“There is not a guidebook for knowing how long is long enough to feel OK after someone passes on. There should be, it would make everything so much simpler and provide a clear and obvious goal to work toward. It is infuriating that such a set marker doesn’t exist. It’s not that I cannot stop mourning, it’s that I don’t know when I’m allowed to put it down and stop picking it up. I was at our bar last night; it was trivia night, and I was sitting in our booth, and everyone knew it. It took a little while, roughly 3 beers and two trivia rounds, I couldn’t tell you what that equals in time on a clock, but I don’t have to do I? You know exactly how long that is. “Anyway, it took that much time, but I was having fun you know, the category was sci-fi films and literature, I was kicking all of the ass, and I had a good buzz going. I laughed at a question, got it right in less than 3 seconds and secured the win for the round. So, of course I did a fist pump and whooped and called for another beer. The looks I got… these are our friends and I know they miss you, but it feels like I’m supposed to carry the collective grief of the room every time I’m there. All of them were laughing and cutting up just like always and as long as I had my long face on and gave an occasional sad smirk, they were fine. But as soon as I cut loose it was like I had violated your memory and the energy in the room changed from sympathy to anger. They were actually pissed off at me because I was having fun while you’re rotting in the ground, I don’t know what to do with that. “Oh well, screw it all anyway. It’s been a year today and your ghost just keeps lingering. I’m not mad about it, it’s nice having you here to talk to about you not being here hehe. I’m going to call it long enough, if you ever have to mourn me go ahead and knock a few months off the requisite period, give me 9 months. If a human can grow from conception to birth in that time frame, surely you can grieve adequately and send them back to the stuff they came from in the same window. It feels incredibly stupid to drive all the way out to the canal to meet you tonight, but you always were half stupid, so I packed a bottle of Jameson and the good ice, and I’m headed that way. I guess I’ll see you there, if you have some haunting lined up it better not be lame. I want some proper floating specters and flickering lights to make the trip worth my while.” … “Was it always this dark out here? I could have sworn there was a lamppost or two along here once upon a time, but my memory has been through too much for it to be a reliable witness. You know what’s really unfair is that I don’t even like Jameson, this is your whiskey. Why didn’t I bring some gin and tonic, why didn’t you recommend it? Selfish bastard. Well, I’m here now and here’s to you. What do they say in the movies? Pour one out for the homies. “You know what I don’t get, and what you were too preoccupied with breathing your last to tell me, is why 10pm. I guess I can understand the canal, we spent the worst parts of our youth out here being shitheads, I told you things I swore I’d never tell anyone sitting right here. And you told me about the diagnosis sitting right over there. It’s a fitting place to celebrate a year without you. But you didn’t die at 10pm, you shuffled off midmorning. And try as I might, I cannot for the life of me remember anything of significance that happened at 10pm specifically out here, or anywhere for that matter. It’s such an odd thing to be so insistent about and to tell you the truth I almost didn’t come tonight. I’d rather have driven out here in daylight and I’d much rather drive home with some illumination. In the end I decided to camp out in the truck and that’s the only reason you’ve got me out here in the middle of the night. Damn it, I really should have brought the gin, or at least something to mix this swill with. Not only does it taste like Irish piss, but it’s also going to give me a righteous hangover, I can already feel the headache. Your taste in alcohol is as bad as your taste in women. “Did you know that the old gal found herself a new man not two months after the funeral? I saw them at Chili’s snuggled up in a booth bold as you please. She pretended not to see me when I walked by, and I returned the favor. I guess that’s hypocritical of me, I was just bitching and moaning about people’s expectations of my grief. But listen, maybe there isn’t a set time but certainly it’s more than two months, right? Oh well, she never was as good for you as you thought she was anyway, she just had a fantastic ass and a wardrobe to accentuate it and you’re simple enough for that to work. “OK, listen up I have to tell you something and I know you’re not going to like it because I hate it. I told you earlier that I had made up my mind, that I have decided to call an end to my period of mourning. I have a confession to make, I didn’t come to that conclusion on my own. You know I’ve been talking to someone to help me sort through this mess. She’s a pretty sharp lady and if I wasn’t paying her good money to help me out, I’d even say she genuinely cares about me. Yeah, yeah, I’m a nasty minded cynic and she probably does care, at least a little bit anyway. Stop changing the subject, I have to get this out. I told her you and I have been talking, that we never stopped talking, that you just vacated your corporeal presence in favor of a mystical vapor. She didn’t laugh at the joke, said it wasn’t a joke and that was OK but that I needed to consider something. She said you were a coping mechanism and that was OK too, but that if I kept coping forever the limp would become permanent. She said I had to let you go Lee, that I have to say goodbye again and this time for good. I didn’t say anything sooner because I had no intention of listening to her. I told her where she could stuff it that day and I missed several meetings after that, dodged her calls, blocked her number, so on and so forth. “But that was a couple months ago and after a while I started to see the signs she was talking about. I don’t talk to anyone else anymore. Why would I? You’re always here, always listening and I always know what you’re going to say. If I’d known how much easier it was to be friends with a dead guy I would have killed you off a long time ago. Shit, see that’s the kind of stuff… I’ve gotten really dark and spooky lately Lee. At first no one said anything because it was just how things go when someone you love dies hard. But somewhere back there I crossed the invisible line and went too far, waited too long to get over it. I don’t know, maybe they’re all wrong, maybe she’s as dumb, or dumber, than I am, and this is exactly the right way to cope. But I suspect not, and I have decided that a year anniversary is as good a point as any to do something about it. “You and I are going to finish this bottle tonight, Lee, I’m probably going to puke before it’s over because I don’t drink like you do and this shit is nasty. But I’m going to get utterly shitfaced, then I’m going to say goodbye to you and I’m going to climb in the back of my truck here and pass out. And tomorrow morning when I wake up and hurl again and squint at the bastard morning light, I’ll be alone. This is goodbye old pal, it’s time for you to head on your way and for me to stumble down the road on my own. I’ll never have another glass of whiskey I can tell you that much, it will be reserved for you for all time in my heart. Thanks for everything, for all of it, you were the kind of friend you only get one of in a lifetime and I got mine early, but I wouldn’t trade it for the world. Cheers and goodbye!” The night crept along, the minutes crawling by and the whiskey did its job. Terrance toasted many more times, each toast involving more tears, less sarcasm and bravado. As the 10 th hour of the night approached Terrance was completely unaware, it had been roughly 8pm when he poured the first glass, and a guy can get a long way towards blackout in two hours. Most of the bottle was gone, half of it poured out into the canal but it was a large bottle and Terrance was, as he said, a lightweight. I want you to know that I had no idea that he planned to get liquored up out here, it isn’t the kind of thing he normally does, and I didn’t anticipate it. If I had I would have arrived early and saved him a lot of physical pain and myself a lot of repetition. But hindsight is 20/20 and I have only a limited capacity to view things from that vantage point. I had not, of course, heard any of the things he had been saying to me in the hours leading up to the appointed time of our rendezvous. I hadn’t heard any of the things he’d been saying to me in the year since my death, but he had spoken them and in his mind I had been there for all of them. I could not know how hard this would make the next couple of weeks. He kept referring to conversations we had in his mind, and I would stare at him clueless until he realized it. Then he'd be mad, I don’t think at me, necessarily, just mad and I can understand that. But that meant that he was mad a lot and I couldn’t blame him, but I also couldn’t help him. Anyway, at precisely 10pm CST on the banks of a little canal off an abandoned mining road in East Texas I stepped back through the veil of tears. I am not the first to do so, though it is exceedingly rare. And it is even rarer that someone gets to choose the time and place of their return. But the job I had been given was as rare as this opportunity and to do it I needed Terrance. There is no linear pull of time on the other side, I can’t describe what there actually is because the concept cannot fit inside of a human mind, I only know it is entirely foreign to everything we know. There are inflection points that link that place to this one and the stability of one is dependent on the other. A stream that is in constant flux, flowing both ways. I was back here to nudge that stream in a critical direction. But first I needed to get Terrance back on his feet and in his right mind and that looked like it was going to be my first Herculean task. “Terrance, why are you puking on that ant mound? Did they do something to deserve a vomit tsunami from the gods?” I feel like I had the right to expect more of a reaction from him. All I got was a vacant stare with bile drooling from his mouth, followed by another round of dry heaving. “I’m trying to decide if I’m flattered or insulted that you thought the best way to honor my memory was to drink till you puked. Is that all I was to you? The friend you got hammered with?” I walked over and took hold of his shoulders and when I touched him, I finally got the reaction I had been waiting for. “Jesus H. Christ! Who the hell are you and how did you get out here? God, Lee was a sick asshole, but this is low even for him! How long ago was he planning this? Did he pay you money? Cause if he did that’s messed up, he owed me three months’ worth of his rent when he died! Was he holding out on me so he could pay you to prank me a year after he died! God damn, what a sick fuck!” “Terrance, I need you to dig deep now. I don’t know why you thought a bottle of whiskey was going to do you any favors, but this is not a prank, you are not hallucinating, and I am actually here. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you more, but I honestly didn’t know any more at the time, I don’t even know how I knew what I did. Those last weeks were strange, and they are blurred together with what came after. I need your help, but first I need you to sleep this off and shower. You smell worse than you look and that’s saying a lot.” Terrance wobbled there uncertainly for several seconds, his mind kept grasping for sense and logic and kept missing, it was damn illusive. His therapist was going to have a field day with this one when he told her, if he told her. He bet it would end up with him on some powerful meds, he wondered if he’d like that. Lee took another step toward him, and he put out a warding hand, he had felt real physical hands on his shoulders when this guy grabbed him, that was impossible, and it was a first. He usually didn’t see him either, he was just a presence inside of his head that he talked to, how had he pushed that inner presence out into the world? How could he put him back in the jar he came out of? It was too much; he was too drunk. His warding hand came down to his knee and he doubled over in another dry heave spell. The last thing he saw was Lee rushing to catch him as he tipped forward and blacked out.


“ It’s this unknown number calling again ” – Sarah announced as she picked up her phone from the coffee table. “ Answer it ” – Hannah suggested, taking a sip of her marshmallow filled hot cocoa. “ They’ve called twice already. What if something happened to your parents and someone is trying to get a hold of you? ” – she continued. Sarah looked at her friend in disbelief. Hannah was such a good-natured person, but she didn’t always think things through before saying things out loud. “ Good job trying to freak me out ” – Sarah replied, placing the phone back on the table. “ You almost got me. Whoever it is, they should text. Too much spam these days. But you’re right; I will answer if they call again ” – she added, grabbing a handful of popcorn and sitting back in her recliner. As soon as she did that, her phone vibrated just once. “ It’s a message ” – she said, reaching out for her phone and looking at Hannah. “ I’m sure they’re alright ” – Hannah replied, not sure if she believed her own words. “ What the heck? ” – Sarah uttered. “ What is it? Is everything alright? ” – Hannah asked, hoping it was nothing concerning Sarah’s parents. “ Someone’s playing a prank on me. See for yourself ” – said Sarah and passed the phone to her best friend. “ Let’s play a game of hide and seek, Little Mouse ” – Hannah read the message out loud. “ Little Mouse? ” – she asked. “ Yea, I have no idea ” – Sarah replied. “ Press play on that movie, and let’s forget about this nonsense ” – she added, settling back into her recliner. The moment Hannah pressed play, the background lights in the room went off. “ What did you do? ” – Sarah asked, slightly annoyed with how far from ideal this evening was turning out to be. “ Nothing. I pressed play ” – Hannah replied. Letting out an audible sigh, Sarah rolled her eyes, got up, and walked towards the light switch. “ Hmm… maybe it’s the fuse ” – Sarah announced after having flicked the switch back and forth a couple of times. “ Come back, and let’s watch the movie. We’ll check the fuse box later. Do you even know where it is? ” – Hannah asked, reaching out for the popcorn. “ It might be in the basement. Or the garage. Or maybe outside. I don’t remember ” – Sarah replied with a shrug and made her way towards the kitchen. Now it was Hannah who sighed and rolled her eyes. “ There should be a bottle of wine or two in one of these cupboards ” – she shouted so that Hannah could hear her in the living room. The past couple of months have been particularly difficult for Hannah. When Sarah invited her to come to her family cabin in the mountains of Montezuma for New Year’s Eve, Hannah was more than glad to accept. It was supposed to be just the two of them watching one movie after another, eating ice cream straight from the box, and complaining about men. “ White or red? ” – Sarah asked from the kitchen. “ Red, please ” – Hannah replied, browsing through all the available movies, making a mental list of what they would watch next. “ Coming right u- ” – Sarah said before a loud crash could be heard. “ You OK? ” – Hannah asked, turning around on the sofa. Without replying, Sarah approached from the kitchen. “ There’s someone outside ” – she whispered, white as a sheet, as she got close to Hannah. “ It’s alright. We can have white wine instead. Here, I’ll even help you clean it up ” – Hannah announced, getting up from the sofa. “ I’m serious, Hannah. I saw a shadow of a man pass by the kitchen window ” – Sarah said, gripping Hannah’s elbow. Sarah’s phone vibrated once. A message. Both girls looked at each other, and for a moment, neither one of them dared to move. Gathering up all her courage, Hannah reached for the phone. “ What does it say? ” – she asked, handing the phone over to Sarah. Sarah grabbed the phone and opened the message. “ It says: “Get ready to run, Little Mouse” ” – Sarah replied quietly and tossed the phone onto the sofa. “ This is messed up ” – she added, pulling her sleeves over her trembling hands. “ You’re right. Someone’s playing a prank on you. Put your phone on silent, and let’s watch this movie. We have popcorn and hot cocoa for now. We’ll get wine and fix the fuse for the next movie ” – said Hannah, gently steering Sarah towards her recliner and then taking a seat on the sofa next to her. “ Now, I need to pee. Be right back ” – said Sarah, rushing off towards the bathroom. “ We’re never even going to finish this movie ” – Hannah thought to herself. She looked towards the window, and all she saw was darkness mixed with patches of white. It was snowing. All that almost calmed Hannah down. She did not want to let on, but the anonymous messages were starting to get to her. Thinking that maybe she could figure out where the messages were coming from, she picked up Sarah’s phone. “ 10 new messages .” It was a string of messages counting down from 10 down to one. The last one sent 30 seconds ago. “ Sarah? ” – Hannah called out. Slightly unsettled, Hannah got up from the sofa and slowly made her way towards the bathroom. “ Sarah, you alright in there? ” – she asked, knocking on the bathroom door. After doing that twice and receiving no reply, Hannah placed her hand on the doorknob and turned it clockwise. Sarah’s lifeless body lay in the tub with duct tape over her mouth. Splatters of blood all over the walls. Hannah gagged and ran towards the door. Her phone vibrated in her pocket. “ Let’s play a game of hide and seek, Little Mouse ” – said the message on her phone. Hannah placed her phone back in her pocket, got inside her car, and drove off as fast as she could. # Having arrived in Silverthorne, Hannah felt she could let herself breathe for just a moment before formulating the next few steps of her escape plan. She was far away from the cabin, and there were crowds of people around her. They were walking down the street towards the market square, where the New Year’s Eve celebration was taking place. Sarah wanted to go, but Hannah didn’t feel like dealing with drunken assholes hitting on her. She wanted peace and quiet. With her head against the steering wheel, she allowed for the reality to hit her. “ Get ready to run, Little Mouse ” – was what Clarke used to say to her when he felt like playing. He beat her enough times that she finally got a restraining order against him last month. He always had violent tendencies, but she loved him. She thought he could change. She definitely had no idea he could go as far as to kill someone. A shiver ran down Hannah’s spine. Yes, she did know. Deep down, she knew it all along, but she didn’t want to freak Sarah out. Plus, Clarke had no idea where they were. It must have been a prank. The more Hannah thought about it, the more convinced she had become that it was Clarke, looking for revenge. The roads were icy, and Hannah was worried that she’d run out of fuel soon enough, so she stepped outside of the car and joined the celebrating crowds heading towards the main square. As much as she didn’t like drunken crowds, this was where she felt the safest right now. He could not find her among this many people. Plus, even if he did, what was he going to do? He couldn’t kill her in front of thousands of witnesses. As she arrived at the square, the music stopped playing, and everyone directed their eyes up towards the giant ball, just like the one in Times Square. “ Soon, we will enter a new decade. How exciting is that? ” – asked one of the hosts on stage. “ Yes, Marilyn, it’s very exciting. I can’t wait to see what 2020 brings ” – said the other host. Hannah’s pocket vibrated. With trembling fingers, she pulled out her phone and looked at the screen. “ One new message .” Her heart began to beat faster. With sweaty fingers, she jabbed at the screen and swiped upwards. It was a message from him. “ Get ready to run, Little Mouse! ” “ Let’s count down the last few seconds of 2019 together ” – Marilyn said and held the microphone out to the audience. “ 10…9…8…7…6…5…4…3…2…1… ”


# Happy Saturday, serialists! \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ This week it’s all about the *Calm Before the Storm*. **Serial Saturday has a healthy mix of first timers and TT serial veterans, but we all have one thing in common:** Characterization can make or break us. When we go into a serial it can be easy to focus on the action-- tense scenes and endless heartbreak. *… No?* Let’s take this week to focus on characterization ( \^-- Sidenote, this song is amazing as a mood piece for 'Calm Before the Storm', take a listen.) Kiss those boyfriends/girlfriends/cats goodbye, because we're about to get on the bus to Plot Crazytown, Population: Serial Saturday serialists. If you’re brand new to /r/shortstories and thinking about participating in Serial Saturday, welcome! Feel free to consider this assignment basically a ***slice of life*** piece. Strengthen your setting and tell us why we should care about your characters. Ideally the groundwork you lay here is what will keep us caring about your character when they fail, and the strength and weaknesses you cover here is what will help your characters face challenges and live to see the dawn. That can come down to showing us a skill building scene, an illustration of your character’s beliefs, or taking a moment to strengthen a relationship. Basically, literally, friendship is magic, If you’re starting Serial Saturday with a TT continuation, consider this assignment your chance to inform us or endear us further to your characters before their , err, I mean, world changes forever. Do they know they’re about to be a protagonist in your universe, or are they ? Maybe your story isn’t about people. Maybe your story is about the crushing weight of forces beyond our control. In that case consider using this as a chance to lead us through a montage of your sleepy town and it’s unsuspecting residents. Perhaps your main characters use this moment to take stock of the good, the bad, and the ugly. Polish those guns. Write those will and testaments. Send the letters that never get opened. Things to think about for this assignment: Where does your character live, work, and play? Do they have nervous tics? When do those come out? Are your characters identifiable if you put them in a police lineup? What are their humanizing flaws? What does that look like? What do they do that endears us to them even when they *should* be unlikable? Show us what that is in this assignment. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ **Top picks from last week’s assignment,****:** **Fan favorite with the most votes:** /u/Ryter99, This week the **Smoking Hot Serial Sash:** /u/Xacktar, And honorable mentions: /u/Kammerice, /u/Lynx_elia, **Remember, top picks depend on your votes dm’d to me,** u/aliteraldumpsterfire, so make sure you send in your votes at the end of campfire! \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ **The Rules:** * Submit a story that is between **500 - 750** words in your own original universe. * Submissions are limited to ***one*** serial submission from each author per week. * E**ach author should comment on at least 2 other stories** during the course of the week. * That comment must include ***at least one*** **detail** about what the author has done well. * Authors who successfully finish a serial lasting longer than 8 installments will be featured with a modpost recognizing their completion and a flair banner on the sub. * Authors are eligible for this highlight post only if they have followed the 2 feedback comments per thread rule. *Yes, we will check*. * While content rules are more lax here at /r/ShortStories, we’re going to roll with the loose guidelines of "vaguely family friendly" being the rule of thumb for now. If you’re ever unsure if your story would cross the line, feel free to modmail!  **\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*** **You have until \*next\* Saturday, 8/29, to submit and comment on everyone else's stories here. Make sure to check back on this thread periodically to lay some sweet, sweet crit down on those who don't have any yet!** \*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\* # New to /r/ShortStories and Serial Saturday, but want to join in the fun? We appreciate all contributions made to this thread, and are happy to offer the freedom of choice for our current and new users alike. All submissions are of course welcomed. We hope you enjoy your time in the community. * Leave a story from your original self-established universe, between **500 - 750** words here in the comments. * Leave at least 2 comments on other people’s stories mentioning at least one detail on each that you liked. * Authors that complete a serial with 8 or more installments get a fancy banner and modpost to highlight their stories. **Join us for Serial Saturday’s Campfire!** * Saturdays we will be hosting a Serials Campfire on the main voice lounge. Join us to read your story aloud, hear other stories, and share your own thoughts on serial writing! We start on Saturdays at 9AM CST. **Don’t worry about being late, just join!** * There’s a *Super Serial* role on the Discord server, so make sure you grab that so you’re notified of all Serial Saturday related news! **Reminders:** * Authors that complete a serial with 8 or more installments get a fancy banner and modpost to highlight their stories. * Make sure your post on this thread also includes links to your previous installments if you have a currently in-progress serial. Those links must be direct links to the previous installment on the preceding Serial Saturday post.


Andries cried in pain as he fell to his knees, coughing and flinging blood from his mouth onto the cold stone floor. Hot tears welled in his eyes as blood oozed from the scratches, cuts, and gashes. Many would have considered the magic that strengthened his body to be a blessing, it was the only reason he was alive after all. But to Andries, it simply was an excuse for more pain, a reason the world gave him that he simply couldn’t die and have it over with. He should have died when the thing that lay dead before him slammed its tentacle-like appendages into him, sending him crashing into the stone dungeon wall, he should have when he had been poisoned, he shouldn’t have lived when he was flung through buildings, he shouldn’t have survived the first time he had a sword rammed through his gut, much less the third, fourth, or fifth time. But there, there far below the ground the sun touched, far from the arms of those who loved him, there Andries breathed wearing wounds only befitting of a corpse. He tried to get back on his weary legs but slipped in the poodle of his blood that surrounded him, his face hitting the floor wet with his gore. For a moment he just laid there, but slowly he pulled his arms back towards his face. He pressed his fingers, each having been snapped at one point or another, against the stone. Carefully as to avoid slipping on the blood, he pushed himself up to his knees. Finally, as he got to his feet, he stifled a yelp as the powdered bone and meat held together by magic that he called a leg was forced to hold up his weight. He limped towards the thing he had slain, trying to put more weight on his less broken leg, and leaving a trail of crimson behind him. Its fleshy body was bulbous with barbed tentacles protruding from it. Two sickeningly person like legs stuck out at one end of it, and a head with two many teeth on the other. A sword was embedded in its stomach, the hilt simple white, and the blade silver. His crocked, swollen fingers slowly wrapped around the hilt. When he had first held this weapon, he had felt honored. It had been the first time he had ever been chosen for anything. That memory of honor and pride did go some ways in strengthening his spirit, but not far. He went to lift his “good” leg but found the pain that flared through what remained of his other leg unbearable, so he stepped back on the floor. Instead, he slowly, and gently placed his bad leg on the monster’s stomach and gripped the hilt of the sword. His fingers cried out in rebellion, and as he pressed his foot against the dead things gut his legs joined them. It was still more bearable than forcing all his weight on it, however. Gradually the blade began to slide free, the deep purple ichor that covered it gushing out of the monster's wound. There was a splash of monster blood as the tip of the blade was pulled free, and Andries stumbled backward, pain filling his body with each step. The tears began to run down his face, but he began to walk forward, towards the door that led deeper into the dungeon.


\# Afterlife \## Story 1, Part 1 \_Undisclosed Location\_ "Good afternoon. Firstly, I'm very tired. Kind of hungry and I've been in...whatever this place is for 6 months." Kendra said. "Six months?!" a thin, middle-aged man yelled as he stood up. A red light clicked to life on the wall behind his chair. As the sound registered the man quickly closed his mouth and sat down. "Ok." Kendra continued as she looked at man. "You've only been here a day but, honestly. I know as little as you do. I know what's in the identical binder we all have in front of us, and I know if you lose your \_shit\_." She kept her eyes on the man. "Then the little bracelet around our wrists injects us all with \_something\_, we all pass out and when we wake up the person who lost said \_shit\_ is gone." The man at the end of the table raised his hand and began speaking without being formally acknowledged, "....fuck. Only a day? I've only been here a \_day\_? I woke up in that little room with this binder. Which I read. The door opened, I came in here to find all of you and the \_only\_ reason I'm not going out of my mind trying to find a way out of here is because what's in this binder is just crazy enough to be interesting. That, plus the meeting I had with a person I trust telling me that no matter what happens, don't freak out. That match everyone's experience?", he asked. Heads nodded around the table. Kendra found his gaze, "Nice you meet you..." "Tom." "Ok, Tom. Our job is to figure out a next step to a problem that honestly doesn't seem like it has a sane answer. So, should we get started?", she asked. Heads nodded around the table again. "Great.", Kendra said as she pressed a small button in front of her. "Recording has started. Beginning session. Acknowledging receipt of the latest information from the particle accelerator." she said, as she motioned to the page sitting on top of her binder. Identical to the pages also sitting on top of the other binders. The group has worked to decode the message and believe with some certainty that it can be translated as follows, 'Info. Restarting node 78475\_AA-3849\_cAE. Subject 193847758\_AA-33111\_KKE designation confirmed as Buddhist. Reseeded in next available host successfully. Encryption set successfully. Logging will suspend for this subject until next terminal event.'" Kendra pushed the button to stop recording and looked up at a room of tired faces. They were all sitting in a small room on a classified lunar colony which up until 10 months ago served as the observation habitat for the McMellon Super Collider. Now it was the highly classified and \_highly\_ isolated think tank for the 9 men and women seated around the table. "So. Does this message give \_anyone\_ here an idea on how we might be able to use the collider to actually see what the real world looks like instead of just reading log messages?" \### Part 2 \_ Earth. UAE. Classified Facility. \_ In a room similar to the one built on the moon two people sit facing each other. "How was your trip?", asked the heavy set man. "Not bad. I mean. Until you locked me in this room. Told me we're all in a simulation, and I can either help or be placed in a medically induced comma until I die of natural causes.", Kendra said dryly. "Yeah. It's not great. We're going to try something different with you. Instead of black bagging you, locking you in a room and letting you read a binder we're going to simply let you ask questions.", the man said. Kendra looked at him for a long moment and then said, "This is fucked." "Not a question, but I agree. Well, we're both fucked and not fucked. Nothing really changes for the world with this discovery. Though we are concerned that if the people running the show find out we know then it's lights out for us.", the man said. Kendra eyed him for a second, "So before I launch into a endless sea of questions I'd like to assume you're telling the truth. What are you trying to accomplish?" The man took a breath and said, "I don't know. No one knows. We just want to understand. Then act. Maybe. Maybe do nothing. That's the point. We literally don't know what we can do. Frankly, it's all so incredibly head trippy that every day is a small exercise in not losing my mind. I'll tell you this Ms. Romin, asking questions and trying to understand is really the \_only\_ way to keep a gun out of your mouth. Trust me on that and remember that you are being recruited because we're down a person who decided the gun made \_more\_ sense.", he said. "Ok.", Kendra said while trying very hard to read his features. Then she started asking questions: **kendra** \- When did you realize we were in a simulation? **man** \- 10 months, give or take. man - Large particle accelerator doing classified experiments on the moon found data in the energy released from a routine particle collision. Structured data. Completely alien, yet familiar. While we couldn't understand \_what\_ it was saying at first, we could understand \_what\_ it was. **kendra** \- <flips through notes> - Right, says here a lab tech thought it was a prank. That someone put a stack trace with nonsense syntax in the system to be funny. First, what's a stack trace? **man** \- Bear with me. I started off as a systems engineer, but I was never good at explaining this stuff to people. When a program has an error, the underlying system may return a message describing the error with a bit of information about what caused it. kendra - So the collider malfunctioned? **man** \- No. Fuck. I wish. No. The collider is working flawlessly. **kendra** \- What then. Some part supplied by the lowest bidder in the computers had a glitch? **man** \- The universe. **kendra** \- I'm sorry? **man** \- The \_universe\_, under a very specific set of conditions will throw an error message. In something similar to the languages we evolved to use here on "Earth". Apparently. **kendra** \- <kendra went rigid. Her mind tried very hard to get back on stable ground.> That's insane. **man** \- Look. I can see why they picked you. You're handling this very well. Insane or not it's true. The universe is an engineered system, we're inside it and we have no idea what is \_outside\_ of it. kendra - I'm handling this well because I'm sure that no matter how deep this rabbit hole is there is a rational explanation at the other end. **man** \- <shrugs> - I honestly don't have a stable opinion about that. Though that does feel aggressively optimistic. kendra - Ok. Can you give me an elevator pitch or something that kind of wraps up what you do know? **man** \- Sure. Our reality is a simulation. Part of a colonist selection process for habitable worlds. We assume at least one for each major religion on Earth. Maybe one for every religion regardless of size. We know for example that early Earth history was designed to be hard in part because a planet discovered early on required pretty tough bastards. That planet has been abandoned. Total loss. **kendra** \- <opens mouth to speak> - \[man motions for her to wait\] **man** \- The idea goes something like this. Five main corporations...or at least that's what we're calling them. Gods is what they are but that feels a bit specific considering how little information we have. These corporations own the only 5 habitable planets found so far that classify as ideal. They each have a set of guidelines for colonization to try and ensure an ideal society is created. One that won't recreate the sins of their past. Candidates apply to one of the five corporations. These are your major religions when in simulation. It's also a contract. You are free to switch religions, but you are then bound to that new contract and the old one is voided. Christianity for example has a planet that is described as a paradise. An 'Eden' I guess. Code named H3-VN. They are also among the richer corporations. The planet is a farther distance away than the others and even at near light travel it takes a while. They are looking for morally strict colonists. People who won't steal, murder, or bang their neighbors' husband no matter how much temptation they face. People who under any form of stress will always consider the greater good first. Then a bunch of other stuff - like breeding on a new world is important so things like abortion and gay marriage are kind of taboo. The flip side of all this is these corporations also need a lot of labor to get these colony ships built and on their way. Even more for all the work to do planet side. If you sign up with Christianity and \_fail\_ the test then your contract stipulates that the rest of your working life will be spent building ships, mining ore, and watching as people better than you leave for paradise. To ensure you don't do anything spiteful the contract also stipulates that a minor lobotomy will be performed so you don't mind so much. Want to hear something funny? The labor habitat that processes out the failures is in orbit around Mercury and code named H3-LL. Each corporation is like this. Islam has a planet where local radiation has caused 75% of births to be female. There are quite literally scores of virgins waiting to be impregnated by men. Fail and it's a pretty similar setup to the Christians, only their work camps are mining the rings of Saturn. We also just received confirmation that the Buddhists let you keep trying until you get it right. Decent argument for becoming a Buddhist if you ask me. Though the planet they have is pretty sparce. Not a lot to do. So their whole thing is finding the happiness within. kendra - I'm sorry. How are we even able to have this conversation? If we're in a simulation and everything is being recorded then why haven't we been killed, or patched, or whatever. **man** \- turns out these folks really enjoy their privacy rights and contracts. When you get out of this thing you have to go on living your life. Your records are sealed to prevent what amounts to a lifetime diary of potentially bat shit crazy behavior from following you around. Another neat bit. Christians review \_all\_ of your logs when you die. Every thought. Every action. Hindus look at the net good accomplished and kind of redact the details. **man** \- <continues> The other interesting thing is there is a very good chance they do know we know. Or will know eventually. The simulation uses time dilation and a lifetime in here is something like 10 minutes there. This works in our favor since it means we have amassed this information in the time it might take a tech who is monitoring the system to sip her coffee. If that long. On top of that we assume the system generates a lot of data. We are going to great lengths to generate as little noise as possible as we investigate. We have a sort of foothold that lets us query a system connected to the simulation. Best guess is what we've learned comes from archives left over from the system design. Seems abandoned or used so rarely that when we poke around there no one seems to notice. This has been the most reliable, though the same particle collision never seems to produce the same error twice. Run it once and you get a stack trace. Run it again and everything looks like a normal boring experiment. System might be self-correcting. **man** \- So that's the elevator pitch. Next question. **kendra** \- So billions of people are in a simulation all at once? **man** \- No. We don't think so. We think there are only a very small number of people in the simulation and the rest are AI. So that's a wrinkle. Don't really want to kill yourself to get out in the off chance you're just a bit of code. **kendra** \- Which do you think you are? **man** \- 'We' are likely AI. By the odds anyway. **kendra** \- Can we interact with their world? **man** \- with a smile - I knew you belonged here. That is very much the question we are trying to answer, and quickly.


Brightly clothed bodies swirl through Leila’s vision, all loud music and swinging hips. With her hands in the air, she moves to the beat, dancing through the crowd. Her face is pink from the stuffy room and too many free drinks. She loves the free feeling that comes with a night out. It’s all syrupy thoughts and sultry eye contact. A blue spotlight swings overhead, flashing over her eyes. When they focus a young man is standing before her, watching intently. Leila smiles and sways with him. She can’t see his face well in the dim club lighting, but every once in a while that blue spotlight comes back and she can make out a wide nose and easy grin. Her smile back is laden with alcohol. He leans over her head, hot breath fanning across her neck, and Leila shivers despite the pressing heat of the crowd. His lips move against her skin. “In 90 seconds, this place will explode.” Leila blinks. Her mind malfunctions, not at all prepared to hear words she wasn’t expecting. It takes her too long to finally make sense of them, and when she does he’s already talking again. He’s pulled back an inch to look into her eyes, close enough still that she can hear him over the music. “See those stairs behind you? Go down them and out the door. It’ll take you into a back alley. From there follow the signs.” “What are you talking about?” He shakes his head sympathetically. “I can’t explain. Just do it.” Then he’s pulling away, retreating into the crowd. Leila scrambles to grab his arm but her reflexes are too impaired. She curses under her breath.  “Wait!” She calls out after him. “What is this? What’s going on?” The blue light streaks over her eyes and she squints against it. When her eyes adjust the man is gone. She looks around desperately, feeling woozy from her brain trying to work through a haze of liquor. The rest of the club is the same as it was before. Sweaty bodies bump into her and splash sticky drinks onto the already nasty floor. She’s a frozen anchor in the sea of dancers. Then there’s a blinding flash of light that illuminates the dance floor and a boom so loud it’s almost silent. Around her, people scream and swarm toward the exit. That blue spotlight dangles and falls from the ceiling. Leila stumbles, her ears are ringing, and she can barely remember the man’s advice. She shoves through the crowd and pushes toward the back door he’d pointed out. It strikes her as curious that no one else is using it. Her ears rumble with the collapsing of the club’s walls. Bits of debris bite into her skin. She runs down the short set of grimy stairs and shoulders the rusty door open. She stumbles out into the alley, lit by a single flickering streetlamp. The door swings shut behind her and the noise of destruction suddenly falls away. Leila breathes heavily, sends a glance over her shoulder, then examines the alley she’s been deposited into. She finds her first clue in the form of a water-stained poster of a local band tacked to a bulletin board. The logo is a bright yellow curled arrow pointing to the left. Leila runs down the length of the alley and is met with a crooked street sign that says “STAY LEFT.” She follows a jagged path of spray paint and peeling stickers to a door on the back of a closed café. Her hand hesitates on the handle, unsure if she should go in or not. She takes a deep breath, tightens her grip, and steps through the door only to find herself back in the club. The club that just exploded, except it’s not exploding anymore. Everything is exactly the same as it was before the man approached her. Leila looks around rapidly, but nothing strange happens and she heads home soon after. There’s nothing on the news the next day of any such event. Two weeks later Leila has written the whole experience down as a drunken hallucination. She’s at the neighborhood pool tanning on one of the lounge chairs. It smells like sunscreen and chlorine and there’s not a cloud in the sky. It’s the middle of summer and the kids out of school are splashing and screaming while she closes her eyes and pretends to ignore them. The heat kisses her skin and life is good. Someone plunks down in the lounge chair next to hers and she peeks an eye open, then chokes on her own spit and has to sit up quickly and cough violently before she can address him. It’s the man from the club, she’s somehow sure of it. In the daytime, she gets a good look at him. His skin is a shade darker than hers, and he has curly brown hair. He smiles with one side of his mouth and raises his eyebrows. “What are you doing here?” Leila whispers. She eyes the other pool-goers nervously. “Getting a tan, obviously.” He leans back in the chair, arms crossed beneath his head. “The club-“ Leila starts. “Was that… real?” “Real as anything.” Smooth muscles bulge in his arms. He sighs happily and lets his eyes drift shut. “But how?” He doesn’t answer, busy taking in the nice day. Leila watches him until his eyes flutter open finally and he says, “I think it’s going to storm.” It’s a ridiculous notion. The sunny sky is a deep blue and clear of any clouds. “You’re crazy.” “When the storm starts, get in your car and go to this location.” He places a torn piece of paper with an address scribbled on it on her thigh. “This is across town.” “Yep.” He slaps his thighs and sits up. “Well, I’m off.” Leila watches him get up and walk away. She has half a mind to follow him, but reasons it won’t do much anyway. She’s about to lay back in her chair and continue tanning when a breeze whips her face. A minute later dark clouds are billowing in, angry and roiling. The first boom of thunder is so loud a kid in the pool shrieks. Lightning streaks across the sky in a jagged branch. The rain doesn’t start as a trickle. One minute it’s not raining, the next it’s a downpour. Lounge chairs go flying into the pool, sinking to the bottom like strange fish. Tree branches snap and twist through the air. Around her people are jogging out of the pool. The metal gate screeches and wet flip-flops slap against the pavement. Leila stands transfixed, rain pouring onto her head and shoulders, until lightning strikes nearby and the thunder shakes her into movement. She climbs into her car, ignoring the wet mark she’s going to make on the leather. Fat rain droplets splatter the windshield. She takes a moment to put the address from the paper into her phone. The ink smeared a little in the rain, but she can still make it out. The drive across town takes her 45 minutes and to a large warehouse. It’s definitely in use- there are trucks and workers all over the place, but she finds the sign easily. A worker’s entrance on the side of the warehouse with a metal sign on it that says “DO ENTER.” The word NOT has been scratched out. Leila sighs and gets out of the car. It’s not raining anymore but her soaked hair drips water down her back. No one pays any attention to her as she walks up to the door, even though she’s still wearing her swimsuit and dripping onto the concrete. There are no puddles besides the ones she leaves on the concrete. She doesn’t waste any time doubting. Already, she’s coming to terms with this weird new reality. She pulls the heavy door open, steps through, and isn’t all that surprised to find she’s somewhere else entirely. It’s a bathroom. A small one, only two stalls. The floors are wet and it smells bad but she catches a whiff of chlorine. She knows before she walks out that it’s the pool bathroom. She stands and stares at the glistening pool and happy kids. The sun bakes her shoulders, and the sky is a bright, clear blue. Leila doesn’t have to wait long after that for another visit. The man knocks on her door three days later. She sort of wants to not answer and when she does, she thinks about slamming it in his face, but he flashes a charming smile and she lets him in despite herself. “Alright,” she says. “What this time?” “Eager, are you?” He looks around her house curiously. Leila takes a moment to glare at him. He pretends he doesn’t notice it. “Are you gonna tell me who the hell you are?” “Nope.” Leila groans. “Fine. Why are you here? You going to tell me there’s a bomb in my house?” “Not this time.” He stuffs his hands in his pockets and leans against the wall. Leila rolls her eyes. The need for information is eating away at her. “Then what’s going to happen? Go on, tell me.” He glances behind her. “I think it already has.” The tang of smoke hits her nostrils. Leila whips around just in time to see the flames climb to the top of her curtains and lick the ceiling. The fire alarms start screaming, the room heating up. She should try to stop it, she knows, but she’s more concerned with the man. He leans forward and shouts to be heard over the alarm. “Run down the block. Find house 3382.” He steps aside for her to leave, and she does, sending only a cursory look back at him before running down the sidewalk. The house is further than he alluded. Her lungs ache and her calves are tired, but she finds the house. There’s no signs or stickers, but there is a chalk drawing in the driveway. A child’s picture of a door with a swirl inside of it. Leila steps around it and walks up to the front door. She debates knocking but decides against it. Holding her breath she slowly opens it and steps through. She expects to be back in her home or somewhere else entirely, but she’s not. She’s in the house she entered, which is supposed to be the normal thing, but in this case it’s not. Just when she’s getting used to the pattern it skitters away from her. Footsteps ring on the hardwood and before Leila can worry about explaining herself the young man steps into the front room with her. “Good, you made it.” Leila narrows her eyes. “How- What is this?” He steps slowly closer. His shoulders straighten and he puts on his best customer service voice. “Thank you, Leila Walker, for your patience and cooperation. You have successfully completed your Anomaly Placement Identification. We’ve found where you belong and are now prepared to return you to the correct universe.” “What?” Leila fights not to let her jaw drop. “When you’re ready, step through this door.” He gestures to a closet door to the left of her. “Anomaly huh?” He gives her a small smirk. “It was nice meeting you, Leila. Maybe there’s a universe out there where we both belong.” She stares at him, wanting more explanation but not getting any. Multiple universes. Crazy. She looks him up and down. “Can I at least get your name?” This little bit of information is something she can have. His posture relaxes and he flips something that looks like a coin to her. “Mason.” Leila nods and turns the token in her hand. There’s a logo pressed into one side and a series of numbers on the other. “To remember me by,” he says. “Do you say that to all the girls?” He chuckles and shrugs. “Nah. Just you.” “This is goodbye, then?” “Yep,” he says. He puts his hands in his pockets and shrugs one shoulder. “Have a good one, Leila.” Her hand is sweaty on the round doorknob. She squeezes and turns, scrunching her eyes closed in anticipation, and takes a step through the frame. When she opens her eyes she’s back in the club. People are dancing drunkenly all around her and the music washes over her. She tilts her head back and joins them. It’s been a good night, she thinks. But for some reason, she keeps looking over her shoulder at a door at the back of the club. She feels like she’s waiting for something to happen. In her palm she finds a token but can’t remember where it came from.


A chill runs down my spine as I walk across the dew-covered lawn towards the place I hate most. Weaving through the gravestones, I reach my destination. I come here once a week; in all the years since Mother died, not a single Thursday has gone by in which I have not visited her grave. The thing is, I hate doing it. But now, I have more reason than ever to come here. It brings back painful memories; growing up during the Big War without a father was tough, but Mother and I always managed. We were happy, the two of us. The year Mother got sick was one of the worst of my life. I was only twelve. She spent most of her last days in the hospital; the times she was allowed to be at home, she spent in bed. While she was sick, I thought it must be impossible for me to feel more alone than I did. The day she died proved me wrong. I slowly kneel down in front of Mother’s tombstone. Clouds shift in the sky and the sun is brought out from its confines, rays of its warm light shining through the fog that covers the cemetery. I bow my head in a silent prayer, thinking about this place that brings me so much pain. Behind me, I hear the soft crunch of leaves. I don’t turn around, or even open my eyes; I know who it is, the one who interrupts my time with Mother. “You shouldn’t keep coming here,” She says softly. “It hurts you so much. Why do you keep returning?” I don’t answer immediately. I don’t want to face her. I know that that time will come, but I don’t want it to be now. “I have to come here,” I murmur, barely able to get the words out. “I miss her so much. I feel like she’s here with me when I spend time here. Like she knows I’m visiting her.” Jane sighs. My lovely Jane; I can tell she’s frustrated. “Peter, come home with me. You can’t stay here. You’ll go mad with grief.” Jane’s voice is weak; she sounds close to tears. The emotion in her voice nearly breaks me. The love I feel for Jane is insurmountable; it far exceeds that which I had felt for my mother. To hear such pain in her voice kills me a little inside. But I don’t turn to face her. “Leave me alone, Jane.” I say tersely. I hate speaking harshly to her, but this is becoming unbearable. “You shouldn’t even be here. You can’t be here.” Complete silence suffocates the gravesite. I am certain that Jane is crying by now, even though I cannot hear it. “Peter,” She whispers, her voice racked with sobs. “Please come home. I miss you so much.” Tears start to leak out of my eyes, despite me shutting them as tightly as I could. I try to control my heart rate, but it’s becoming more and more sporadic with every breath. “Jane,” I whisper. “I’m not going home. That house is empty. There’s no longer anything for me to live for.” “No,” She gasps, now sobbing more loudly. “Why on Earth would you say that, Peter?” “Mother is gone.” I say, finally turning to face my wife. “And now, my love… you are too.” Staring in the direction of Jane’s voice, I see only a withered gravestone. My wrinkled hands shake as they come up to pull at my shock of white hair; I fall to my knees and weep.


MY INTUITION IS A LIAR! A true satirical story We have all heard the phrase, “go with your gut, or what does your gut tell you?” I believe this phrase to be accurate in the case of men and women, but in women, I think it’s more intuition, that women are more intuitive than men, I know I am more so than my husband but then again, maybe not. Besides having faith and relying on faith and prayer, I have always trusted my gut or intuition, which brings me to tell this story. For at least twenty years, I had wanted to go to Maine! I wasn’t sure why, but when I would talk about it, I summed it up as a reincarnation experience of having lived there in a previous life. I remember when I first started having the feeling of needing to go, but I never shared the story until I was asked. Back in 2002, after I had moved back to Arizona in 2000, I had a realtor friend. I don’t remember how we met, but she told me about a house for sale that I should go see. I don’t remember if I was looking to buy it, however it was around the same time I bought my townhouse. I took her suggestion and when I went to see the house the owner was there. I don’t remember anything in particular about the house, except that when I asked him why they were selling, he said, “My wife wants to move to Maine.” I remember thinking, what a drastic change from Arizona to Maine. I will never forget that! It was like him saying that burned into my soul and despite everything else going on in my life, from then on, I knew I had to go to Maine. Fast forward to 2020, now having lived in Texas since 2009, and married to Steven since 2011, we were finally going to soothe my wandering soul and take the trip to Maine together, but then, after the trip to the travel agency and paying the deposit, COVID caused the world to shut down. Everyone knows COVID was, and still is, real, but at that time, it wasn’t my intuition telling me, don’t go there? After a few months, we finally got our money back and again, my hope of taking the New England trip was put away in the back of my mind. So now it’s 2024 and we are thinking about planning our summer vacation. We knew we couldn’t go to Key West, FL., we had tried twice and had to cancel both times, same with Alaska, so maybe, now, this time we would be able to go to Maine. We waited until two weeks before our planned departure date to make our plane reservations and when the day came and we were on the plane from San Antonio, I said,” We’re finally going to Maine.” July 22 nd , 4:00 p.m., we were wheels on the ground in Portland, Maine, “I can’t believe we’re here,” I told Steven as we walked, with our luggage in tow, across the parking lot to the rental car office. It seemed as if half the world’s population had traveled there that day. All the rental car desks had a long line of people, the room was standing room only with people, their luggage, children, and babies with strollers, who are all these people and what are they all doing here? I sat on the only vacant spot on the bench and watched and waited as Steven stood in the long line waiting to get our car. When it was finally his turn, he motioned for me to join him at the desk, “They’re out of cars,” he told me. My mind was reeling with visions of us spending the night on the benches in the rental car office so whatever conversation occurred between Steven and the agent, I was unaware of, and fortunately, the next thing I knew we were walking out to the garage and putting our luggage and ourselves in the gray Nissan Sentra with Massachusetts license plates, still wet from the car wash, to be on our way to our hotel in Trenton. The drive from the airport in Portland, ME. to Trenton, ME. is about 163 miles. It is a freeway some of the way, but, otherwise, it is a 2-lane road through small towns and communities lined with pine trees on one side and water on the other. The drive seemed long, like it was taking forever. We stopped to eat around 6:00, where I ate my first Maine lobster dish, after which we drove some more and finally arrived at our hotel after dark around 9:00. It had been a very long day. We had left home at 5:00 that morning, but still, I couldn’t believe we were there! My intuition had not deceived me, yet. We had planned our trip accordingly to be close to Acadia National Park. Our first full day there, we toured the park and hiked down to the water, where we met a fisherman who said he had some luck catching some fish whose names I didn’t recognize. Returning to the parking lot, we encountered a sea gull who, unthreatened by us or anyone else, made a perch on the roof of a red car parked next to ours. We spent the remainder of the day touring around, enjoying the scenery of the water, boats, and the New England style homes built of 2 and 3 stories with anywhere from 2 to 4 chimneys. Although most of them looked lived in and well maintained they gave the sense of having been there for centuries, reminiscent of generations of families living and making a living there off the rich, greenery of the forest and abundance of the water. If this is a dream, please don’t wake me! Our third day was Wednesday, although my day started with me sneezing and blowing my nose, and we were excited for our lobster boat trip. We took our time on the 12-mile drive to Bar Harbor since our trip was not scheduled until later that day. After eating a Maine style brunch that included their locally grown fresh blueberries, we walked along the harbor, through the shops and finally taking a seat on a bench facing the water where we could see the boats coming, going and docked. The weather was warm, but not hot, not humid like in Texas, the sun barely shone through the haze over the water. Steven, on a whim, decided to ask if we could take an earlier boat trip rather than wait till our scheduled 4:30, luckily, we were able to get on the 11:30 trip. During the 2-hour trip, we saw 2 fully operational light houses, a lot of seals, sunbathing on the rocks and experienced the full extent of lobster fishing. It gave me a new appreciation of how expensive they are, it’s a hard job and a lot of work. Hiking in the park, going on a lobster boat, seeing the light houses, even though, once we were there, we realized, there were other things we wanted to do, I felt fulfilled, I should have known better than to think that, once we arrived back at our parked car, we found a parking ticket and then on the 76 mile, hour and a half drive from Bar Harbor to Camden, we had to stop at a convenience store to buy Kleenex, due to my continuous sneezing and blowing my nose, I had gone through all the napkins and Kleenex I had. Why wouldn’t my nose stop running, was this my intuition mocking me for being here? By the time we reached the hotel in Camden, I just wanted to go to bed. Tired, achy but hungry, we walked 2 blocks to the closest, tiny restaurant, seating capacity of 40, waited until someone left, to sit and eat. I don’t know if the food was good, I just wanted to sleep. Back at the hotel, I showered and was in bed by 8:00. I couldn’t sleep, I hurt all over, tossing and turning but sometime in the early morning hours, when I finally managed to doze off, I heard her, laughing, my intuition, that lying, sneaky, witch, “ Nah, nah, nah, nah, nah, nah, I tried to tell you not to come here, you have no business being here, you don’t live here, this is not your home.” Trying not to disturb Steven lying next to me, I thought, this is it, I’m going to die here, this is why my soul has led me here, it’s here it wants to rest. Well, I didn’t die, but the morning didn’t bring me any relief, I was exhausted, my whole body was fatigued, and I was still having to constantly blow my nose. Our original plan was to only stay one night in Camden and even though I only felt like staying in bed, we checked out of the hotel and got back on the road. Our reservations were to stay our last 2 days in Oxford, ME. to be closer to the airport when we left on Saturday. During the 105-mile drive, there were things we would’ve liked to have done but because I felt so ill, we drove straight to the hotel. After we checked in at 3:00 p.m., I went to bed, which is where I stayed until Friday morning when Steven took me to Urgent Care. COVID! “You have COVID.” The provider told me when he came back into the exam room with the swab results. I wasn’t surprised and, I knew I heard her mocking me , I thought to myself, you demon creature, are you happy now, you were right, I know we couldn’t come here before because of COVID, but why now, again, what is it about us, COVID and Maine? She wasn’t giving me any answers and I was too tired to care. With the provider’s suggestion, we decided instead of going home the next day, which was Saturday, we would go home on Sunday. Since I started getting sick on Wednesday, that would be 5 days. By Sunday I was feeling better and ready to get out of that hotel room but by then of course, Steven was feeling sick. “I’ll be o.k.,” he told me as we packed up to head to the airport, “I’m not coughing, I just have a headache, sore throat and feel tired, let’s go.” As much as I had wanted and waited to go to Maine, I wanted even more to get back home to Texas. Our return itinerary was the same, in reverse as when we went, Portland, ME to Charlotte, NC, Charlotte to San Antonio. We arrived at the airport with plenty of time, returned the car and were more than ready for our 4:00 p.m. departure, but then, delayed, delayed, delayed, delayed, until finally at 9:00 p.m., a long wait, a long time to question her evil motives, What the Hell is your problem? You punished me for coming here, you even made it abundantly clear that we need to go home but now, you’re stopping us! American airlines did their best to accommodate us, there was a full plane and when we finally arrived in Charlotte that night at 11:30 p.m., they arranged for hotel rooms and shuttles to them for everyone. It was 1:30 a.m. Monday when we arrived at the hotel in Charlotte, which was o.k. except, our luggage had gone ahead to San Antonio, and we had to be out of the room and back to the airport by 11:00 a.m. I felt like a homeless person, wearing the same clothes as the day before, with no luggage and only a wannabe toothbrush the hotel had provided at check-in. Finally, when we were boarding the plane to come home, I said to that wicked witch of my intuition, we’re leaving now and going home, and you can’t come with us! You have caused enough trouble now go away and bother someone else!

So…. In conclusion, I must say, my birthday twin/ bff, suggested I write this story with a sense of humor, I tried to do that by giving my intuition a mind of its own and taking the blame, however, nothing about having COVID is funny, that shit is NOT for sissy’s! As far as the state of Maine, it’s beautiful, and the things that we did and saw were wonderful, I loved it and am not sorry we went, and I would go again to see and do all the things we missed. I got to go to someplace I had never been, meet some people I had never met, the waiters and waitresses in all the restaurants, the shop clerks and especially the captain and first mate of the lobster boat.  So, regardless of what my intuition says, I’m not listening to her, she’s not the boss of me!

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CW: mentions of pet death, physical violence/harm, blood It may have been a 10-inch tall porcelain statue, but it meant everything to Jack and his family. It was white, shaped like a dog, and decorated with tiny painted pink and purple flowers that circled its neck like a collar. Its eyes were painted black and seemed to be alive, watching over the family with benevolence. It had been given to the family after their dog, Buster, had died in his sleep one night. Ever since then, the statue had become their most prized possession. Jack was dreaming that he was running his fingers through Buster’s orange and white fur when he was awoken by his mother shaking him and saying, “It’s time to wake up. The Redfields are coming over.”  A surge of anger chased away Jack’s tiredness. The Redfields were an older couple who were the richest family in town. They were known for their greed and inability to care about anyone, even each other. People suspected that they only married each other for the money. Jack pushed aside his threadbare blanket and got out of bed. After putting on a pair of worn trousers and slipping a red shirt over his head, he left his room and walked to the kitchen, where Mr. and Mrs. Redfield were sitting at the table, looking at him with disdain.

“Can’t you hide that disgusting scar somehow?” was Mrs. Redfield’s first comment. Jack shifted his head to the side to hide his glare and let his messy black hair cover the crescent-shaped scar under his left eye. He had gotten it after he had accidentally cut himself trying to steal food from the Redfields’ enormous pantry, which was the size of one of the rooms in his house, and the couple never let him forget it.

Jack opened his mouth to answer when, after his parents and little sister had sat down at the table, Mr. Redfield said, “You know why we’re here, Mr. Blueridge.” “For the last time, we’re not giving you the statue!” yelled Jack’s father. “It’s not for sale!” “A pretty statue like that doesn’t deserve to sit in your filthy house collecting dust,” snapped Mrs. Redfield. The Blueridges’ eyes widened. “What did you say?” growled Jack’s mother, clenching her fist so hard that her knuckles turned white. “It’s just the truth,” Mr. Redfield said nonchalantly, shrugging his shoulders. Jack wanted to punch him right in his stupid, ruddy face. “Beside,” he continued, “you’ll get more money from the statue than you could ever make yourselves.” “But it’s really special to us,” said Jack’s sister, Annalise, who was only six years old. She sniffled. “Why are you being so mean?” Her big eyes filled with tears. Jack put a comforting hand on her shoulder before turning to the Redfields. “It’s not for sale,” he asserted, repeating the words his parents had told the older couple time and time again. “We’re not going to change our minds.” Mrs. Redfield sighed and shook her head, her graying brown hair bobbing. “It’s a shame you can’t see reason,” she told them, her voice almost a whine. “I feel so sorry for you. Living in all this”—she looked around the cluttered, dusty house—“must be so hard for you.” If faked emotion was money, the amount in her voice could provide for the Blueridges for life. Mr. Redfield stood up, and his wife followed suit. “Well, we should be going,” said the former. “You—you haven’t even eaten yet,” said Mr. Blueridge in confusion. “You said you were coming to eat, and—” “We changed our minds,” Mrs. Redfield snapped. Before the Blueridges could say anything, she and her husband stomped out of the house, letting the door slam shut behind them. Everyone breathed a collective sigh of relief. Jack was trembling with rage, his teeth gritted so hard they hurt. They would pay for this. That night, Jack climbed into bed. Ideas of revenge swirled in his mind as he stared up at the cobweb-filled ceiling. He was wide awake. Hours passed. The ticking of the old grandfather clock in the hallway penetrated the silence of the darkened house. Right as Jack’s eyelids had begun to feel heavy, he heard the floorboards creak with heavy footsteps. He shut his eyes, staying perfectly still even though his heart was pounding. None of his family’s footsteps sounded like that. The footsteps came toward his room, and he briefly felt someone watching him before the floorboards squeaked in the opposite direction. There was a sound like a heavy object being moved, and the noise of the footsteps dwindled. After the thudding sound of the door shutting, there was complete silence, save for the clock’s ticking. Just when Jack was falling asleep, sunlight shone through his window, temporarily blinding him. He sat up, groaning and rubbing his eyes. A cry pierced the air, followed by loud sobbing. Jack ran into the living room and found Annalise gazing at the mantelpiece in horror. “The statue! It’s gone!” She ran to Jack, wrapped her arms around him, and cried into his shirt, her tears staining the fabric. Mr. and Mrs. Blueridge joined them, their eyes wide and their cheeks wet. Anger surged through Jack’s veins. You’ll pay for this, Redfields. Even if it kills me.

One night, Jack stood outside the metal gate of the Redfields’ picturesque white mansion. The rain beat the ground, thunder boomed, and lightning flashed in the distance. Jack gripped the bars of the gate in one hand and the handle of his umbrella in the other. Every time lightning struck, accompanied by a loud crack, Jack slammed the umbrella handle against the lock of the gate. His heart was pounding with fear and his nerves were crackling with energy, causing his whole body to tremble. Finally, after almost an hour, the lock broke and the gate swung open. Jack sprinted across the vast front yard, dotted with small oak trees and neatly-trimmed bushes. A clothesline was hung from two trees on the right side of the house. A servant was gathering the laundry hanging from the glinting wire while trying to avoid the pouring rain.

Jack swung the umbrella at the servant’s head with such force that the man dropped the laundry and hit the trunk of one of the trees, falling unconscious. Clutching his umbrella and ducking low to the ground, Jack ran up to the house and peeked into a window.

He found himself looking at a dining room with a table in the center that stretched almost from one end of the room to the other and filled with silver plates and ornate wooden chairs. Perpendicular to the table was a gilded fireplace with flames crackling loudly inside and a white painted mantelpiece decorated with various pictures, figurines, and— A porcelain dog statue. Jack’s heart leaped. He attempted to open the window, but he soon discovered that it was locked from the inside. During lightning strikes, he summoned all his strength and thrust the point of the umbrella at the glass until the glass shattered. He dove inside the house, shards crunching under his feet. He raced to the mantelpiece, dropping the umbrella and reaching out his hand to grab the dog statue. In his mind’s eye, he saw Buster turning toward him, smiling and panting, his tongue lolling— Gunshots echoed in the silence. Bullets hit Jack’s chest and stomach. He collapsed, blood quickly staining his shirt and the floor around him. The pain was all he knew. Mr. Redfield came into his field of vision, holding a rifle. Mrs. Redfield was at his side. While she grabbed the statue and checked it for damage, Mr. Redfield glared at him. “Dirty thief,” he growled, spitting in Jack’s face. He smiled evilly. “Now do you know not to mess with other people’s belongings?” “It… belongs… to us!” Jack gasped, anger joining his pain. “Curse you… curse you!” “The curses of the dead have no meaning,” said Mr. Redfield, leveling the rifle at Jack’s heart and pulling the trigger. *** Not long after the blood had been scrubbed from the floorboards and the window had been repaired, the mantelpiece found itself in need of a good dusting. Duster in hand, Mrs. Redfield attacked the painted wood until there was not a mite of dust to be found. When she turned to clean the dog statue, its painted eyes moved to look at her. She screamed and dropped the duster. “I’m telling you, there’s something wrong with it!” she told her husband one night at dinner. Mr. Redfield shrugged. “You’re probably just being delusional. Besides, we can’t get rid of it. It’s a beautiful statue, and we worked so hard to get it.” “You’re right,” said his wife, nodding. There was no use in arguing with her husband. Both of them gazed proudly at the porcelain statue.

All of a sudden, Mr. Redfield gave a loud cry.

“What’s wrong?” demanded Mrs. Redfield.

Her husband pointed a shaking finger at the statue. “It moved! I swear, it moved by itself!” Mrs. Redfield followed his finger to the statue, which had moved three inches to the right seemingly on its own.

One rainy night, the Redfields had invited the Greendales, another well-off family, to dine with them. The Greendales complimented the statue with more vigor than the Redfields thought necessary and kept gazing at it over their wine cups (or water, for the kids), so between bites of caviar, the Redfields made sure to inform them, with venom dripping from every word, that the statue was not for sale.

Then, one of the Greendale children, a six-year-old boy, interrupted the conversation by saying to his mother, “Mommy, why is that statue floating?” His mother chuckled. “Don’t be silly. Statues can’t float—”

The rest of her words were swallowed by a shriek as she saw that the statue was levitating a few inches off the mantlepiece.

All of a sudden, the statue’s eyes flashed red, lightning crashed, and the power went out, bathing the room in darkness. Everyone screamed.

Eventually, the servants were able to get the backup generator running, and the house was once more filled with light.

Although the Greendales finished their meal, they never dined with the Redfields again.

“That stupid statue!” raved Mr. Redfield, pacing up and down the bedroom he shared with his wife. “Because of it, those Greendales won’t talk to us anymore! It’s cursed, I tell you!” “That’s what I’ve been trying to say this whole time!” cried Mrs. Redfield, wringing her hands. “Should we get rid of it?” Mr. Redfield turned on her. “What are you saying?” he demanded. “You want to throw away this thing, this beautiful thing? Are you insane!?” “Are you insane!? Have you forgotten when the statue levitated in front of”—she quickly thought—“ five people, not including us!? How about when it moved on its own or when it looked at me!? I don’t want to get rid of it any more than you do, but I’m starting to think that keeping it around wouldn’t be such a good idea—” There was a loud crash, followed by a scream. The Redfields followed the noise into the dining room, where a servant girl was pressed against the wall, chest heaving. The remains of a chair littered the floor next to her.

“I’m so sorry,” she panted. “I—I was just going to mop the floor when one of the chairs— it threw itself at me! And that dog statue— it was— its eyes—” Her voice dissolved into sobs.

Mrs. Redfield looked at her husband as if to say, See?

Mr. Redfield looked at the statue over his shoulder. It appeared to be perfectly normal. But the way its white paint and the little pink and purple flowers that encircled its neck reflected the light and the way its eyes seemed to sparkle made it look like something from heaven.

He and his wife would later learn that it would become something from hell.

The next few months were littered with smaller incidents that caused the Redfields no less anguish than a power outage or a tossed chair. Things would mysteriously disappear and turn up days later in strange places. Doors would open and close of their own accord, and sometimes one of the Redfields would hear footsteps behind them, only to find that no one was there.

The number of people who came to visit the house dwindled until the Redfields rarely received guests anymore. Everyone was saying that they wouldn’t eat with the Redfields even if you paid them.

Things got to a point where the Redfields ate in their rooms and told the servants not to go anywhere near the dining room.

The strange incidents continued, but the Redfields couldn’t bring themselves to throw away the statue. It had become one of their most prized possessions, whether they liked it or not.

One evening, the Redfields were forced to step foot in the dining room for the first time in weeks because the town was having its worst cold spell since 1987 and the dining room was the only room in the mansion with a fireplace.

The couple seated themselves as close to the crackling flames and as far away from the statue as they possibly could.

None of the servants were allowed to warm up with them. They were the most important people in this house, heck, in this entire town! Why should mere servants be permitted to share in the warmth of their fireplace? Right after the Redfields felt significantly warmed up, they moved to leave when the dog statue began to vibrate. Mrs. Redfield groaned. “Not again…!”

Then, despite the flames, the room was blanketed with a sudden chill. The Redfields began to tremble with fear.

Suddenly, words appeared on the wall to their right, written in fresh blood dripping down the white and mint-green wallpaper.

YOU’RE DEAD.

“Run!” gasped Mrs. Redfield, pulling her husband away from the fireplace just as the flames inside swelled, setting the mantle alight and quickly spreading throughout the area, surrounding the couple. Smoke filled the air, and the room became stiflingly hot.

“Why are you doing this?” demanded Mr. Redfield. “You didn’t seem to be cursed before! How have you become something straight out of those stupid movies!? ANSWER ME!!!” The flames engulfed the table and chairs and rapidly spread to the ceiling, eating up the wallpaper and concrete with supernatural speed and power.

Then, blood began to drip from the walls, slowly at first but then getting faster and faster until it seemed to rain down on them. They screamed.

“Are you possessed!?” Mr. Redfield shrieked at the statue. “Like that doll in that dumb franchise!?” “Who!?” cried Mrs. Redfield. “Who are you!?”

Then, pieces of the ceiling began to fall around them, lights shattering and debris hitting the ground and exploding into smaller chunks that pierced their clothes and their skin. The two of them bolted for the door, but an unseen force pulled them back to the fireplace, which was somehow mostly intact.

A small chunk of concrete hit the statue’s pointed face.

Mrs. Redfield shrieked loudly and pointed a shaking finger at the porcelain dog.

The debris had given it a small crescent-shaped scar below its left eye.

“IT WAS YOU!” the couple screamed, sobbing. Their legs gave out, and they fell to their knees. “CURSE YOU, CURSE YOU!!!” The blood trickling from the wall by the fireplace formed words. THE CURSES OF THE DEAD HAVE NO MEANING. Meanwhile, holes appeared on the statue’s chest and blood began to drip from them. Gore continue to sweat from what was left of the walls and ceiling. The fire had already consumed the kitchen and was now spreading to the rest of the house. Smoke was filling the Redfields’ lungs and the heat had gone beyond oppressive, but the couple was still staring dumbly at the porcelain dog. Finally, the Redfields stood and moved to flee, but a piece of the ceiling fell in their path. Turning, they bolted to the window, but more debris dropped in their way. Mr. Redfield looked back at the statue, which was perfectly intact. He recalled the number of times he and his wife had traveled to the Blueridges’ house to convince the family to sell them the statue. He remembered how the beautiful porcelain dog had caught his eye, how it had sparkled in the sunlight. He met his wife’s eyes, and he knew she was remembering the same thing. They turned and sprinted back to the fireplace, sweating profusely and breathing hard. They reached out their hands toward the statue. They were close, so close— Then, the rafters collapsed, crushing them. The last thing they saw was the dog statue gazing at them and smiling maliciously. *** It didn’t take long for the story of the Redfield hauntings and the fire that had killed everyone inside the mansion and burnt it to the ground to become public knowledge. The statue was the only thing that was recovered. It was intact except for a chink below its left eye. A poverty-stricken family called the Blueridges came to claim the statue, sobbing with joy. When asked if they felt malignance coming from it, they answered that they only felt benevolence. An ecstatic director latched onto the idea, and a new movie called The Dog Statue was released the following year. The profits were given to the Blueridges, and they became rich, living in a mansion that soon became the forever home of a little puppy named Sammy. At the Blueridges’ request, a photographer took a picture of them outside their new house with the statue. The family kept the picture on their mantlepiece.

One day, the Blueridges were looking at the photo. They noticed phantom footprints in the grass next to them, one set human and the other set canine.


Neighbors “There he goes again,” The old man spat out with derision. On the cusp of retirement, he couldn’t have been more than 60. His solid grey comb-over, fooling no one, appeared to be painted on the top of his head; and a salt-a-pepper goatee, which he thought fashionable- much to his wife’s dismay. “He needs to learn some respect,” The wife responded pointedly, “My mother would have beaten me over the head had I acted in such a manner.” “Parents are too soft on kids these days. My parents used to kick us out of the house and tell us not to come back until supper’s ready! If I even thought about disrespecting my elders my father’s belt would be off before I could blink! Look at us, we turned out fine,” he punctuated with a long drag on his cigarette, “People like him are ruining this country.” The wife grunted in solidarity, effectively returning them to the silence that drowned out their lives. Their marriage was a product of their time, something they referred to as “Traditional American Values,” whatever that meant. One of their many mantras designed to rationalize the abundance of change around them. Words, to them, did not simply abide by their dictionary definitions. To the old man and his wife, letters and syllables and phrases all combined to meet one basic threshold: reinforce their stagnant, preconceived ideology. The old man and his wife had been together for over forty years, and it showed. They could hardly stand to be in the same room together, conversations were sparse and generally conflicting; in fact the only time they seemed to get along was when reminiscing about the glory of their youth. High school sweethearts, they devoted their lives together at eighteen years old- kids. Together they made the rounds; they went to college, they bought a house and they had children. Now with an empty nest, it was time for them to progress to the next stage of their life. Though they had bought their house for a sizable $40,000 at the time, their property was now worth a staggering $300,000, and since the wife had decided that she'd had enough of the brutal northern winters, they were to move south in retirement upon the sale of their family home. The old man and his wife had big plans over the coming years. They would travel and visit the beautiful scenery the Earth has to offer, eat expensive food and wash it down with expensive drinks. They had both dreamed of this their entire lives, this is what they had worked for. Though neither of them wished to be there with each other, and more notably neither the old man, nor his wife, would be able to cope with society moving past them. \- - - - - A young man walked down the sidewalk with confidence. His brown hair drifting with the wind, and youthful blue eyes that pierced through the people with which he conversed. Music blaring through his wireless earbuds and cigarette lit, there was but one thought on his mind, “What an amazing time to be alive.” As he turns the corner off of the main road back to his house, a new subject becomes the prime topic of his thought, his neighbors house. A fine house, he had no objections to its architecture, but to the people inside. He had never met them, yet there burned a passionate distaste for them in his soul. His eyes were glued to the top of the flagpole on the property. “How can anyone believe in this bullshit?” He pondered as he raised a carefully selected middle finger towards the red flag, “Fucking assholes.


Hi my name is Imani and this is the story about how my life changed forever. To set the scene I am a 12 year old African American female who lives with both her mom and dad in Los Angeles California.

It was a day like any other day where my dad would pick me up from school, and ask me, “how was your day, anything interesting happened”? I responded as I normally do “nope nothing happened just boring school.” But something was different about this day we were driving home as usual when a cop started driving behind us. It was scary because dad and I have had conversations about the police and what to do when you're pulled over and how to speak. I had my seat belt on and so did dad. Nothing seemed wrong until he was pulled over.

There were 2 cops, one came to dad's side and one came to mine. They asked dad for his license and registration. He spoke calm and told the cop everything that he was doing as he did it. He gave them the stuff and they told him to get out of the car. He asked “if everything was okay.” They did

not answer him but instead said get out the car. I was getting more and more scared so I took out my phone and started recording. The cop yelled at me to put my phone away and stop recording and when I looked over he had a gun out. I screamed and threw my phone on the floor. He yelled at me to get out and I did. I was shaking I was so scared and my dad was trying to calm me down with his words he said “it's going to be okay baby girl you will be fine just listen to the cops.” But as he was trying to walk towards me the cop was yelling “DON’T MOVE, DON’T MOVE, and my dad said “ I just want” BOOM.

The next thing I know my dad is lying on the ground in a pool of blood and he's not talking anymore. I scream out in pain and start yelling “DAD, DAD, SAY SOMETHING.” He doesn't say anything and doesn't move. The cops both look scared at this point and one calls the ambulance. I want to kick and scream and call my mom but I can't move. I don't know what is wrong with me but my body freezes in place. I feel stiff as a board and stuck in place.

What seemed like 5 hours later the ambulance showed up and they take my dad with them. I go with them because I don't want to leave him. They call my mom at the hospital and take my dad away. When my mom shows up I just cry in her arms, she asks me so many questions but I cant get one word out. I feel helpless and so sad. When the doctor comes out to deliver what feels like the worst news ever his words catch me by surprise he says “Your husband is alive but in pretty bad condition. He is in a coma but has made it through surgery.” I look at my mom and the tears fade. I am so happy to hear dad is alive that I want to run in and give him the biggest hug ever. But when I go through that door what I see makes the sadness come right back. I see him in there with all these tubes inside his nose and mouth and the loud noises from the machines are something out of a space movie. I look at mom who is crying but only a little.

After some time sitting with dad and talking to him just laying there a cop shows up. I get so mad my head feels like there is smoke coming out of it. He says that he has a few questions and asks mom if it would be okay to ask them. She looks at me and says you don't have to answer them if you don't feel comfortable. I say “NO I want them to know what happened to my dad.” I talk to the cop and he seems mad at me for some reason. I go over the story with him and he says “Did you dad have a gun, was he part of a gang?” I look at him and say “No my dad is a good dad and he would never.” After a few days dad still doesn’t wake up, the doctors have been talking to mom non stop and now grandma and grandpa are here. Mom walks over to us in the waiting room chairs and comes to me. She says “Your dad loved you very much, and you were so brave to tell the police everything, but he's not getting any better and we have to let him go.” “NO”, I scream, “we can't give up on him mom he's going to get better I just know it.” Sadly, even after all of my pleas, and cries mom decided she had to let him go and just like that he was gone.” Months went by and I just felt sad. I went through all the motions to keep mom happy but I hated life, and most of all I hated the cops. We had to go to court a few times because of what happened but after everything they did to my dad and me, nothing happened. They said that they knew my dad had a gun and that he was going to shoot the cop. I was so mad I could have killed everyone in court. I was so angry I wanted to scream from the top of the mountain. Mom tried to keep a happy face for me but I knew she was so hurt. I felt helpless once again because what could I, a 12 year old girl do? What can any of us do?


I first heard of *The Deep* when I was eavesdropping on a hipster couple at a pub near uni. I was having a low-carb pint, alone, as always, when they began to chatter. “So there’s this place” said the man in a hushed voice. “apparently it’s, like, some sort of bar, not like any of the others around here, some secret handshake shit.” “Sounds cool.” said the woman, looking down, picking at her fingernails. “It’s got a hidden entrance and all that jazz.” “Sounds fun.” she responded, still picking at her fingernails, not reciprocating the man’s hushed tone. I’d ordered an Uber from uni, and by the time i’d been dropped off it was dark. Street poles lit the ground with a urine yellow. I realised that the Uber was the only car in sight, and it was quickly disappearing up the cobblestone road. There was a Telstra payphone nearby, the receiver was dangling awkwardly. I could smell weed and hear faint chatter. I had a feeling this was the right place. I knocked on a metal door three times, and was about to knock again before it swung backwards and a girl with a septum piercing appeared. “Have you tried the schnitty at The Royal?” snarled the punky woman in front of me. “I - uh.” She slammed the door and I heard a deadbolt lock. She was, I guessed, one of the staff at *The Deep*, and I had failed some sort of test. Defeated and a bit pissed off I took another look around the street I had found myself in. The lonely cobblestone roads and sandstone buildings of covid-era Sydney had long lost their charm on me. I brought up Google Maps on my phone and reluctantly searched for a nearby pub. I figured i’d remedy my disappointment with a low-carb pint, alone, as always, again. But Then I spotted a tall and admittedly suave-looking guy. He was sauntering down the street, toward me, or toward the door. And I was convinced that my luck had turned. His name was Alex, and he was a Juris Doctorate student at Sydney University. He smoked JPS Blues, like me. I took a drag of his cigarette and passed it back to him. “You know the password?” I asked. He looked at me, cocking his head, his waves of brown hair flopped to one side. “You need to say the steak is better at The Royal.” “Ah” I said “Yes, better than the schnitzel...” “I’ve tried them both and the schnitty is definitely better.” I said. He laughed, and I started to feel like I was winning him over. “I’ll see you inside, brother” said Alex abruptly, tossing his cigarette aside. He was one of those *brother* people, who say it to everyone they meet. I knew the trick, but I would be lying if I said I wasn’t a little disarmed. “Don’t tell Cassidy I told you the password.” shouted Alex with a smile as he walked towards the metal door, where the faint music was coming from. I assumed that Cassidy was the punky girl with the septum piercing. “It’s going to be a good night!” Alex shouted, this time fainter. I didn’t know it at the time, but he was right, it was going to be a good night - a night he would remember for the rest of his life. I waited a few minutes to avoid suspicion, then walked up to the metal door once again.