Mom too sad. Kids would be too scared. I live for our tea time.” Tess stopped her soliloquy. Jillian could tell that this last speech had worn her out to her soul, which she supposed, was all that remained of her. Jillian struggled to come up with something, anything to say but couldn’t find adequate words. Couldn’t even hold Tess’s hand. The pair sat in companionable silence for several minutes.                Tess broke the silence first by asking, “What are you going to do get unstuck? You still have a life. Do something. Anything. Live for me. I died. Tess died. Jillian is very much a live but not so much living.”                Jillian continued to swirl her tea. An idea forming in her mind. She started weighing her options. They had money in savings. Tom’s new position came with a hefty pay increase. And Tess had left some money for Jillian. Most went to her Mom, but Tess had some set aside for Jillian. Tom was so busy he wouldn’t notice if she and the girls took a vacation. A few days if nothing else.

               “Paris,” Jillian said aloud as she was musing.                “Paris?” asked Tess, not quite understanding yet.                “I can take the girls to Paris. We’ll eat French food, look out from the Eiffel tower, put a lock on the Bridge, take in art, write poetry in cafes.”                “I think that’s the most wonderful idea I’ve ever heard,” Tess beamed.

               Both women were smiling now. They shared conspiratorially smiles over their teacups. Finally, Tess spoke, “I should go now. I’m awfully tired.” She did indeed look tired. Her pale and translucent skin, even more pale. She seemed to be fading from view as Jillian looked on. “I’ve enjoyed our talk, Jill. I miss you.”                “I miss you too, Tess. Same time next year?”                “Same time next year.”                Jillian blinked hard to stop the tears that threatening to spill over her lids. When she opened her eyes, Tess was gone. The chair was still pushed out where she had been sitting. Jillian gathered the kettle and the two cups, still full. She washed them and returned them to the cupboard. She pushed the chairs back into the table. She pulled hers and the girls’ passports out of the safe in her closet and sent Tom a text outlining her plan. He would respond when he had a few minutes to spare. Jillian called her travel agent and spoke with a perky young woman named Judy who said she would be happy to book them a mother-daughter Paris trip. She couldn’t wait to tell the girls. Even though Tess wouldn’t be there, she would carry her memory with her. And then, when she spoke to her again, she could show her the pictures and tell her the stories of their adventure in Paris. Maybe, just maybe, Tess would want to be with her and could somehow join them there. Jillian wouldn’t see her, but maybe her girls could. Tess said children could sometimes see her.  They were both so little when Tess died, would they remember her? Sarah was 6 and Abigail only 2. They’d lived more of their lives without Tess, whereas Jillian had lived most of hers with Tess.

Jillian realized she had to pick up the girls from school. Abigail’s school would be letting out soon and after she would be en route to the Jefferson Middle school where Sarah would be just finishing volleyball practice. After dinner, before Tom came home, she would tell the girls all about Paris and their upcoming trip. Before Jillian left the house, she paused by the three pictures of her and Tess. She picked up her favorite. Her and Tess when they were in high school and frozen in youth and innocence. She kissed the picture and whispered, “Same time, next year.”


My eyes opened suddenly, my heart raced in my ears, a panic brought from the depths of a dream ending. Something was watching me, I felt it in that subhuman part of my brain that we all have, that animal instinct that told us of danger unseen. Something was watching from those dark recesses of my room, those corners that held shadow just so perfectly to invite the imagination to cast horrors unknowable. And so my heart races as my eyes scanned the room that I knew so well, the room that held me safe against all things. Eyes do not see entirely correctly when they are suddenly forced out of REM sleep and back into reality. Things are distorted, a haze that shrouds things for the briefest moments of time. They bring with them the fragments of dreams and force them into reality, but they aren’t quite there, so as I peered into the darkness that blanketed my room, I saw things that weren’t there. Yet something lay there, watching with eyes unseen. My heart raced still, drumming endlessly in my ears. What intention did it have, whatever it might be? My left over animal side knew of danger, but my human brain questioned. Did it want to watch me in my most vulnerable of moments, knowing that it could end me without a fight? Or did it want something worse? And then my eyes beheld something I wanted to believe came from the remainder of my dream, but I knew it was not. A grim visage indeed, the outline of a man that wasn’t a man, some dark mockery of our form cast in that forbidding gloom and I knew it was staring at me. The head was too pale, I saw as my eyes slowly began to adjust, and utterly without features except for two eyes and a mouth, though they weren’t quite right. They eyes were pits, swirling pools of void that drew in the darkness around it. The mouth opened, splitting decayed lips and revealing the same void that were its eyes. My ears were assaulted with the sound of rushing air and groaning metal, the sound of screams from every thing that ever existed, all pleading out for mercy that they would never receive from a master that didn’t know the concept. And then silence… All sound stopped, every background sound that our ears adjust to over the years of living in a time of constant noise, including the drumming of our own hearts and the rush of our blood, stopped. The true silence fell on my ears and threatened my mind with madness, maybe even more so than the sight of the thing before me. The darkness around the horror warped, distorted to conform to its shape, shimmering yet completely still at the same time like a ripple moving through the surface of calm water. The head moved in a way unnatural, like the still frames of a strobe light, one moment leaning left and the next right. Arms as pale as the head reached out toward me, and my fear grew a hundredfold, as razor wire, corroded by time and blood, seethed from the curve of the elbow and began crawling to cover them. They snake around those too pale arms and squeezed, bleeding that void made liquid from every inch, yet the blood refused to fall. Around the throat and across the torso it went, cutting deep to reveal not the fragility of a human form, but nothing. I pleaded with my mind to wake me, that this must be some dream. Nothing like this could exist in truth, for this was a creature born of horror and shadow. Yet as that thing stared at me, and as the silence pressed on me, I knew it was no dream, that this was real. Somehow, at that moment, I knew this thing was ancient, that it had existed all along the course of our short time on the planet. That this was the real reason we feared darkness, and begged for the light. The devil we fought against in every religion, the boogeyman we warned our children about, thinking it was some tradition that we all jokingly passed down. It was Hell, or The Abyss or the Inferno or Perdition, made real. I realized I had lain back down, having jumped with a start to my elbows when I’d awoken. How long had I been lying down again? It hovered above me; razor ripped false skin not dripping on me. A leg on each side of my torso, or was it floating above me? The head twitched back and forth and those eyes cast upon mine, and I knew death in that moment. I felt the loneliness of Ninth Circle of Hell, the cold of the void, and the agony of a wrathful god. It leaned down, ever closer, and I could smell it. The was the smell of the rotting flesh of one’s most beloved person, sulfur and frost, burning flesh and bile, rust and blood. My heart raced faster, and it pained me, a burning that spread too rapidly through my body, an agony that made me scream, but I found myself unable to open my mouth. Every inch of me begged to scream, and let my pain be known, but I found myself silent. I don’t know how long I have been like this, screaming in silent agony, freezing and burning and weeping no tears, begging for the end of this nightmare that could not be. A hundred thousand years passed, each second passing just a little too slow, and I felt every moment of it, and yet no time past. And I know that this will be my everything, forever. I’ve forgotten the warmth of another person’s touch, the embrace of a loved one, the feel of passionate lips on mine. The tastes of my favorite foods, the sound of my favorite band are all gone now. So too the feeling of a cool breeze at dusk on a hot day, even the simple joy of lying under a blanket in the depths of winter to read a book. My thoughts now are all the same, Let me die… A million billion years of suffering every second, and every second too slow every minute never becoming two. Let me die… Please…let me die… …end this. But it never does quite end…it is always going on and on, all of time spread before me each moment a suffering. I sometimes wonder, now, what the man I used to be was like. I can no longer remember if that man, so long ago, was a happy man with a good life, or if I was reviled by those around me. Was I a funny man, cracking jokes all the time and able to get a room of people laughing? Was I sad with the things that brought to bed that night, whenever that last night in my bed was? That horrible silence is always my answer, a harsh truth that makes my questions meaningless. Only those pits of swirling blackness matter, that soul destroying gaze. It knew me, far more than I knew myself, and every moment it chipped away at me, an endless march toward nonexistence, but the pain makes it seem preferable. I would join that nothingness in time, but not before every ounce of suffering could be pulled from me, and it was. …let me die. A plead that lingered unnoticed forever, an endless begging ignored. My eyes opened suddenly, my heart raced in my ears, a panic brought from the depths of a dream ending. I did not know what woke me, be it my brain ejecting me from a dream it was finished with, or simply being rested. I scanned the room; parting the veil of sleep to discover my room empty, save for the darkness and myself. Outside I heard a car door close, no doubt my neighbor getting home from a midnight shift at the convenience store down the road. Rolling over I reached out and found my phone, which I took and pressed the button on time to engage the too bright, too sudden light from the screen. The clock read five in the morning, but one would hardly know it. The sun hadn’t yet breached the horizon, nor did it show any signs of attempting it today. That dream, that hell of an existence, remained in fragments, the entirety destroyed like the surface of a mirror. Hours and coffee would see it gone for good, as the rest of the day would greet me to bring me back to my life, a normal life of working a job I neither enjoyed nor detested. I rolled from my bed, placing feet to warm fuzzy rug, and yawned. I found myself in the shower; warm beads of water beat down on my tensed muscles. I didn’t remember the act of getting in the shower, but I was thankful for the warmth. The news had said it would be another cold day, at best being as high as forty degrees Fahrenheit. My heater was broken in my car, and I still hadn’t gotten around to fixing it. The rush of cold air as I stepped outside brought the remembrance of that horrible dream in portion. I remember the feeling of floating through a cold too terrible to be real. I shook my head, trying to dispel it, it was only a dream. My jacket pulled tighter around my chest, I made my way to my car. My neighbor greeted me from his lawn as he retrieved his trash can from the curb, a gesture made and returned every day. Nothing was special about this day, only the remnants of that dream. I felt a smile cross my face, knowing that everything was okay. The sun shined down on my cold face, warming it for a moment, a perfectly normal yet sincere second of time that could exist only for those alive. The dead know not the feeling of warm sunshine, only cold dirt, and that was worth remembering. My eyes opened suddenly, my heart raced in my ears, a panic brought from the depths of a dream ending. The silence contained the world in perfect stillness, and my tormentor’s unforgiving eyes greeted my suffering again. I thought I saw a gleam of sadistic pleasure in there, somewhere, buried deep beneath the existing nothingness. A moment of sincere joy, the simple feeling of warmth from the sun, was given to me as hope. And it was taken from me, reminding me of my true fate. …let me die. I begged through silent eyes, for no scream could pass my lips. …let this be the end, I’ve suffered enough. …Finish this, please. Somehow I knew it would never end.