It's the same dream as usual, I’m at my father's funeral, everyone is crying except for me. The old man and I didn't always get along, but I figure that's more so a problem for Dr. Nygard. As they begin to bury the casket the screaming starts, the same slurred threats he used to hurl at me when I was a boy. However, the thing that wakes me is the snap of his belt, I always knew what was coming when I heard that belt. I lunge off of the pillow and just like always, nothing. Nothing except the pale white glow of the streetlight illuminating portions of the room. Despite my apparent solitude I can’t help but feel like someone else is with me. I know it's probably nothing, but I always find myself watching the corner, almost as if something has lodged itself there in the dark. I don’t see myself getting back to sleep tonight. The morning after the dream is always a struggle. It feels like being a kid again, trying to make it through a school day after one of dad’s “rough nights' '. Yeah, sure dad, that's what we’ll call them. You spent 3 hours kicking the shit out of me, but you're right, just a rough patch. Time slows to a crawl, my thoughts lingering on my father's screams. “Do I scare you, Hiram?” a question that as a child always brought me to tears, “I’ll give you something to be afraid of, you little bastard!” That's as far as he usually got before he began to kick my teeth in. No chance I’m making it back to sleep tonight. The rain pelting the window and sporadic flashes of lightning cause the shadows to dance across the room, I watch hoping that the movement helps me drift back into sleep, but I know it won’t. “Alright dad” I sighed and rose from the bed. Reaching down to the floor I blindly grab one of the dozens of pants that never made it back to the dresser and make my way to the door, making sure to grab the half-finished bottle of Jamison on my way out. The dark and rain hide the road as I drive but at this hour traffic is sparse so knocking thirty minutes off of the two-hour drive was fairly easy. I pulled the key from the ignition and reached for that half empty bottle, I open the car door, the cool of the night air and the sharp sting of the rain pelted my skin. Approaching the gates of the cemetery I begin to lose my nerve, that deep impenetrable darkness interrupted by only the sudden flashes of lightning closely followed by the rancorous roar of thunder, it was every horror film I had ever seen condensed into one moment. I tilt the bottle back and drink, the warmth of the whisky fills my chest and quickens my breath. Placing my hand on to the cold steel of the gate I slowly push it open, there's no light, nothing to illuminate my path, but still I know the way. Making my way across the gravel walkways I gaze down at the gravestones, the sporadic flashes revealing the names on the crumbling granite tablets, I can’t help but feel that they are watching me, the eyes of the dead glued to my skin as I interrupt their rest. Nearing the end of the path I come to a stop, the lightning flashes and the sky booms as I remove the top from the bottle. “Hey Pop” my voice barely rises above a whisper. I swig from the bottle once more and kneel by the stone. It’s old, the epitaph barely legible as years of neglect have left the stone nearly completely eroded, running my hand across it causes large chunks to shear off and fall away into the wet grass. “Yeah, you don't look too good, but I’ve seen you worse.” I place the whiskey bottle next to the stone subtly gesturing towards it. “You're free to have some if you'd like, I remember how much you loved it back in the day.” The tears are beginning to gather just behind my eyes, I can feel them trying to escape all gathering together in hopes that the dam will finally break. I choke them back; he doesn't get the satisfaction of seeing me cry. Not anymore. “You know I’ve never forgiven you, everyday I’ve thought about all the shit you did to me and mom. I hated you with every ounce of passion I had.” I stared only at a dark silhouette of his gravestone but in front of me, I saw that emaciated drunk, his hair thinning and whisky in hand the sweat pouring from every pore on his body, the thin smile he wore when he would fall into one of his drunken stupors, it was that smile I saw best and it was that smile I hated the most. “Almost 30 years you’ve been gone, and you haunt my every waking moment” I run my hand across his name on the stone and watch as the granite falls away. “No more, you don’t get to torture me anymore, I’m not that helpless kid I was then and you're not the monster I can’t run from” Picking myself up I look down on the stone one last time. “You're just a crumbling stone and a faded name now, you can keep the bottle, consider it a peace offering.


Finally. Though the sun’s brilliant golden rays shone down on the city below, an occasionally bitter wind continued to rustle through the leaves. It was easy to find a patch of sunny warmth, but the disturbance of the frigid wind made jackets a necessity. Cora didn’t mind, though. From beneath the light beige of her thin spring jacket, the knee-length skirt of a sundress patterned with pink roses flared out. Her pink ballerina flats walked her daintily across the muddy grass, each step light and delicate, filled with purpose. Her arms were outstretched to the sides, unconsciously seeking balance as she took these slow and deliberate steps, a wide smile on her lips. Behind her, Cora’s mother and grandmother walked with less care and purpose. The elderly matron of the family, Florence, wore a practical set of brown leather shoes and she worried not about the impact of the mud. April wore sneakers; even though Cora had grown up, married, and flown the nest, the lazy practicality of a busy mother suited April, and she found herself lounging around the house in yoga pants and t-shirts more frequently than she liked to admit. “Do you think they’ll have that silly photo op they had last year?” Cora asked, looking over her shoulder at the others. “Remind me again which one that was?” asked Florence, furrowing her brow as she gazed ahead at her carefree granddaughter. She remembered being young. She remembered having long, flowing golden curls that fluttered about in the breeze, just as Cora’s were doing right now. Cora was more like Florence than April had ever been, and it made the old woman miss the days of her youth. “One of those thingies, you know, with the cut-out holes we put our faces in? Last year they had a bunny, a chick, and, uh… I think it was a lamb, perhaps…?” April laughed. “It was a lamb,” she confirmed. “Yeah! It was perfect for us because it had three spots, so we weren’t missing anyone and no one got left out!” Cora chimed, smiling widely. “I just hope they have pie,” mused Florence. Up ahead, the sound of music could be heard. It was a light, whimsical melody, carried by the chilly wind. As soon as the sound filled her ears, Cora all but jumped for joy, her brown eyes lighting up. “We’re almost there!” she called over her shoulder to her mother and grandmother. “Do you think she’ll ever stop being so excited?” Florence asked, glancing towards her own daughter. “We do this together every year. You’d think she’d be used to it by now.” “She’ll get over it once she’s got kids of her own,” said April. “There’s nothing quite like lugging a stroller and a screaming toddler through the mud to bring you down to earth.” “Ha! You weren’t much better, you know,” teased Florence, reaching over and poking April’s arm. “Guys! Hurry up, we’re almost there!” hollered Cora. “When did she get so far ahead?” grumbled Florence, squinting to make out her granddaughter’s shape. Sure enough, just as Cora said, the local spring festival was visible up ahead. Banners in pale shades of pink, green, and yellow adorned the lamp posts in the park, and though streamers had been strung up in the trees, many seemed to have torn or flown away in the harsh wind. In a few spots, loose streamers dangled straight downwards, thrashing about each time the wind came by in its attempts to carry them away. Cartoonish signs had been posted around the park, and each little booth or area was clearly marked with what appeared to be a hand-painted sign in the same pastel shades that made up the rest of the decorations. “I swear, this city gets cheaper and cheaper every year,” grumbled Florence. “It’s like they didn’t even try!” “Oh, come on, ma, it’ll be fine,” said April. “It’s not about how much they spend on it, it’s about having fun together.” “Sure, sure,” scoffed Florence, continuing forward with her daughter as they made their way towards the festival. Cora was far enough up ahead that she’d finally stopped to wait for them, since going any farther would defeat the purpose of visiting the spring festival with her mother and grandmother. The pair finally caught up to her, and Cora did a little twirl once they were all together again. “Look at that pretty flower arch! We should-“ “Ooh, pie!” Cora blinked her brown eyes in surprise when her grandmother cut her off, turning so she could follow her grandmother’s hungry gaze. “Grandma, that’s the pie-eating contest,” giggled Cora. “Do you think it costs much to enter?” asked Florence. “Ma?!” asked April, looking over at her in surprise. “Since when do you enter eating contests?” “Aren’t you the one always telling me it’s never too late to pick up a new hobby?” teased Florence. “Those pies look great. I’d love to show these whippersnappers a thing or two about eating pie.” As if on cue, a young man standing near the long table of pies gently rapped his finger against a microphone. The tapping sound filled the immediate area, and Cora flinched a bit at the feedback that followed it. “Ahem,” started the man. “Last call for the pie-eating contest! Next contest will be at 2pm, last call for the noon hour pie-eating contest! Only five tickets to sign up!” “Ooh, let’s go get our tickets so grandma can sign up, honey!” April said, grabbing Cora by the hand. “Ma, go wait for us by the contest area. We’ll be quick!” Cora nodded her agreement, and then she took off with her mother. They had some time to spare so her grandma didn’t have to wait another two hours to have some pie, after all. The pretty flower arch would still be there in twenty minutes when the contest had ended, after all. Neither April nor Cora had expected Florence to win the pie-eating contest, so neither of them found themselves surprised to see that she did not. What did surprise them, however, was hearing the judge announce her as the third-place winner. Both women couldn’t help but to clap and cheer as Florence went to take her ribbon, delicately dabbing at the corners of her mouth with a napkin as she rejoined her family a short distance from the table. “Ma, I’ve never seen you eat like that!” said April. “What can I say? Old age has been kind to me,” laughed Florence. “That was great, grandma!” said Cora, clapping her hands together. “Why don’t we go check out that really pretty flower-“ “Oh, ma, look over there, isn’t that Mr. Barker? I didn’t know he was back in town,” said April suddenly. Both Florence and Cora looked in the direction that April was looking, and a grin spread widely across Florence’s face. “It is! I didn’t know he was back, either. Come on, girls, let’s go and say hello.” “What about the flower arch…?” asked Cora, looking longingly in the direction of the decorative archway that had caught her attention. “It’s not going anywhere, honey, come on. Let’s go say hello to Mr. Barker,” said April. “Well, all right, but let’s go over to the flower arch after that,” said Cora. Neither April nor Florence responded. Both seemed in a hurry to go and greet Mr. Barker. Cora didn’t really know Mr. Barker that well, but followed along after them anyhow. He and her grandmother had been next-door neighbours for many decades. He had watched April grow up, and then he’d moved out of town when Cora was twelve, citing a need to stay with his son and daughter-in-law due to rising health and safety concerns with regards to living alone. She felt a bit awkward standing there while her mother and grandmother chatted away with the older gentleman, greeting him politely when he addressed her but saying nothing more. After at least ten or fifteen minutes of conversation, Mr. Barker politely excused himself. Once again, the three women were alone together. Cora opened her mouth to speak, wanting to suggest that they head over to the flower arch, but her mother once again cut in. “Look, they’re opening up the petting zoo,” said April, pointing. “Look at the bunnies!” “Oh, how cute!” agreed Florence. “It looks like they’re still getting set up. We could go check out the flower arch first and then the bunnies, maybe?” Cora suggested. “They should be ready any moment, I think. Let’s go and be first in line!” said April. “No, we should go to the flower arch,” said Cora, a little more insistently now. “Cora, honey, the flower arch isn’t going anywhere. We can take a picture after-“ “No!” Cora stamped her foot on the muddy ground, frustration bubbling up and spilling from her like a pot boiling over on the stovetop. “I’ve been trying to get us to go over to the flower arch since we got here! It’s not about taking a picture, I know it’s not going anywhere, but I saw it and I thought it was so pretty and I thought it would be really nice for the three of us to all be standing under this pretty flower arch when I tell you both that I’m pregnant like I’ve been waiting literally weeks to do, but every time I say anything about the flower arch you keep getting distracted or interrupting me when all I wanna do right now is go to the flower arch!” A silence fell over the three women. Cora’s dark eyes went wide as she realized just how much she had blurted out. With a little whine, she brought her hands up to cover her face. “Cora…?” “That was supposed to be a nice surprise,” moaned Cora disappointedly. She felt her mother’s hands gently come down on her shoulder. Lowering her hands, Cora looked up to see her mother’s bright blue eyes absolutely shining as she looked at her. “Cora, you and Robbie are having a baby?” asked April. Her lips were curved upwards into a thrilled smile, and tears already seemed to be welling up in her eyes. “I’m going to be a great-grandma?” asked Florence. “Yes,” Cora said, nodding. Tears were filling her own eyes, too. “I’m sorry. I was so excited to tell you, and I wanted everything to be perfect.” “But honey,” said April, “everything is perfect. The three of us are all together, we’re enjoying the spring festival… any moment today would have been the perfect moment.” “Your mother’s right, honey,” Florence said, stepping forward and placing a wrinkled hand delicately upon her granddaughter’s back. “You don’t need some fancy flower arch to give us good news. As long as we’re all together, the moment is right.” Cora sniffled a bit, a couple of tears freeing themselves of her eyes and trickling down her cheek. Despite her tears, there was a smile on her face, and she opened her arms to hug her mother and grandmother. “I love you guys,” she said. “We love you too, honey,” April said, nestling herself comfortably in the group hug and smiling with delight. “Very much,” Florence agreed, nodding. “And we love your baby, too, dear. Even if I am too young to be a great-grandmother.” All three women laughed, and after a moment, the group hug came to an end. Each took a small step back so they could look into one another’s eyes once again, allowing them a moment to regroup. “So, do you want to go take a picture at the flower arch to remember this moment?” April asked. “Nah,” said Cora, shaking her head. “The moment’s passed.” “We should go get ice cream,” said Florence, grinning proudly. “It’s like six degrees out, ma,” said April. “So?” asked Florence, shrugging. “We just got some amazing news. I’d say that calls for celebration.” Cora nodded. “I’m with grandma. Ice cream sounds pretty good right about now.” “Sure, says the pregnant one,” laughed April. “What about the festival? There’s still a bunch of stuff we haven’t had the chance to do.” Cora smiled, shrugging a bit, and then a devious smirk came to her lips at the opportunity to hit her mother back with her own words. “It’s here all month, ma,” she said. “The festival will still be here after ice cream.”


W While I nodded quickly typing, suddenly there came a tapping. As if someone gently rapping, rapping underneath my keyboard. “Some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my keys-” “Shut the fuck up!” spoke a small man on a latter peeping through the W key. He wore an orange hard hat and vest over a long white shirt and black tie. “Why hello,” I uttered quite startled by his appearance “am I bothering you, sir?” “The absolute nerve of this guy!” he yelled below the W. Followed by an eruption of cheers and laughter. “This dipshit wants to know if his typing is bothering us? You know what pal; no, you go right ahead and keep it up. We absolutely ***love*** when you do that shit. It’s not like a giant finger constantly pounding over your head hurts or anything.” the small man began to slowly climb back down his ladder. H Half a minute after the small man descended into the W once more, I sat to ponder the metaphysical consequences of small people in my key. The entire reality in which I had lived was turned completely upside-down within a moment. And when that minute was up, I continued my task. But no more than a letter was finished when there came a small man through the H key. “Hey, asshole!? What the hell did I just tell you!?” the small man spoke, skipping the nicety of a knock. “Hello sir, I had made a clear effort to avoid your W.” I smiled, assuming the confusion had been settled. “Oh thank you that makes me feel so much better. No fuckface! You keep drumming those sausages and we’ll have some issues! Keep your fucking shit to yourself we’re trying to sleep!” and with that, the small man shuffled down his latter once more. I I sat, staring at my keys. Looking for all clues to the uninhabited characters. When my eyes passed over the letter I my fingers reached to connect my thoughts to paper when the small man popped out. “You fucking piece of shit what the fuck are you thinking!? Three fucking times I’ve had to tell you to stop I’m fucking tired man!” a crowd groaned from under the I “I’m sorry sir, I was not aware you people were so prevalent in my keys?” “You people!?” he leaned back, and a loud gasp was brought after from the small people in my keys. “I apologize. You have my word I will not make any more strokes. Your home is safe from my creative process.” I reached my hand for him to shake on our deal. “Oh, so now that you know we’re here you’ll behave yourself? You know what, no! Fuck you, you judgmental piece of shit. Fucking type you mother fucker!” his face grew red. His crowd seemed to agree. “I just thought that-” “You just thought that what? We’d settle for your middle-of-the-road fairytale compromise? No act like a fucking man and type you piece of shit!” “But you said-” “Oh, so now that I’m calling you out on your bullshit you care? No, I ***want*** you to type. So, you can know just how much of a fucking prick you are!” and with that, he slammed my I shut. I sat thinking for a moment when. “I said fucking type already!” the small man called through the L. And so, after a quick reread of what I already wrote, I continued. ***While I nodded quickly typing, suddenly there came a tapping. As if someone gently rapping, rapping underneath my keyboard.


“She’ll hang by her freakin’ balls!” The sixteen mercenaries she’d sent to kill him met that fate too, so it wasn’t an idle threat when Lance swore that his own mother would perish. He chugged his ale and slammed the tankard onto the table, forming a crack across its wood. His sword stood unsheathed beside him, blood dripping from its edges onto the open wounds of his latest kill. She was growing more desperate to finish him off. He still didn’t understand, but he understood enough as he stared down all the faces gawking back at him. To send a woman into a crowded bar during daylight, seduce him, and try to stab him in public, though? That epitomized cruelty. One by one the faces cowered. He snickered. He was getting good at this. Lance picked up his sword, left the appropriate amount of gold on the table to cover the costs of wood and corpse removal services, and left. The city of Thead was smothered by the high heat of summer, the sky colored crimson as desert dust wafted through. He glanced in the direction of the walls to the east, travelers coming and going, those coming more threatening to him by the day. Any one of them could be out to kill him. He masked his face with his bandanna and disappeared into the alleys behind Main Street. Thead was a city erected around a deep underground station. The desert in which it was built was too unpredictable for daily tasks, so the founders dug tunnels. And those tunnels forked into other tunnels, which forked into marketplaces, banks, homes, and everything else you’d expect to find in a major city. Electricity was flowing all day and night to light the routes. And, somewhere in the depths of the underground pit city, his mother was waiting, a knife in one hand and a concealed knife in the other. He was four years old the first time she ordered a hit on him. A boy approached him, a couple of years older, and asked to share toys. Lance was so glad to have the opportunity to make a friend, growing up alone with no siblings and no father. His mother was a soldier of the Queen’s Contempt, an order of troops thought to carry out Her Highness’s secret, merciless agendas. So he often spent his time alone, never learning to read nor write, but only to wait and play. He was thrilled to have a boy his age talk to him at the playground. Someone was watching, though. Someone he did not know and never met again. Lance named the boy Hits in his memories. Hits made flying sounds with his wooden dolls and tied capes around their necks, turning them into superheroes. He ran around the playground, making earnest effort to enjoy time playing. Lance was too young to suspect foul play as Hits ran out of the playground and into the busy city, talking to hooded strangers. Hits returned from one of those ventures with a knife concealed in his sleeve. He charged at Lance, the caped doll tight in his hand, then dropped it, revealing the knife behind it. Lance was confused, but it did not last when Hits started slashing at him. He cut through Lance’s sleeve on the first strike, leaving a scar the length of his arm. Hits bared his teeth and growled at him, then licked the blood off the knife. “I’m a present from your mother,” he said. Then an arrow pierced his neck. The boy fell dead onto the tiled playground and, when Lance turned, saw a cloaked figure being subdued by local guards. A bow fell from his belongings, and he never saw the person again. Twenty years passed since that day. The second attempt came nine years later, after Lance was old enough to register for military training. He’d hoped the lessons would bring him the discipline and guidance he missed from having suitable parents. And, with the assassination attempt always lingering in his mind, he thought weapons training would benefit him. And he excelled. So, when another young man his age approached him with a raised sword on the training grounds, he already had the skills and alertness to make quick work of killing him. He gained fame in military school and, with that, came more assassination attempts. Eight have come in the last year. And so, he battled with the question, why did his mom want him dead? Often, when his mother would come home from work, she pummeled him with the blunt side of her weapons. Taking himself to the playground and spending the day there seemed the safer choice. Until he met Hits. Perhaps that is also why he excelled with weapons training – he already had enough exposure to garner his interest! His mastery followed. He abandoned his military training. If fame meant more promotions, and promotions meant fame, then he didn’t want his mother to learn about him. He spent some years above ground for a time, but those efforts, too, were futile. She proved that she was going to find him no matter what he did. He sheathed his bloodied sword and took his first steps into the depths of Thead. Forgetting her was not a choice for him. She was not going to forget him. She had the money to pay the finest swords and best detectives to ask for the whereabouts of her “missing son.” He was going home today, a thought which sent goosebumps from his head to his heels. The main market at the bottommost level was busy with its usual activity. Vendors were barking at passersby, hoping for a sale. Construction workers were lugging metal rods shaped like the letter I on their shoulders. People bumped into each other and didn’t apologize, their eyes locked on their destinations. Lance disappeared into another alley. There, he entered a local tailor’s shop and plucked the finest looking clothes from the shelves, sight unseen. His mother was not the most important knight of Queen’s Contempt, but her stature was high enough that a man in shredded clothes would draw much attention lurking around her office. He dressed in the darkness under some blown out light bulbs. He emerged in the bustling city again, with a different pace and posture. He crossed the least busy streets and made his way toward Sabtacks Keep. The keep was built of a shining material the builders called presentium. It had a dark, obsidian color up close, but a reflective, sparkling surface when viewed from the city. It was an abundant compound, and quite sturdy as well. The keep aged two hundred years without a crack or loss of luster. Sentries manned its grounds, archers it walls, and eagle-eyed scouts from lookout towers high above. Lance snuck in without issue, knowing all of their movement patterns. He didn’t know where his mother worked, but he guessed it was nearer the top of the castle. He remembered that recruits were kept on the first floors. And he saw young boys, worn and beaten just like him, as he passed through the shadows. He reminisced and wished them well. Lance was also familiar with the next few floors. Soldiers and their dormitories occupied the floor above the recruits. The captains and sergeants had their offices and rooms above them. The dining hall was on the fourth floor, and would be easiest to navigate now that lunch was done. Above that, though…. He shivered. That was all unknown. So, when Lance climbed the final step onto the fifth floor, he crouched and peeked around the wall. He was in a dark hallway. Traces of light from the fourth floor were bright enough to reveal light bulbs along the walls. Yet, none were lit. There was a room across from him, with a glass door and glass windows. The lights within were also off. He squinted, eager to catch the slightest hint of what might be inside, but reasoned the fifth floor was an infirmary. And an inactive one at that. But, don’t soldiers get injured all the time? Something moved behind the door. Lance was thankful he hadn’t moved since he reached the top of the stairs. He squinted again and held his breath, laser focused on the shadow that moved within the shadows. He resumed breathing after a minute, certain his imagination took hold of him. Something behind the door growled. And then, it banged on the glass. The windows shook. Lance jumped. The ground moved a little too, enough for Lance to feel it in his legs. He gazed deep into the shadows, unable to see through the darkness. Bang! This was more forceful than the last. The windows shook again. Lance looked harder, and thought he saw orange, polygonal eyes staring at him. He escaped up the stairs next to him to the sixth floor, the growls and banging on the glass more fearsome now that he was moving. His heart trembling, he peeked upstairs. He wanted to move fast because, now that something was making so much noise so close to him, he needed to flee from it. Voices approached him from the hallway below. He saw the nearest staircase was on the other side of the sixth floor. The sixth floor was quiet like the sixth, but it wasn’t an eerie quiet. It was a sophisticated silence and, looking around, Lance saw office suites. Men and women in fine silk suits strode around lugging large, hard covered books in their arms. They were bookkeepers, but there were others in white gowns too. He did not know who they were. He entered while crouched, hiding underneath walls, as the voices below him grew closer. He saw two men in armor asking the workers on the sixth floor questions as he crept his way up to the seventh. The seventh floor led into a well lit hallway. This was decorated with swords, shields, and axes on its walls. He did not see movement from either side of him, but he needed to traverse his way around until he found the next flight of stairs. He stayed low and tiptoed as the voices under him crept closer. He started left. He passed by many large wooden doors, many of them lit from the cracks above the floor. Traces of voices trailed into the hallway, but he could not decipher the words. He thought he recognized one voice – his mother’s friend Leslie. And Leslie was also a member of Queen’s Contempt. He was getting closer, should his guess be right. But, a pair of voices echoed from the end of the hall, and Lance was forced to leap behind a crate as they turned the corner. He crashed into it, causing it to slide an inch. The voices stopped, their eyes scouring ahead for movement. They continued their conversation after a moment, and Lance crawled into a vestibule behind him. One of the voices was elderly, and he heard the sound of a cane clapping into the hard floor. She was saying something about new responsibilities to other, who remained quiet. But he recognized her voice when she spoke. Then saw her , as he peered through the vestibule. His mother was a short woman with brown hair. She had an average build, but it had grown some since last he saw her, eleven years ago. She kept her hands folded behind her back. The older woman with the cane spoke about things the Queen wanted her to accomplish, most of which involved killing. Lance’s heart leapt from his chest. Doubts pillaged him. Could he really kill his own mother? Would that make him any better than her? How could he do it when she wasn’t even alone? She was a knight too – could she best him? Had he come all this way for nothing? He remembered the corpse he’d left in the bar. No. He didn’t have a choice. He rubbed his cheek, the last place she’d ever hit him, then exhaled a deep breath. Sooner or later, she would catch him. Lance emerged from the vestibule and followed them. The armored guards from the sixth floor found their way upstairs, along with some white coats too. So, he spied his mother entering a doorway on his right, and disappeared into an unlit room. He stepped back into the hall, once he was certain all were gone, and marched up to his mother’s door. He reached for the handle. There’s no turning back if you open this door . He shook his thoughts away and opened the door. His mother was sitting at a wooden table, staring out of the window across from her. She had just finished wrapping a blanket around her as she sat down. Lance closed the door without a peep. He took two steps inside when she stopped him. “I thought I heard you outside.” He stopped and thought to leap behind the couch next to him, but she turned and looked at him. She snickered, then turned her back to him. “Come to kill me?” Lance did not answer, but he did reach for his sword. His mother stood and walked up to him, her shoes clapping against the floor. “But, you should know something. We are not allowed to have children in the Contempt. The Queen would have killed us both if she ever found out about you.” That did not make sense, then. She should have killed him as a baby. “So,” she continued, “go ahead and kill me then. I won’t stop you.” She grabbed his hand which grasped his sword, drew it, and held its point to her throat. “If this is how you repay your mother after all the years of life I’ve given you, then go ahead and kill me.” She closed her eyes. But then she opened them again, two seconds later, glaring at him through her eyebrows. She turned her back to him again and stepped away. “You could ask her, you know. The Queen is right upstairs.” She took her seat facing the window again and did not look at him. So, the Queen’s Contempt were not allowed to bear children. Was it true? How could he know for sure? Something he knew about Queen Cerim, though, was that she loved killing so much, she assembled a group of skilled women to murder anyone that displeased her. She called that group her Contempt and the people lived in fear of Her Highness. Lance disappeared into the hallway, silent as a spider, and found his way upstairs. The eighth, and topmost, floor of Sabtacks Keep opened into a grand court. Stone pillars supported the vaulted ceiling, some thirty feet over his head. Torches were burning along the pillars, more for an effect than a need. A throne stood on a dais fifty feet across from him, shining with hues of presentium, gold, and jewels. Queen Cerim sat upon her throne, beckoning him forward. “Come forward, young man.” Lance obeyed. Sweat formed upon his brow as he crossed the blazing torchlight. Beads rolled down and into the corner of his eyes, burning them with salt. He wiped them dry with the back of his hand. “I know you,” she said. She relaxed back into her throne, astounded. “You are that talented young boy that disappeared from the military school some years back.” She uncrossed her legs and opened them wide in her throne. “Tell me, how did you learn such skills?” Lance detected a sarcastic inflection in her voice. And, he guessed that she wanted him to look between her legs. He grabbed his sword, but it was already too late. Someone’s heavy hand landed on his shoulder, and a sword protruded through his chest. He spat blood everywhere. He turned and swung, his hand still tight on his blade, but his mother batted it away like a balloon. The sword clattered to the floor. She caught his head and eased him down to the ground. He watched her smile from the corner of his eye as she stepped over his body and approached the Queen. She knelt before her. “I’ve gotten rid of an age old nuisance,” she confessed. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about it sooner.” The Queen remained silent. “We encourage you to breed with our knights to sire strong offspring. None of the others in my Contempt are callous enough to kill their own children.” Cerim cackled. “You deserve that promotion.” Lance spent so many years away from his mother that he forgot how manipulative she was. And there, in the Queen’s court, she finally got the best of him.


It is Monday, August 6, 1945. It is approximately 8:00 am just a few miles outside of Hiroshima, Japan. Hitsugaya Kuchiki is rushing out the door of his home because he is running late for work. Ever since the war began, those unable to serve in the Imperial Army have been forced to work at the many factories and farms that support the war effort. Hitsugaya is just one of the many older men forced to work at the factory, even though he is against the war. As he kisses his wife, Nami, she pleads with him to just stay home today. “I have a bad feeling “she states uncomfortably. He embraces her and says, “You know I can’t my love, I’m surprised they haven’t already come knocking at our door.” “I love you, please be safe,” she says. One last kiss runs out the door, unknowing of the impending doom his eyes will befall in a few short minutes. Walking at a brisk pace, he still can’t help but admire the quaint beauty of his town. It is a beautiful summer morning. The smell of salt water and flowers fills the air. The streets are already bustling with his neighbors and countrymen. As he turns onto the main road to his factory, there is a sudden, brilliant flash on the horizon. The time is approximately 8:15 am. Hitsugaya shields his eyes almost instinctively. A second or two screams by followed by a deafening roar. Hitsugaya falls to his knees as he feels a rush of force and hot air entomb his body. 15 seconds pass, breathing, he is still alive. “What the hell is happening?” he thought, almost screaming in his inner voice. As he opened his eyes, his heart fell through his feet at what he saw. The city that he admired, the city he grew up in, had been reduced to flaming rubble. He ran towards the city center, “surely there must be survivors that need help” he thought. After what seemed like an eternity, he came across a soldier who was being aided by other victims. The man was severely burned. Although Hitsugaya could see the soldier, just a boy of maybe 18, was hurting and just as scared as the rest of them, he decided to approach him. “What happened?!” Kuchiki shouted. In a strained voice, the soldier replied, “The *Gai-jin (which is Japanese for a person not of this land, slang used for Americans in the Second World War)* dropped a new bomb on us.” The radio call for an air raid had gone out just minutes before the Little boy had fallen from his crib. Hitsugaya was stunned. “Just one bomb did all of this? One bomb had wiped his hometown from the face of the planet?” he thought. “How is that even possible?” He knew at that moment that if the United States, the gai-jin, possessed this type of terrifying power, the Empire did not stand a chance and would surely lose this war.


My childhood friend had met his star-crossed lover suddenly on his way back from California in the unbelievably romantic setting of the coach section, in the 747, where he sat adjacent to *her.* It was only fitting, that after his graceful flirtations with her that he invited her to accompany him back to his humble abode. Back at his apartment he took on the very important role of an honorable host. As an opening welcome, he shared with her the very writings on his heart, splashed into a poem, which he proceeded to enchant her with. What he would depict as a sweet melody that caressed her ears, I would more appropriately describe as verbal diarrhea. The reason why I can speak so intimately of this experience is because my dear acquaintance did not know that moments before he arrived, I had already reached his apartment and let myself in. He must have forgotten in the midst of his love haze, that we had planned on me coming out to visit for the week. Once in the upstairs guest bedroom, I overheard the entire seduction process carried out. As I wait silent with my face pressed against the open vent that was spewing out every word spoken right into the drum of my ear, I began to hear shuffling down below. The sound of my friend lowering himself to one knee was made. I heard him utter four words that I could never in all my life think of being spoken to someone, I assume, known for all of about 12 hours. I rushed down the steps and flew into the living room to find a celebration consisting of laughing, hugging and one wink from a precious rock attached to a golden hoop. As I finally process everything before my eyes, I notice who is standing before me wearing the newly gifted ring. I looked at him, then her, then back at him. The absolute shock carved into my face demolished any chance of lying when I stuttered, “Congratulations.” It was as though one eight hour flight, travel to the apartment and a small conversation had absolutely erased an entire six-year process that surmounted to nothing, as my friend, ex-fiancé and disheveled self all stood speechless exchanging confusion, excitement and surprise in silence. I had no other words to say or know what to do, so I turned and left the room in complete humiliation towards an undirected journey to nowhere. After a few days of thinking and remembering, I returned back to the very apartment that contained all the excitement to say goodbye. Even though my long time friend and I had not spoken for some time after college, I knew he was aware of my time with her. This was no serendipitous meeting a mile high above all the turnings of the world. This must have had some past to it, which I was oblivious to. I gave my friend a solemn handshake and told him that I would remember the date and said goodbye. This gave my clear intention that I was not clueless of what’s going on, acknowledged that they are getting married, and that my acceptance of the invitation to the wedding was not going to be a solid answer. I dismissed all the emotions that invaded my body each day after that. I knew that I could very easily eat myself alive if I was to dwell on the past, the present, and even think of the future. How could I celebrate something that was so clashing and hurtful from a friend and ex-lover? My friend and I live separate lives for the most part now. I can’t undo the past or stay bitter. I don’t know what their lives will become or what my life will look like. All I know is that the wedding cake was pretty good and they had a decent band.


Rachel looked at herself in the mirror. Why the hell was she so nervous? It was only coffee. But after so long. He’d contacted her on Facebook out of the blue. ‘Hey. Remember me? Fancy meeting up?  Coffee?  Talk through old times?’ Of course she remembered him. They’d been an item back in the day. He was young and good looking, she was young, drawn to those blue eyes, that ready smile. Yes, and she supposed she’d been attractive back then. Then she’d gone to college, uni, and well, he hadn’t. Gone into business with his dad, a builder, so no further education needed. They’d drifted apart, gone their separate ways. It happens. She looked at her reflection. The bags under the eyes, the lines round her mouth that turned it down, the chins, how many were there these days? She lifted her chin, pulled down the flesh on her neck, smiled. At least her teeth are still quite good, though the effort of smiling put more creases round her eyes, her mouth. Ah well. She looked at her hair. It had always been on the wild side, but now looking at it, she wondered if she should lay off the blond highlights, get a good cut. Too late now for retouching the roots. Then there was the body. She’d been a skinny thing when he’d known her; now she looked at her body with fresh eyes. She stood up straight, pulled her shoulders back. Her breasts were still good, bigger than they had been when they’d first known each other, but now in her mid-forties, gravity was starting to get the upper hand. And as for the jelly belly. Need to put on a looser top, she thought, something that hides those folds of flesh that never fully went away after the birth of Jess and Maddie. Need to get fit, said another voice, the one that thought every spare moment should be put to good use. But work, single motherhood and apathy had always got in the way. And now? Yes, she still had work, but first Jess and now Maddy had gone to university, leaving evenings and weekends free to do what she wanted, at least during term time. Get on top of the housework, she’d told herself. But that had been a failure. She’d always been okay at cooking, always managed to keep on top of laundry, but cleaning was for some reason beyond her capabilities. She marvelled at those women that seemed to have loads of time yet kept an immaculate house. Besides, she’d couldn’t bring herself to disturb the girls rooms, and when she’d tackled the bathroom, she’d found a nest of spiders and realised that no matter how many she caught, there’d still be more. Even now the strongest four had taken up their positions in the corners of the bathroom, the lesser spiders finding what territories they could. She sighed. Don’t worry about the spiders – you’re not inviting him back here.

She looked at herself with a different, looser top on. Was she too casual in this? Don’t be stupid, it’s just a coffee with an old friend. It’s not a date. You’ll meet, chat, go your separate ways. Then why did she feel so nervous? She wished she’d not created that damned Facebook account now, but her daughters had insisted on it. “You can see what we’re up to mum,” they’d said. So she’d let her daughters create an account, let them upload a photo, an old photo, and let them put her down as status: Divorced. And now Julian had found her and wanted to meet up. She’d looked at his profile. Status: Widowed. Children two, boy and girl. Works as a builder. If nothing else, she told herself, you could talk to him about coming round here to redo the kitchen. Not that she’d got the money for that, but it would be a talking point, getting advice on how to do it on the cheap. She examined his picture. It was of him with his two children, both younger than her daughters. It looked like the girl – what was her name? – had taken a selfie of the three of them together. Julian was laughing as was the girl. The boy, who was the image of the man in his youth as she remembered him, looked pained and unwilling, as only pubescent boys can. She looked closer at the man. The smile was there in the mouth, in the eyes, but his hair was thinning, he needed a shave. He had not aged well. We’ve got something in common then, she thought. She wondered at the irony that sometimes, those that began adult life as handsome, rakish, went downhill, while those that were considered ordinary or boring sometimes matured into something more pleasing. Watchit kiddo, she said to the boy in the picture. That’s what you’ll look like someday. Maybe he knew. Maybe that’s why he was scowling. She wondered again at why he might want to meet up. Her job in IT meant that she was reasonably well paid, could look forward to a half decent pension at some point in the dim and distant future. But still there was always too much month left at the end of the money. There was still the mortgage to pay, and the rest, to say nothing of the cost of putting her girls through uni. Tom, her ex, had always paid maintenance for the girls, but there was still never enough. Are you after my money, she thought. Are you thinking because I’m a homeowner, got a job in IT, lonely, that I’m an easy touch? After all, he was a manual labourer, self-employed. Which means he didn’t have things like a guaranteed pension. And surely with that sort of work there was only so long that you could keep doing it. Wasn’t there? So then what do you do? Look for a lonely woman you can tap for a few quid? She didn’t like that thought, made her feel ill. She looked at herself in the mirror again. Her clothes at any rate didn’t sing out money. The exact opposite, they were shabby with only a small amount of chic. It had been so long since she’d bought new clothes, been out on a date. Don’t be silly, it’s not a date. It’s just coffee. You don’t have to commit to anything more. And forget about mentioning the state of the kitchen. At least for now. They’d arranged to meet in a garden centre. It meant she could get there early, wander round the plants, hide behind a display of herbaceous perennials to give him the once over. That had been the plan at any rate, but roadworks delayed her, leaving her just enough time to park at the far end of the busy car park. She was walking towards the garden centre when… “Get stuck in the roadworks?” He was there. No backing out now. She looked him up and down. He’d had a shave – thankfully – and a buzz-cut had improved the hair line. He was dressed in jeans and a checked short-sleeved shirt. “Err, yes.” Why the hell was she feeling so nervous? “Me too.” And she noticed that he wasn’t looking directly at her. Was he nervous too? They stood there for a moment or two, having run out of things to say. “So, coffee?” He took the lead and led the way to the café. She walked beside him, a step behind. There was no closeness, no brushing up against one another as if they were friends, would-be lovers. Well, this is going well, she thought, but at least with a coffee they could sit and sip if they couldn’t think of anything to say. What do you say to a man who you knew everything about at age 16, but know nothing about now? He took charge at the café, wouldn’t take no for an answer. He insisted they had cake, no he shouldn’t really either, but why not? Once in a while? It’ll give us something else to do when we can’t think of anything to say, she thought, eat cake. She watched him as he ordered, paid. He’d been skinny when she’d known him before. Now he’d filled out. But not too much, she noticed. No beer gut at least. His short-sleeved shirt showed the ends of tattoos, and his arms looked strong, used as they were to labour, his hands calloused from his work. She quietly breathed him in as she stood behind him in the queue. He smelled nice. He’d always smelled nice, she remembered. They sat, they sipped. It was still awkward, until she took a bite of the éclair, ending up with cream on her nose. He laughed, the ice was broken, and it was suddenly easy to talk.

They talked about the old days, went through the routine of ‘do you remember’, talking about the friends they’d liked, the teachers they’d hated.  He asked about her divorce, a mutual separation eight years ago, she asked about his wife, cancer, five years ago. He asked about her work, and she asked about his. He was his own boss, he said, a small building company, five men relying on him for work. Turns out he’d had more education than she’d given him credit for with all the regulations he had to follow. He liked being his own boss, wouldn’t have it any other way. She said she wouldn’t either. Preferred the security of the 9-5, an annual wage, a secure pension. He smiled. He’d be okay. He was buying up properties, doing them up, renting them out. He’d currently got six properties, intended to add more until he retired. Then he’d live on the rent. So, not after your money then, she thought. Only a coffee after all. No hidden agenda. Suddenly he looked awkward again. “Look, I’ve got a confession. I didn’t contact you. I’d seen your profile and Kelly had seen me looking. She sent the message from my phone while I was out of the room.” “So you didn’t want to be here today?” “No, I did. It’s just that I wouldn’t have had the nerve to ask you myself. She knew you’d been my girlfriend at school, thought it was about time I was out there again.” “She sounds like my daughters. That’s what they keep telling me. What business is it of theirs anyway?” They both laughed, suddenly easy in each other’s company once more. The coffee, the cake, was finished. “Do you fancy looking round the plant section? I’ve got to get something for mum.” It seemed he wanted to extend the date. “Okay. I need a couple of perennials to fill a gap.” They moved easily into the plant section, wandering around all parts, discussing what they liked and disliked in an unhurried fashion and as they browsed, they moved closer. It was the end of the season and perennials were three for two, so she chose three, gave him one for his mother. She’d always liked his mum. Plants paid for – she refused to take any money from him, she was giving him the free plant after all – they moved to the car park. She put her plants into the boot and turned to say goodbye.

“Look, Rachel,” he said nervously, “I’ve enjoyed today. I wonder if you’d like to meet up next weekend? Just for coffee and a chat.” She smiled. Yes, she would. He wasn’t the handsome youth she remembered, but hey, time had caught up with both of them, and at her age she didn’t think she should be too picky. Besides, they were only two old friends meeting for a coffee. He leaned in, held each of her arms and kissed her gently on her cheek. She was surprised at the electricity, the sudden attraction she felt for him and judging from the confusion on his face as he pulled back, she wondered if he’d felt the same. “Till next week then.” And as he walked away, she put her hand to her cheek as if the feel of his lips was too precious to let go.


My name is Ella. Growing up, I was told to do my best and conquer the world. My duty was to study, focus on important stuff, and not get distracted. No movies, books, friends, or boys were supposed to derail my mother's goal: I would have what she didn't, and I would share the success with her: my sponsor, my promotor, my everything... at least for a while. School was always tough for me, not because I found it challenging to deal with it, but because I was never as good as others thought I could be. The pressure at school was much better manageable than the one at home, even when I realized my mother was strict but would never kill me if I failed math. I was never a sports girl or a genius in science, and even if I loved literature and reading, learning grammar was boring and consuming. Despite the struggle, my grades were good enough to pass year by year, and they improved during my high school years, allowing me to attend university: I was on the right path to becoming "something." In those semi-adult years, I chose a career that should give me a bright future, and it did... until the lights went out, and I decided to change my life before it decided to run away from my body. But I am getting ahead of my story.

I believe I did burn out for the first time during my university years, even though no one took me to a doctor's office to diagnose such a condition. Looking back, I remember my engineering course as a continuous nightmare, one of those where someone chases you, and you keep running...forever. I did not like what I was doing, and I did not want to change either, which seems stupid, but it's the truth. I did not want to change or stop because I felt I couldn't. How could I? That would mean failing my mother's expectations and, even worse, contradicting the firm belief that had been given since I was an infant: never stop, never quit, always show you can do whatever is necessary. What was I supposed to do? Look for happiness by doing something energizing? To feel good? No. I considered it but did not dare to do it, so I continued and finished my studies. That was supposed to take the weight from my chest... and it did until the next thing came across. Because there are always things thrown at us and others... well, we choose them even if we have no idea what we are doing. After years spent with my nose buried in books, the next logical step was to look for a job. In a rebellious attempt to take ownership of my life, I moved abroad and got my first job, where I learned a ton, mostly about people. Sometimes, I even learned things about myself, which might sound ridiculous since that's who I had always lived with... but in fact, I hadn't, not like that. I had ups and downs, and a few years later, my mother politely asked whether my universe domination headquarters could move to her living room. Unfortunately for my mother, I had listened for years- too well- to all the stories she told me about the mysteries of this planet and its people, so I decided to move around to see it all with my own eyes. If I had been a bit more adventurous instead of settling in apartments, I could have made a YouTube channel to speak about my van life. If I had not decided to work stupid hours in a corporate job, I could have taken surf lessons, partied for days straight, and taken over fabulous businesses. But not. I met someone. I fell in love. I had children. I kept working, studying, and having wonderful goals for a wonderful future. And then, again, a dark cloud. One day, on our way home from work, I asked to go to the hospital instead. That was the first time I thought I was dying... but I was not. I was "just" having a panic attack. And a few weeks later, I had the second.

At that time, I had a tough job and two children who were not in the business of making life easier. Some of my colleagues did yoga and meditated; others popped pills like candy to overcome that thing called stress. I was terrified of pills and what they do to people, what they turn them into, so I decided to speak and hate a stranger instead. Oh, my, how I hated that woman, for months, sitting in that red chair, speaking... I talked and talked, and the seasons changed. I moved away from that red chair, together with my family, into a more Nordic style, with lower temperatures and greyer skies. I had always thought sunlight was overrated. Now, I think that's what you feel when you have it every day. I got a new job and then another. I met more people, got more responsibility, grew older, and lost patience for silly things. And politics. And things and people that are supposed to be like all the others... Maybe Taylor Swift is correct, and if I were a man, I would be the man, but at this point in my story, I don't know if I even would want it. I don't know if I want to conquer the universe anymore. I feel more inclined to write about it and attack the cookie drawer instead... or travel worldwide and enjoy a good coffee and sweets. Last year, I burned again. While having a panic attack on the elevator and struggling to breathe on my way to the seventh floor of my office building, I tried to think what that meant for my future. None of the thoughts were good or politically correct. I wished the world would burn instead of me, but I am a reasonable person -most of the time- and what I decided was much easier for everyone around me. After all, the problem was me, not them. I left. I cut ties. I disappeared from their lives to take over mine. One year later, I write from my living room, read in my bed and garden, pick my younger kid up from school, play with him and his siblings, and share my life with my partner. I do all those things, but I feel nothing. I am productive. I have a goal and a continuous challenge. I've chosen my path, the one that was supposed to make me happy... Someone told me once that it was a perfect job for a tormented soul. Based on that, I should be the most successful person in my area, but not yet. Right now, I'm just perfect on paper: tortured and conflicted.

One more decision. There is a little bottle in front of me. One pill a day keeps me sane and stable. I look at it and think about sanity and stability, what it means, and what doesn't. This is not it. I don't think so. I take the little container. I open it. I pour the pills on the counter. So many things I've decided in my life. So much struggle... and then, now, not anymore.


>The Tumblr text post bot AutoNB posted , and I got a little bit inspired. I look down at my watch. I’m not sure why, I always have an hour. I’ve had an hour until work for quite a while now. I walk outside, and watched the bird. The same bird, floating in the same spot, unmoving. I study its plumage, noting the interesting way the feathers folded in as it brought them in close to its body, forever caught halfway into freefall. I look at the woman in the window who’s been taking off her shirt for who knows how long. I found it erotic once, but time has a way of drawing that away from you. I scoff at myself. Time. That concept no longer applies to me. One day, at roughly 7:43 AM, it stopped. I seem to be the only one unaffected by its stubbornness to continue. I thought about that for a moment; perhaps it was the other way around, I was the only one uncaring to the progression of time. The effects were interesting. I can still interact with the world, but the moment I release something from my grasp it loses all the inertia I should’ve passed to it. At the very least it allows me to eat. Same applies to living things as well. The newspaper boy used to be sitting on his bike. I’ve arranged him to be standing horizontally on the side of a tree, flipping the bird to the ground in defiance of gravity. I still get a chuckle from it every time I see him. I sigh. At first, this was confusing. Then, exciting. I could do whatever I chose with no consequence. I took more advantage of this than I should have, I’m ashamed to admit. After what I assume was a week, it became lonely. I had nobody to speak to, no-one to voice my ideas with. I began to keep a journal of what I’d done and what I could do, in hopes that when— no, if— time decided it wished to quit stalling at some point, I’d at least have records. I make an entry before I sleep every day. I flip back through it; according to the system I’d made for my own records keeping, it had been 477 days since time had halted. Over a year without contact from anyone except the frozen mannequins masquerading as living men. It’s an interesting nightmare. I wonder if I’ll wake up.


\[SF\] Tall ceilings, vast corridors, and rooms that seemed endless. Off-white, cream colored rooms, marble floors, and every entryway was topped with an arch. The ceilings were much too tall and served no purpose but to echo the silence that was within. There were people, but they did not speak, hardly moved, showed no emotion, and did not cast a shadow. They could all stand on each other's shoulders and they would not reach the ceiling, although there were hundreds if not thousands of them. The people seemed lifeless. But, to this day I knew they served a point. What point they served I could not tell you. I arrived into this place well after everyone else, and I seemed like a peaceful intruder. I am not sure what caused me to think this, but immediately I knew this was a library and a place of scholars, but no books were to be seen. No shelves, no books on the wall, no bookcases. The place still seemed like a library to me. It resonated as a place of thoughts and ideas, searching and learning, understanding the misunderstood, and questioning questions that had yet to be thought. The only sound I heard at this point was the echoes of my own footsteps walking down a spiral staircase. The path I followed was not the grand stairway, but the stairs my journey began upon without my asking. It was one of the many staircases that lined the perimeter of the beautiful place. I walked. I observed. Nothing really happened. Peace, at its finest. As I stepped through the archway at the bottom of the stairs, I was met by someone, someone who moved but did not talk. She handed me a book. This book was like no other book I’ve ever held, it simply wanted to go up. The best way i can describe this is the book was like an air bubble in the water, its desire was simply to travel up. I struggled to hold onto it and had to fight the book’s intentions to ascend, but I was able to do so. Almost like hitting play on a paused movie, everyone, who priorly was statuesque began to bustle around moving frantically. No matter which direction they moved, somehow they all convened on me. Each one faceless, but somehow individually unique in nature, all handed me book after book after book, each book like a balloon that just wanted to rise. Every single book I was given seemed determined to defy gravity and dreamed of meeting the ceiling of that lovely, but odd, place. I held them all, but they began to be too much. Or were they? Half of me wanted to hold them down because books don’t belong in the air. But, half of me wanted to let them ascend and take me with them. In the middle of this internal struggle between being grounded in the world I sort or knew, or, ascending with the books into the unknown… I woke up. It was all a dream.


The wall clock isn’t hanging on the wall. The wall clock rests on top of the audio speaker placed stage-right adjacent to the television. A series of negative taunts becomes my reality. I breathe and don’t expect anything. The tick and tock of the clock beats with an entrancing pulse. Rhythm adjusts the vibrations. The room itself hums in silent congruent resonance. The reverb of my breath shakes away a certain feeling and allows proper tuning. What was it that was getting at me? A sound! I turn around and see nothing but my own laughter. How easily startled! So becoming of faith and foolishness! The wall clock stares at the ceiling. Oh, yes. The rhythm hasn’t stopped. The AA battery will only last so long, but alas, what worry have I tonight? Verily, a man who checks his wristwatch with impulsive rapidity would do well to avoid positions of high authority, lest he enter la vie un Sheol in a paranoid, self-induced slavery. Truly I tell you, the man who measures his days is wise, but obsession with temporal materializations is the methodology of fools. The clock cannot be seen but still ticks in perfect time. Sure, you have to reach around the back and set the time manually. And what good is it to set the time manually if the battery is depleted? Will you set the time? Will you keep checking the time? Hark, the clock may run slow or fast! Do you consider this problematic? A lad late to the date makes a mate quite mad. Will you be tolerated? Can you even tolerate yourself? Are you able to tolerate the tick? Do you have the ability to handle the tock? There is a piece of melted dark chocolate sitting right on the clock face. The chocolate is still edible, but the devil himself cowers at the increased difficulty of removing melted chocolate from its foil wrapper. Oh, yes. The rhythm continues. Such sensation! A sinless sensation! What could compare? Distraction here, and distraction there, there’s distractions everywhere! A chirp! A knock! A candle that burned yesterday! A fresh candle seen earlier today at the market! The inexpensive vegetables! Father time, my grandfather clock, a tick from heaven, from earth a tock. The soft mellow strum of an A-432 classical guitar. And has it really been so long since we loved? Since our embrace? Has it really been any time at all? Silent in the moment I sit, dipped in honey, patiently and earnestly waiting for your touch.


Big Band music blared from the garage, as Seravina entered from the kitchen. The large circular clock on the far wall read 2:12 am. The usually organized mechanic’s paradise had car parts, wrenches, grease, oil, nuts, bolts, and an assortment of bizarre gadgets jumbled on the floor, the shelves, and the ceiling. She stepped carefully around the obstacles and spills and moved over to the mechanical beast, Tood referred to as

‘the Chevy’ or ‘Dragon’.

The music changed to an upbeat jazz song with a female singer. The princess listened to a few bars before recognizing Completely , a new song, which Tood played for her two days ago. She knew he was in here, she could hear a tool whirring underneath the car. The Chevy was covered in a green tarp, except for the hood.

Floodlights illuminated the engine and beneath the disassembled vehicle. The music stopped suddenly. “Who’s there?” Tood called from underneath. “It’s me, Seravina. May we have a conversation?” “Sure. As long as you don’t mind talking, while I’m working here.”

“I would prefer seeing you face to face, but I know how busy you have become.” He torqued a wrench. “I am sorry about that.

I am not trying to avoid you.

I couldn’t sleep last night.

I was so fidgety, so I decided to rebuild the engine.” She leaned her back against the machine. “My slumber has also been disturbed with numerous nightmarish apparitions. I awoke and made some herbal tea, but that only heightened my anxiety and I could not return to bed.”

“I could use some help. There are some mechanic coveralls on the counter. Slip one on and ‘Seravina, Come on Down’!” “Just a moment.” She smiled at the comment. She had watched a game show on the telepicture device called ‘The Price is Right’, which Mrs. Hemingway and Tood loved.

She had enjoyed the frantic run of the peasants to the front of the stage in order to win trivial items in degrading carnival games.   She found the bibs, chose one, and quickly undressed. She removed her shirt and jeans along with her shoes.

She arranged her long hair into a ponytail braid as she stood in her underwear in the cold garage. Tood looked up and saw her beautiful physique. He quickly averted his eyes. “Princess. You did not have to remove any of your clothes. The suit would have covered you completely.”

“Thank you.

I will remember it for next time. “ She placed the blue bibs on and zipped it up. “I know nothing of these contraptions.”

She walked over to his side and sat on the floor. “How do I look?” Tood cleared his throat to keep his jaw from dropping. “Great.

Ready to work. Over there is a scooter.

Lay on it and come next to me.”

She found the mechanic’s scooter and lay on her stomach.

She pushed herself toward the machinist.

She glided across the garage. “This is quite enjoyable.” Tood looked up and grinned. “Cute.

Lay on your back and slide next to me.” He tapped the floor.

 She laughed, “Oh. I see.” She got rearranged and moved next to him.  “Hello.”

“Hi.” He raised his hands over his head and pulled on a wrench, “So what’s on your mind?” “Tood, I would like to speak to you about what happened the other night.” “My lady, so much has happened.

Please be specific.” Tood smirked and gave her side glance. Seravina did not notice the look. “Specifically, I am referring to the night we danced and kissed.” She looked at her hands.

“Oh.” Tood over exaggerated. “I remember.

Could you put your hand on mine.

When I count to three, pull with me.” “Certainly.” “One, two, three.” They pulled together and the final bolt easily moved. Tood turned the bolt until it fell into his grease covered hands.

A small square lead container dropped in his hands. “Thanks. I have been trying to get this all night.” He slid out from the car and she followed. “I do recall quite a strike in the face.”

He sat up, stood up, and held out his hand. She accepted his hand and he lifted her up.“I do apologize for that outburst, but I was referring to the event prior and…” He drew her close. “I remember every fantastic moment. Vina, I love you and want to spend the rest of my life with you.” “Truly you do? I

love you as well.” They embraced and kissed passionately. “Are we betrothed?” She began to cry. “Yes, my love. I won your hand and your heart. Why are you crying?” “I have remembered…remembered what I did and who I hurt.” “That’s wonderful, my peach.” “I am not your peach and it is not wonderful. It is horrendous!” “Before you confess, let me guess what you did lovey-dovey, please?” “Lovey-dovey, what?” Tood cleared his throat, “You came here to manipulate me into finding Divadus, so you could kill him.

You were going to feign some injuries to win my sympathies. Which you probably did have, since you used the gold necklace and jewel.

But instead of finding me, you met up with Captain Chico and most likely Popson and Chang.

How am I doing so far?” “Unfortunately, 100 percent. How did you know?” “I put the pieces together.

You described the events at Five Pennies in accurate detail. You recognized the fountain and Popson and Chang. You admitted to ruining a man’s life.

Chico’s life is shattered.” “Thanks to me.” She sobbed. Yes. Thanks to you.” “What? You are glad he is in jail and awaiting trial?” “Yes. He is a low life scum and thug who deserves all the punishment.

I believe in Divine retribution.

His corruption and manipulation in Between could have gone on for years, if you had not exposed the real Chico to everyone.

He is getting what he deserves.

Your motives may not have been pure, but your actions have removed wickedness from our fair land.

All’s well that ends well.” “But an innocent woman was murdered. I started the chain reaction which led to her demise!” “Innocent? She probably deserved it too. A casualty of war.” “Tood, we are not at war. This was a peaceful time.” “A casualty of peace then.”

Tood continued, “Come to think of it, the City Council deserves to die because of their wicked lies and trespasses.

Let’s go get them.

We can be the hand of Good and cleanse the town of all unrighteousness.” He grabbed a sword from the corner of the garage and marched toward the exit. “No Tood! Stop!!

They don’t deserve to die. I am the one who caused it all.

The wounds, the party, the destruction, the mob, and…” “The murder!” Tood stopped and turned toward her. “You’re right. You do deserve to die.

Here you go.”

Tood thrust the sword into her midsection and twisted. “Die evil doer!” Seravina released an ear-splitting scream of terror. She sprung upright in her bed with sweat pouring from her body.

She checked her stomach and wiped the perspiration from her forehead . She crashed her head back on her pillow in frustration and anxiety.

The third night in a row with the same haunting images. She knew she would not be able to return to slumber. She stared blankly at the ceiling.

In frustration, she kicked the covers off, stomped out of bed.

The small electric clock on the table read: 2:12 am. The princess removed her nightgown, put on pants of sweat and an elastic shirt, Emmy had called spandex.

She grabbed a pair of blue socks and silently exited her room and down the spiral staircase.

Tood had shown her the torture room and how to operate some of the devices including the treadmill. “Treadmill, odd name.” She had always enjoyed running, but not in the same place and not on a machine.

She stopped outside the room and heard a whirring sound.  Vina opened the door without a squeak.

The princess witnessed Tood, with his ears covered and eyes shut, using the elliptical machine.  The vigor and violence in which he beat the machine indicated to her, he also had a restless night.

She slipped past him and started the treadmill on the walk setting.

The machine groaned awake and yawned her feet to take one methodical step at a time.

Seravina increased the speed to a vigorous walk as she stretched and strode her long legs.

In a moment, she would start her run.

Tood heard the treadmill start and watched Seravina begin her walk.  He slowed his pace and removed the headphones. “Good morning.” “Good morning,” She replied, “I hope I have not interfered with your self-torture.” He grinned and slowed further, “I am almost done with this part.  I am off to do some flailing next.” The princess looked at him in surprise and then laughed, “I almost thought it was not a jest.” She started to jog. “Did I wake you with my exercise?” He stepped off the machine and walked toward her. Sweat had soaked into all his clothes.  He drank from a clear bottle.

“Not at all. I woke up and could not return to sleep.

So I decided to torture my body instead, as you suggested.

How long have you been here?” “About an hour.

I also couldn’t return to sleep. Tons on my mind.” “Thousands of pounds is too much even for you, my lord.

Please share your load.” She smiled at him. “It may help.” He shifted his weight from left to right. “Ok. Well, first, the junkers have been reporting strange things happening in the Swamp and River Drayne.” “What kind of things?” Seravina asked. “They say it has been too quiet near the Swamp. They fear something is watching them.

Some have claimed seeing purple giants in the marshlands and junks. The Swamp Monster has not been seen in weeks. She has kept life in balance there for decades.” “You told me the Swamp Queen is sentient and made an alliance with your people.” “Exactly.

I pay homage to her each month. If she is no longer there, then…” “What could be strong enough to displace her and take control of her kingdom?” “Bingo.

Whatever it is, it is immensely strong.

I need to investigate it with Woof.

The other problem is more confusing.” “What’s the new dilemma? “Some of the water from the River Drayne has been purposely diverted into the Wamp.” “For what purpose? Irrigation? Industry? Filtration?” “Your guess is as good as mine.” “Anything else on your industrious mind?”     “I have deciphered most of Emmy’s message.” “Excellent.  Do you know where she is?”

“Near New York City, a large metropolis with millions of people.

But she also gave clues about a beach location.” “Perhaps it is a false location to throw off her captor. Or the coordinates of something valuable.” He sipped the water. “Maybe.” “Anything else?”

He chuckled, “Bad dreams. Actually, the same one three nights in a row” He rubbed his neck. Seravina stopped running and nearly fell off the tread. She stumbled and scrambled to match the tread and the console. She slammed the automatic stop button. “Hey, are you alright? You nearly crashed.” “I am fine. I also had a nightmare, which awakened me abruptly, for three days.” The Junkman drank some more, opened up a miniature frigger and handed a clear bottle to Seravina. “Tell me what happened in your dream.” “No. Let me hear your night images first.” He took another drink and sat down on the Bowflex. He blushed. “You and I were sitting on a bench near a garden. I was.. You were…We were… getting to know each other.  Personally.  Passionately. Intimately.” “Lord Dorf,” Seravina blushed, “Were we… procreating?” “No, no, no.

We were kissing.

Just kissing, I think.” The princess gave a sly grin, “Continue, please.” “So, it was a wonderful time until car headlights shined on us.

It blinded us, but I could see the outline of the Chevy.

The engine roared and sped toward us.

We barely jumped out of the way.

Then I was all alone, hiding behind the Big Tree.

I watched as a couple got married, but then I saw the Chevy bearing down on them.

I screamed to warn them, but it was too late.

Dragon turned around and chased me down.

I ran as fast as I could, but it drew closer and closer.

It cornered me near the fountain in Tween.  As I gazed into the driver’s side, you were behind the wheel.

You maniacally laughed and then drove the vehicle into me. I woke up.” He sipped his water. “Fascinating.

Dreams are bizarre.

I understand now why you have been avoiding me.” “I am sorry for avoiding you.  It was silly, really, over a dream.” “I do not know how to ‘drive’ this burdensome beast.” Tood rubbed his wavy hair. “I know.

Please tell me your dream.” “I would like to hear more of our intimate time together.” She smirked.  “Vina, your dream.” “As you wish.

Maybe another time.” She flirted. “Well, you and I were in the garage together, but I had never been in there.  You were working on the mechanical creature.

The garage was littered with all sorts of spills, tools, and devices.

You asked me to help you.

I dressed in blue coveralls.

I helped you remove a small contraption. You said you had been trying to remove it for three days. Then we hugged and kissed. You then accused all of Between of evil deeds.

You were bent on their destruction.  When I protested, you drove a sword into my torso.”

 	“Princess, follow me, please.” Tood left the exercise room and went straight to the kitchen.

Seravina briskly followed and sipped her water. “Where are we going?”  He walked past the kitchen island and opened the door to the garage.

The automatic lights illuminated the room. “Did the dream garage look like this?” The elf dropped the water bottle and it spilled across the cold tile. “Yes, exactly.” He held out his hand.  She grabbed it and followed him to the far  side of the Chevy.  She noticed the blue bibs and then the scooter. He released her hand and went to the hood.

He returned with a lead container with a greasy rag inside.

“Is this what we removed together?” “It is.  How can this be?  It was only a dream.” “I think you have experienced a premonition.

I have been secretly working on this since Emmy…left.”  Tood explained. “I found this hidden.  Bolted between the front axle and engine block, two nights ago.

Until tonight, I couldn’t remove it.” “What is it?” Vina inquired. “Have a look.” Tood encouraged. She reached her hand toward the container then stopped.  She pinched her right leg until she winced. “I am awake, I think.  How to make sure?” Without warning, she slapped Tood across the face.

She felt the sting in her hand against Tood’s hard jaw. “Oww! What was that for?” She shook her fingers, “I apologize, just making sure you are real and not an apparition.” “Man, you pack a wallop!” He rubbed his jaw. “Apologies, my Lord.”

 She removed the greasy rag and placed it on the ground.  Her hands trembled as she unwrapped it.  An ethereal crimson glow emerged from the floor and illuminated her face and hands.  She gently placed her hands around the light. “Yes, your Majesty.  It is your inheritance.  It is your birthright. It is your kingdom.” The elf princess said in reverence, “The Bloodstone.”

She held it aloft and then placed it over her heart.

It glowed brighter and brighter, surrounding her in a warm white light.

The stone vanished.  Seravina’s skin glowed brilliant red and then returned to her normal tone.

She stood with a majestic glow.

Tood fell down on one knee and proclaimed, “It is the highest honor to be the first to speak with the new Empress of the Elven Kingdom.”


The mood was grim on the front lines. Arthur picked his way through the soldiers that sat about, watching the distant ships in orbit. They were only black specs for now, but they’d be here soon to rain hellfire from above. The quiet, forested valley lulled as if it could feel the coming terror. Every now and then someone would check their pulse rifle, aiming up at the clouds. Calibrated sights or not, he didn’t think they stood much of a chance. As he entered the heart of the camp, he saw the artillery being loaded. One of those cannons could take a chunk out of the moon. The whole valley was ringed with them, but it still wouldn’t be enough. The Invaders gunships had shields and missile defense systems that they couldn’t even comprehend. When Arthur reached the top of the hill, he found General James “Bullrush” Walton hitting a bag. Sweat dripped off him as he circled it, striking like a viper with his hands and elbows. He was old but strong, with thick arms and a wide back covered in scars. His ears were swollen and puffy from too many fights, and his nose was at a permanent slant. “We need to talk.” Bullrush ducked an imaginary punch and delivered an uppercut with a soft thud. “With all due respect, I think you’re making the wrong call here. It’s too dangerous to meet them in open combat. Fire on them from a distance, slow them down, and try to gain more information.” Bullrush paused and wiped the sweat off his brow. “Have you seen the footage from Mars?” His voice was deep and gravelly. “Yes. I’m sure everyone has by now.” In a few minutes of horrifying footage, the Martian outpost had been obliterated. The Invaders had arrived out of nowhere, and without any effort to communicate had destroyed everything. “Then you know what we have to do. Not one foot of Earth soil is going to be taken today.” “We’re going to end up just like the Martians. Please, I’m begging you. Save our strength for another day. These men and women are willing to die, but don’t make them die for nothing.” Finally Bullrush turned to face him. His eyes were bloodshot, and he looked as though he hadn’t slept. “Our orders are to stop the Invaders advance, and that is what we are doing to do. Have a goddamn spine. I don’t need my soldiers losing their nerve at the last minute.” He paced like a caged tiger. “I thought you had some honor, Arthur. They must not teach that anymore at the Academy.” Arthur clenched his fists. “It’s not about honor, it’s about what’s best for the people on Earth. If we die for nothing, who is going to protect them? We need to be smart!” Bullrush turned away and struck the bag again. “That will be all, soldier.” “Answer me!” Arthur yelled at his back. “Who is going to protect them?” He grabbed at Bullrush’s shoulder, and suddenly he was on his back in the dirt with blood in his mouth. Bullrush stood over him, panting. “You’re dismissed.” ~~~~~~~ Arthur was lying on the cot in his tent icing his jaw when the phone rang. “Hello?” “Hi, Dad.” Her voice shook a little, but he pretended not to notice. “Hey, Bug. How’s the vacation going?” “It’s ok. It took a long time to get out of the city, I was bored. But mom brought me a book to read.” “Oh, yeah? What’s it about?” She was so smart, way smarter than he’d been as a kid that age. She devoured books and loved to learn anything she could. “It has knights and dragons and an evil wizard. But the main character is a princess who had to keep who she was a secret so the evil wizard wouldn’t find her. It’s a little scary sometimes, everything that happens to her. But I know it’ll work out okay.” “Oh, yeah? How’s that?” “All the best stories have happy endings.” Arthur pushed the phone away as he let out a quiet sob. He felt the cool path of a tear down his cheek. “That’s right. They do.” He said, not trusting himself to say anything else. “Mom wants to talk to you. I love you, Dad.” He tried to memorize the sound of those words. “I love you too.” He said. There was some static on the line, and then Helen spoke. “Are you safe?” “For now. They’re coming, Helen. And I don’t think we’re going to be able to stop them.” “Come home to us. Please. For your daughter’s sake. I know we’ve had our issues, but you’re a good man, and a good parent.” The siren went off nearby, and Arthur leapt to his feet involuntarily. “I have to go. Stay safe, Helen. Once you’re at the cabin, stay there.” He hung up and rushed out of the tent. People were running everywhere, strapping on body armor and loading weapons. He saw a few still sitting, staring out at the horizon with blank eyes. Arthur shoved through the crowds and made his way to the hangar. Several of the squad already had their suits on. They were twenty feet tall, made of titanium, and outfitted with every weapon known to man. He nodded to them as they passed and stepped inside the dimly lit hangar. Several technicians had already set it up his suit, and the cockpit stood waiting. He climbed a set of stairs and lowered himself inside. The motion sensors wrapped around him, and for a moment everything was dark. His whole body was enveloped like a cocoon, and the head closed to cover him. Then the cameras clicked on, and the entire room blinked into view. He could see in front, but also smaller windows of the view behind and above. It was disorienting at first, but after as much training as he’d done it was second nature. “Gather around, everyone.” Bullrush called out through the speakers of their machines. While the other suits were a dull silver, his was crudely painted in the black head of a bull with flames pouring out of its nose and mouth. The squad fell quiet as they gathered around him. “In a few minutes, those Invaders gunships are going to arrive. They’re dangerous, we all know that. But so are we. They haven’t seen us in action yet, but when they do they are going to regret ever setting foot in this system.” He paused and looked at each one of them. “Remember your training. Remember what you’re fighting for. Humanity’s fate hangs in the balance. Now let’s show these alien scumbags what humans can do.” Overhead, the clouds parted. Three massive spaceships loomed over them, blocking out the entire sky. Arthur felt his blood run cold. It took all his willpower not to turn and run right then. But he knew if he did, he’d never forgive himself. Bullrush was wrong about this, but it was too late to change course. “Brace yourselves.” Bullrush said through the voice channel. “It’s about to get ugly.” All across the mountains, the artillery began to move. They swiveled to target the first ship, and then the peaceful valley exploded into chaos. Shells flew up at the fleet, but the shields stopped the explosions in midair. There was a lull for a moment as their artillery reloaded, and then the Invaders struck back. Concave structures that looked like satellite dishes were mounted on all three ships, and slowly they all rotated forward. “Take cover!” Someone yelled. Each dish fired an orange beam at the ground that punched into the earth, and for a moment nothing happened. Then Arthur felt the tremor under his feet. “Fly! Fly!” He yelled and engaged his thrusters. Where he’d been standing a moment before was torn to shreds, rocks and trees flying in every direction. As he climbed higher, he saw the impact ripple throughout the entire valley. The trenches the soldiers had been in just a moment ago were erased. It looked like an unruly child had kicked over an anthill. He could see people half buried, screaming for help. Some of the artillery was still standing, but most of it had been blasted apart. The bottom of the ships opened, and a massive metal spike dropped to the earth. A horde of purple skinned, six legged aliens poured out, skittering towards the devastated human lines. They were scaled, with massive fangs that hung out of their mouths in an overbite. Bullrush’s voice came in over the headset. “Everyone, to the ground now! Keep them off our people!” He twisted in midair and rocketed downwards, and Arthur followed. He flexed his wrist, and a minigun appeared out of his right hand. For his left, he chose a pulse hammer. It released a shockwave when it swung that would carve through their lines like butter. He accelerated towards the biggest crowd of creatures, and as the ground rushed up at him he swung the hammer. It detonated like a nuclear bomb, turning his enemies to ash as they flew backward. Instantly more took their place, rushing at him in a mindless wave. He leveled the minigun and swept it back and forth, fire shooting out of the barrels as bullets ripped through anything that came in front of him. Still, they kept coming. They seemed to have no regard for their own lives, pressing forward even as he mowed them down. He saw one leap at him in his backwards camera and turned too slowly. It opened its maw, and a cloud of acid flew out, taking out his vision. He turned the minigun and sprayed behind him, but several of them grabbed hold of it, melting it and ripping it from his arm. The swarmed up his arms and legs, trying to claw their way into the suit, and one of his knee joints gave out. He hit the ground and his pulse hammer slipped from his fingers. He screamed as the creatures crowded every camera, turning his vision to a blur of fangs, claws, and acid spit. Trying to fight his panic, he flipped his mic on. “Help! Someone, I’m getting overwhelmed!” Something scraped the suit just above his head, and he realized they were tunneling in. Arthur tried to put cover up with his arms, but the suit wouldn’t move. There was too much weighing him down. Something detonated outside, and suddenly his vision was clear. Arthur pulled himself up in time to see Bullrush finish off the last of the swarm with the pulse hammer. He offered him a hand. “On your feet.” Arthur stood shakily, his breath coming in quick gasps. “That was almost it.” “You’re still alive. Just try and keep it that way.” He grunted. “They just keep coming.” Overhead, the guns were recharging orange light glowed across the disks as they prepared to hit the ground with another seismic shock. “We need to take out those guns.” Bullrush said. “We won’t survive another shot from that.” “But how?” “Play it by ear.” He said. “We’re wearing billion-dollar super suits. It can’t be that hard.” That’s why they call you Bullrush, Arthur thought. Action first, always. They engaged thrusters and shot upward at a breakneck speed. Artillery shells went off around them as they passed through the shield, and then they were directly underneath the ships. Arthur was looking up at the guns when the presence entered his mind. An icy dagger of pain stabbed through the back of his skull, and he reeled back in the suit. Somehow, through the pain, he could feel the presence shifting through his mind. There was no doubt in his mind it was from the Invaders. How strange. The voice was so loud in his head could hardly think. It wasn’t any language he’d ever heard, but somehow Arthur understood it. Flesh creature inside a shell. It feels so frail on the inside. Soft and pliable. The pain increased, and Arthur screamed. Give in, flesh puppet. The pain was overwhelming. He could feel the presence trying to break its way into his consciousness and become one with it. Desperately, he tried to resist it. His memories streamed away, but he thought of Bug and clung to the thought. Everything else he could lose. Not that. He didn’t know how long it was, but eventually the presence receded. Arthur was still hovering in midair, and suddenly he could move again. His mind felt groggy and sore, but he was still alive. Bullrush turned to face him, and Arthur realized his eyes were a milky white. “Hey! Snap out of it!” His general lunged at him, swinging a fist in a hook. Arthur barely managed to veer backward to avoid it. “This isn’t you! Fight it!” He dodged backward again to avoid another punch, but this time it was a feint. Bullrush rocketed forward, closing the gap and slamming into Arthur. Together they tumbled through the air in free fall. Arthur fought to get away as they fell, but Bullrush had his arms locked around his chest. When they were almost at the ground, Bullrush twisted and accelerated Arthur straight down. Arthur boosted sideways, trying to get away, and they struck the ground in a skid. The impact flung them apart, and Arthur landed in a mangled pile. He tried to stand, but the suit didn’t move. He groaned and crawled out of the top. Flesh puppet finally left its shell. The voice was weaker down here, but it still made his hair stand on end. Arthur looked around and saw the top half of Bullrush’s suit impaled on a splintered tree like a kebab. The bottom half was nowhere to be seen. A group of the purple, six legged aliens skittered over the wreckage and fallen trees. Arthur drew his sidearm out of the ruined suit. He watched them come. Their milky white eyes fixed on him, and acid dripped from their slavering mouths. Arthur remembered what Bug had told him. “All the best stories have happy endings.” He said with a grim smile as the horde rushed towards him.