It was moving day. That was the way that her kids had put it, the day that she would leave behind her whole life, everything that she had worked for, the house that she had lived in, loved in, lost in, and go find herself in a sterile room. Of course, the house looked nothing like she remembered it now. It was all boxes, all her memories packed up into tidy little boxes. They were labeled, of course, but her old eyes had a hard time piecing together what those cramped fonts said from so far away. Part of it may have been that she just didn’t want to. She didn’t want to think about trying to fit an entire house worth of memories into a room. It would be her room, but in another sense, it wouldn’t. She was just borrowing it for the time being. Then, when she was gone, it would be someone else’s to borrow. Forever on and on, the cycle would continue of geriatric wanderers, lost to their families and their properties, shuffled into rooms that, despite the effort, never really lost that sameness.

A sighed pulled through her, taking more energy than it used to. Everything took more energy than it used to. Fondly, she remembered the days when she sat in this chair, this one with the now- broken arm, and told her grandkids never to grow old. She was old then, but she felt infinitely older now. What she wouldn’t give to be only that old again, the old that wasn’t devalued by society. The clock was ticking from one of the boxes, but she couldn’t hear it. She just knew that it was ticking. She knew that time was still going in the same way that she always had, although this was more a walk with an old friend than the grand stands against it that she had taken in the past. However, her friend was waiting, counting down the seconds until her children would come in their cars to take her and her things away from her old life. She wanted to remember every detail. If only she had the energy to take it all in a little bit more. It was in these slow, measured, careful scans of the room, achingly full of memory, that her eyes lit on the box. It was one that she hadn’t seen in years (a number that could better be described in decades, quite honestly), with a thick, simple top and solid hinges that kept it closed. It didn’t look like much from the outside, but she would know it anywhere. Her younger hands could have found those clasps slowly peeling from the wood in their sleep back in her prime. She pulled it into her lap from its hiding spot on a nearby shelf (tucked behind some old photo albums, nearly pushed out of sight), relishing the solid weight of it, remembering all of the times that she had completed this same action in the past. The clasps were more difficult now. Her joints reminded her of this, protesting the small, delicate movements with sharp jolts of pain that arced up the backs of her hands. The treasures inside would be worth that, however.

Pulling back the lid, she saw it, written all over the old, yellowed paper, long protected by that simple box. His handwriting. Long since gone, George had been her high school sweetheart, the man who’d stayed with her as she went to college (helped her fight with her family that she should even go), they’d begun a family, and then he got sick. Those days were bitter. Those were the ones in which she wasn’t sure that they would make it, any of them. There were just so many bills. So many things to do and not enough people to do them. There was not enough time in the day. George had sent her letters in high school when they were young, dumb, and had nothing to worry about and again when they were separated by distance while she was getting her education. When she couldn’t see up from down, that was when the letters started again. Then, when they were at their lowest. His hand was more mature, shakier because of the illness, but it was still his. It was her light through those dark times, the push to continue on. When he wasn’t there to send them anymore, they were the reminder that he was still close. It wasn’t even that they contained anything inspiring, just pure nonsense, letting her know that he was there, that he was present, that he cared. Then they began to hurt too badly and she put the box away.

She thought that they were gone forever. Yet here they were. Again, at her lowest, he always found his way back to her, his brash, childish penmanship melting into a more adult version, always reminding her of the good things in life, the reasons to keep fighting. He didn’t need to write to her anymore. He had already said everything that he needed to say. And it did feel like he was saying it all to her again, consoling her, telling her it would be all right. She knew, deep down, that soon she would be joining him. It had been too long already. That little room couldn’t hold her forever.

The metallic caw of the doorbell announced the arrival of her son, on his way up. He knew the door was unlocked; he just rang the bell to be polite. She no longer needed to worry about the house, the boxes, how everything would fit- she had George. He had found her again. “What have you got there?” her son asked gently. He seemed to feel the need to treat her like she was a child again, but this time, she minded less. She used to get mad, snap at him, but she could have sworn, just for a second, that the hand he had placed on her shoulder felt like George’s hand, older, more competent, reassuring.

“Something from the past,” she said. “Now, are we ready to go?”


I'm posting this here so my friends can read it. AUGUST 13th, 2013 Signing off from the training service, he rotated in his chair and stepped out of the secluded office. “Finally done”, he thought to himself begrudgingly. Mathew Hedbottom made his way back into the front of house and found the General Manager cleaning up after a long day of work. “I finished all of my online training and just clocked out, I’ll see you on Tuesday for my first delivery shift!” Hedbottom exclaimed. His GM’s eyes shifted back and forth, scanning the store for any patrons who had not finished their pizza yet. “Why don’t ya follow me to the basement, I have another shirt for you, it never hurts to have an extra you know!” Matt did not see anything weird about this, his Manager was right, it never hurts to have an extra shirt lying around. Descending into the basement, the air that had smelled dank just one day prior had a strong scent of oregano. This struck Hedbottom as odd, but since it is a Pizza Hut there was bound to be some extra lying about. As the pair finished their walk in the bottom of the restaurant, the sight they were beholden to was something out of a satanic ritual. 5 other employees were standing around a runic symbol on the ground, with a grotesque looking pizza in the center. Matt heard the door slam shut and lock behind him, and the GM walked and joined the others. “Come here, Mathew.” he beckoned. Quivering with fear and reluctance, he joined the circle. The GM forcibly grabbed Matt’s hand, and brandished a pizza slicer seemingly out of nowhere. “Pizza the Hut.” he muttered as he carved a PH into his arm. Feeling a surge of malevolent energy begin to surge through him, Mathew Hedbottom collapsed into a heap and lost consciousness. JANUARY 6th, 2021 2020 had been a bad year for all. Between the pandemic and economies imminent collapse, people were suffering emotionally and physically. But no one suffered, as much as Pizza Hut. Pizza Hut had been implicated in a sex trafficing ring that targeted Virgin’s, and were being forced to close the majority of their restaurants. Pizza Hut had also been implicated in some weird sort of cult, that all of the shareholders claimed to have no idea of. This strange cult is reported to have been practicing some sort of human sacrifice and other strange rituals. The police were outside and slowly surrounding the building. What started with one officer and a property owner trying to force the employees out of the building, turned into a bloodbath. One employee lay dead in the doorway, and the initial officer and proprietor of the building lay dead 10 yards from the entryway. Hedbottom descended into the basement behind his coworkers. He had no idea what was about to happen, but he knew the situation was grave. He joined his employees in a circle and stood before a nightmarish pizza, and a young girl. “Hand her the pizza slicer, Mathew.” his General Manager ordered. Matt did as he was told, and the girl took the slicer into her hands sobbing. All 7 employees held their hands out. “Run the blade across our hands, and draw our blood.” the GM said softly to the girl. Whimpering, she did as she was directed. The blood flowing out of their wounds was thick, and as she connected to the last hand it became pizza sauce. “Goodbye, everyone.” the GM said solemnly as his lifeforce was drained. A rift opened where all of them stood, and an amalgamation of human flesh, sauce, and dough formed and began growing. From outside all the Police could see was the building collapsing from the inside out. “What in the fuck is that.” An officer stated. An absolutely abhorrent sight was seen by these brave men and women, this ungodly creature that had been summoned by the sacrifice of these individuals was an oozing colossus of processed meat and dough. As it took its first step, the officer standing at the front dropped his gun and wept, as he was about to be consumed by Pizza, The Hut.


My mother. She was an interesting case. While she was was not perfect, she was important to me. I thank the stars for the time I had with this woman. Unfortunately not all of my memories are good ones. My mother came from a rather wealthy family in the area. When my father, fresh out of university, asked her father for her hand, there was no sign of deliberation or hesitation in his face, not a single thought as he uttered a single word, "yes". At least that is how my father told it. I was born a sick little boy. My mother, had a difficult childbirth which was not uncommon at the time. As my mother was unable to care for me, I was supplied with a nanny of sorts during this time who lived in the servant quarters in the back. She and my mother grew quite close forming a bond that a mother forms for her child. While all this time my father drifted farther away. The last straw was when my nanny removed the nails to the windows in my mother's room. My father had nailed them shut for fear she would toss me out of one. He had the nanny removed that very night. In the morning, the nanny was gone, as was my mother and I. They had taken me to the next county over where they took residence on a small share crop with a one room cabin. This is where I lived until my father rescued me at the age of 12. It is unknown to me whether they were lovers, but I called them both mother. My mothers kept me isolated on the farm most of the time so I had little interaction with other children. They had me convinced that our little plot of dust was the only thing in the world that mattered. There were other farmers whose children seemed to have it all. It is during this time I learned that by that running the backroads until dark, I could run until I couldn't remember. A man was making a house call to a business associate of one of his patrons in the next county over, the one where I lived. He heard from the townspeople of two women on the outskirts of town barely scraping by on a farm with a child. They couldn't say if the child was male or female, only that they were certain had never seen a doctor, let alone a dentist. So, being a man of charity, but not of god, he went to find this “family” to see if he could be of service. I ran and hid behind some bales of straw when I saw the man pull up in his auto. I was scared because I had seen so few cars as well as grown men in my life. My mother (the nanny) was the first to run from the house in tears. She was followed soon after by my mother who looked older than she should. The man was last to leave the house carrying my other set of clothes which he tossed in the bushes after examining them for only enough time to recognise them as the tattered rags they were. He explained to me that he was taking me shopping and to a restaurant, both of which intrigued and frightened me as much as the man leading me to his car. Once a safe distance away, he pulled out a photo from amongst a stack of old papers from the glovebox. It was of the man and my mother and what I assumed to be me as a newborn baby. I could barely tell that the young smiling woman in the photo was the same as the one I watched running from the house. The one who raised me had more wrinkled skin than not from the dirt and sun and toil and poverty. I don't remember how she looked with a smile as that was not how we lived, smiling seemed a luxury of the leisure class that we were not apart of. It didn't take long for me to get used to my new life with my father. After several months my father returned with my mother. She never looked like the woman from the photo again. We never really spoke about these times, only in hushed tones hoping not to remember too much.


I have to get something off my chest, and anonymously posting on a subreddit for fictional stories seems like the best way to talk about it without being found out. I *think* that I've taken enough precautions that the government won't find me, but I have no idea what the NSA is actually capable of these days. Truth be told, I'm not really sure if such safeguards are worth the trouble. They may be able to figure out who I am and who my colleagues were anyway, but I'm mostly off the grid at this point, so I won't make it easy to find me. Besides, for all I know, "the event" (as I've taken to calling it) could happen tomorrow. Or a million years from now. I'm not an astrophysicist or a climate scientist, so I have no way of knowing when it will happen. I only know that it will happen, and a general idea of the form it will take. I *am* (or at least, was) a particle accelerator engineer, who specialized in creating and harvesting antimatter. I was the one who developed the mechanism for creating large quantities of heavy antimatter nuclei and capturing them in magnetic containment chambers. That was about a year and a half ago. It was my proudest achievement at the time; perhaps even the thing history would remember me for. Now that I know history has an expiration date, I'm not as enthusiastic as I once was. I can't even publicise the schematics for the remaining time we have. Like everything else, it's been classified at the highest security clearances. Anyone short of POTUS would have trouble accessing them now. To make a long story short, I was able to create macroscopic quantities of anti-iron. My colleagues and I accumulated enough that we had a solid kilogram of the stuff, arranged in a smooth sphere, and let me tell you, taxpayer, it took a heck of a lot of money, time, and energy to do it. Under different circumstances, I might ask myself whether it was worth it in the end. Looking back, I should have known something was amiss when I read papers which suggested that anti-hydrogen atoms absorb multiple low energy photons and emit higher energy photons, the opposite behavior of ordinary matter. I attributed it to a statistical fluke or equipment malfunction. But this anti-iron couldn't be so easily dismissed. For one thing, it glowed, despite the fact that there was no apparent energy source powering it. We tested it with geiger counters, but we couldn't detect any radiation greater than ordinary background doses. We kept it in a vacuum sealed magnetic containment chamber. For those of you who aren't aware, when antimatter and matter collide, both are turned into pure energy by Einstein's famous formula: E= mc2. In practical terms, our sphere of anti-iron would cause an explosion a thousand times greater than a nuclear bomb if it were permitted to contact even the air in the room. Needless to say, handling it was a delicate business. Our first test, we decided, would be to heat the object up using a carefully calibrated symmetric laser array, to see how it behaved at high temperatures. Even before we came to that decision, the anti-iron began to behave strangely. Our instruments told us it was heating up, but its glow didn't noticeably change, even after its temperature rose past red hot. Ultimately, we decided to move forward with the heating experiment, if only because we didn't think our lasers could heat it much more than it already was. I'm embarrassed to admit that the truth didn't dawn on me until after the anti-iron ball was cooking in our oven. I had some time to let my mind wander, and suddenly, it clicked. I had been thinking about Feynman diagrams, which diagram subatomic particle interactions. In particular, they portray anti-matter as moving backward in time. mathematical artifacts, with no bearing in reality, most physicists assumed. They said the same thing about special relativity before Einstein came along. And the more I thought about our sample, the more things started to make sense. The glow we saw wasn't light generated by the anti-iron, but rather the ambient light from the room and the lights above that terminated on its surface. If you were to rewind the process, it would look as if it were absorbing that light, rather than emitting it. And the heating we observed before placing our object in the oven was actually the object cooling down, from it's own reversed perspective! For this object, entropy would *decrease* over time, as opposed to ordinary matter, for which entropy always increases! My thoughts were interrupted by the ding that indicated our oven was done cooking. As I expected, the anti-iron was precisely room temperature, but it was no longer a sphere, the shape an object takes *after* being melted down in a forceless environment... Shortly afterward the men in black came and shut down our experiment. One of my colleagues was so shaken up by the new shape of our anti-iron sample that she insisted that sinking it into the sun wasn't good enough. If we really wanted to be careful, we'd erase it from the universe by dropping it in a black hole. Last I saw her, she was pleading with the government officials to shoot the sample at the nearest one. I got an email from her a year ago, telling me that "operation Monocerotis is a go", which I can only assume means that our sample is now on its way to annihilation. I guess nobody ever told her that black holes are time-reversed white holes. Or that if you connect a white hole in our universe with a black hole in another, you get a wormhole, which allows things to enter our universe from another one. Somewhere out there, a one kilogram, anti-iron statue of a seven-tentacled, six-eyed *thing* is slowly drifting toward a black hole. Before it gets there, it will attach itself in some way or another to another much faster, much more massive anti-matter object also speeding along from the Earth to the black hole. A ship, perhaps, but more likely a missile. A missile with its nose pointing in the direction it came from. And by the time that happens, there will not be the slightest indication that the earth has ever had a collision with anti-matter that shook it to its core. I got an e-mail from a climate scientist friend of mine the other day. He asked where I've been and told me of his latest research. Apparently, none of the existing climate models are predicting the kind of regular exponential increase in temperature we've been seeing. He says if he didn't know any better, it's almost as if he's watching the earth cool in reverse... Thank you for taking the time to read my testimony, and may God have mercy on us all.


I will always think upon that summer home my parents were renovating as a joyful one. The old cobblestone path that guided my small feet home to the porch of that tall, four story wood cabin. My mother was truly a gifted painter. She touched the wood with a cedar finish that shined brighter during the rain and glowed in the night. My father restructured the home and repaired the old, mold covered wood. His hands alone made it sturdy and strong, while moms made it warm and inviting. I recall playing out under the old white willow tree that stood hundreds of years old and as tall as my young eyes could see. A goliath of nature, there to protect me. It was under that tree I first saw it. When it came to me it was nothing more than a blur behind a bright light. Beckoning me over, I followed it into the woods. It showed me so much. It showed me the pond where frogs hopped, snakes slithered and where crickets sang loudest. The days went by and it showed me so much more. It showed me life being brought into the world, doe giving birth to baby fawn, and it showed me frogs that had died due to a sudden change in weather. As time went on I asked my parents to bring my imaginary friend inside, and they both smiled and laughed and told me "Yes.". They told me my friend wasn't real but they wanted me to enjoy my friend before the summer would end, as we would be back in the city. My friend did not like that. We met under the willow tree late in the night. Its bright, deluded appearance, shrouded in light had less of a glow. I could start to make out small features. My friend had fur and made grunts, I don't think friend was human, but I loved friend so. My friend did not want me to go, instead, offered to keep me here. I told it my parents and I would go back to the city where my friends were, it became so upset. It asked me to follow him into the woods before I left. I did. It took my hand and I his and we made our way into the woods. Friend told me if I followed it into a cave in the hillside, I could stay here with it. I became scared of my friend. My friend grabbed my hand so tight it hurt, when I pulled away from my friend, it dragged me closer to the cave. "You will stay!" it demanded. That's when father came running into the woods. "Get inside!" he cried out in anger. I was so happy to see father. Even despite being upset with me, he could see how scared I was. I told him my friend made me! It dragged me! It betrayed me! My father never said anything, only held me and carried me inside. My Father insisted we finish the home soon, my mother reluctantly agreed. For weeks my former friend never showed. Dad slept during the day but stayed up at night, watching outside. I slept in bed with mother. It was the night of the move, a storm gathered outside, fierce and without scrutiny it shoved trees along and crashed against our summer home. I looked out the window one last time before I would go to bed. I looked over at the old willow tree. It was on fire, burning bright, ashes collecting in the gust torn skies and pieces of my fond memories flying, scattered in the wind. Father ran out to put out the fire, how fast he ran! That's when I saw my friend, and the hate that had grown within. It had hooves covered in black tar and fur full of mange. It stood up right like us, and a face of a goat with horns that curled and bent with menace. It had the torso of a man and the hands of one too, yet its fingers were long and covered with hair, it beckoned me over with haunting pale eyes. I screamed "No!" and slammed the window shut, my mother came running and looked outside in horror. She covered my eyes and pulled me into the closet. She told me to wait here and never make a sound. I stood still and silent, I refused to be found. I could hear its hooves click and then step inside our summer home. It called for me, its voice growling lower with each haunting repeat of my name. I covered my mouth and begged in my mind, praying for it to leave. It re-assured me it was still my friend, it wanted me to come with it out behind the old willow tree. I closed my eyes, refusing its calls, that's when I heard it stomping through the hallway and now in my room. It must have known where I was, it broke through the door with its horrid horns. It punched and kicked, hissed and swore. Why was it so violent? I thought we were friends! "Stay away from our son!" The voice of my mother. "You came once before, now you will leave!" cried out my father. It hissed and stomped, trotted and swore. "I was only a boy when you took me from home. I fought like my son and freed myself of you. So come after me as a man, I promise you'll fail." my mother spoke up, "You'll die a thousand times if you harm a hair on his head!" The creature hissed and snarled, banged and wailed profanities I would not speak. It returned to its cave, back deep beyond the willow tree. My parents have since told me to stay wary of imaginary friends. My father had met it, once my age. He told me how mean the creature was when he refused its hand. He begged me steer clear, never go there. He had not suspected the beast had travelled since last he had seen it. We live in a new cottage now, far from the noises of the city. It doesn't have that willow tree I played under. It's forest is not as vast and the animals outside are so few. But my parents are here, and I feel safest.


Again, on his annual vigil, he sat alone on the riverbank lost in thought. He didn’t know how long he’d been there as the only thing on his mind was his beloved Julia. It was so many years since they had been together and, although his whole being ached with an overwhelming longing to be with her he still wasn’t sure they’d ever meet again. He had relived that last night together over and over until it was so embedded in his mind he knew he could never be free. They had both been together at high school but never really mixed and, as she was a year younger, their paths seldom crossed.  However, if they did happen to pass by they always smiled at each other as if drawn by some invisible thread. So their first proper meeting, by the local river one glorious day in late summer, was purely by chance.

The air, much as this evening, had been filled with a mellow warmth that was host to buzzing bees and humming flies darting around the marshes, reed beds and the last of the wild flowers in bloom. A few wasps were drunkenly weaving their way about having feasted on the late blackberries together with apples, from the nearby orchard, that had fallen, rotten, to the ground. The hazy atmosphere hung over the whole area like a soft gossamer shawl keeping out the onset of Autumn’s cooler days. He had been sitting lazily on the bank side, occasionally casting his rod into the water hoping to catch something to take home for his mother to cook for their evening meal. She had wandered down from her parents’ large house where she had been in the beautiful gardens watching over her younger brothers and sisters. She was now free for time to herself as the young folk had been taken inside for their tea. Lost in thought she manoeuvred the narrow path, trying to keep her long hippie skirt away from the brambles, so she didn’t see the slender, prickly tendril snaking across the parched earth in front of her. Suddenly, she found herself tripping, tumbling forward and landing in an unladylike heap in the dried, brown foliage at the edge of the path. Edward was shaken out of his reverie by her startled yelp and, turning around, saw a vision of loveliness with long, tousled, blonde hair sitting on the gravel, brushing dust off her skirt and rubbing her knee. “Are you alright?” he asked jumping to his feet. Her twinkling laugh was music to his ears. “Yes thank you, I’m fine, I just didn’t notice the bramble. Hence my sudden downfall!”, she answered ruefully, lifting her head to look up at him. “Oh it’s you”, they exclaimed in unison as their eyes met. He helped her to her feet, dusting the dirt and dried grass from her back whilst she shook the front of her skirt to destroy the evidence of her clumsiness. Turning to her he extended his hand. “Edward”, he said by way of introduction. She shook his hand, her bright blue eyes looking directly into his soft brown ones saying “Julia, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you”. His heart skipped a beat as he detected her cheeks blushing in a most delightful way. He brought himself back to earth explaining “the path is uneven and gets worse from here on”. “I know”, she glanced at him demurely “perhaps I’d better go back home and try and make a lady of myself again!” He was captivated again by her infectious laugh feeling that, from that moment on, she was the only girl he would ever want in his life. “I’ll walk you home just in case you don’t look where you’re going again”, he said smilingly mocking her. She tossed her head flicking her long blonde curls and, pretending to be affronted by his mockery, strode off in the direction from which she’d come.

He gathered up his fishing stuff and ran after her. “I’m sorry. He blurted out, “I didn’t mean to offend you”. He was about to carry on apologising when he saw the laughter in her eyes, the enchanting smile on her face and realised she was teasing him.

“Oh I see, it’s going to be like that, is it? I can see I’ll have to sharpen my wits if I’m to keep up with you! Unless you fall down again and then I’ll have no trouble keeping up!”. They both enjoyed the humour and continued to banter until they reached her garden gate. From that moment on they were inseparable. They spent their free time together at school and continued to take long walks hand in hand, by the river, through autumn and into winter, whenever possible. They walked and talked so earnestly that, in time, they knew everything about each other being in wonder at the similarities in their outlooks, dispositions, honesty, integrity and the empathy they felt towards each other. As winter and spring gave way to summer once more, their love for, and devotion to, each other was undeniable.

Unfortunately, she had an over domineering father who had no intention of letting Edward, or any other young man, waltz his daughter off into the sunset. Her help was needed at home as she was extremely good at looking after her younger siblings when both parents went out.

So, after many tearful battles he finally put his foot down, refusing to give his permission for Julia to even see Edward anymore and threatening harm to Edward if they disobeyed him. At this Julia ran out of the house to tell Edward that, for his sake, she could no longer see him as the last thing she wanted was for him to come to any harm. She ran along the path until she came to the wide bend where the river seemed to gain strength, rippling its way downstream. The water had eroded the bank making a small beach like area complete with a fallen tree that gave them something to lean against. It was definitely their favourite place. She saw Edward sitting, waiting for her with his fishing rod in his hand.

He heard her screaming his name and ran towards her, aware of her father charging behind her like a raging bull. He gathered her up in his arms asking what was happening. Breathless from running she was unable to explain that, for his safety, she couldn’t see him again before her father was upon them. His puffy face was bright red - partly from the exercise his big, flabby body was unused to, and partly from the anger he felt towards his daughter as he assumed she had disobeyed him and gone to see her beloved regardless. Little did he know she was carrying out his instructions. The older man reached them and lunged towards Edward grabbing his arm. “You stay away from my daughter”. He screamed into Edward’s face, his own contorted with rage.

Whereupon Edward, realising danger, tried wrenching his arm away from the vice like grip. Unfortunately, in doing so, he completely lost his balance and fell backwards towards the river, his hand clutching his adversary’s jacket, causing them both to fall, as one, into the cold water. Edward felt his back hit the riverbed, winding him and making it impossible to move the heavier man on top of him. His legs, now entangled in the weeds, stopped him from getting his head above water to breathe. Meanwhile his foe, realising what was happening beneath him, took advantage and held Edward’s body down until it appeared lifeless. He then pretended to try and lift Edward to the surface, telling his daughter that the boy’s legs were trapped, and he couldn’t save him.

It was then that Julia, without a thought for her own safety, jumped into the water to try and help her beloved, pushing her father out of the way such that he stumbled and fell headlong into the water again, this time striking his head on the rocky bottom. He did not surface again. Julia was left clinging to her motionless Edward never, for one moment, thinking of deserting him or what the inevitable consequences might be for her.

As the years went by Edward would stand at Julia’s gate to get just a glimpse of her – but he never saw her. In time different people moved into the house so he assumed her father had taken the whole family away, to where? He didn’t know. He could only hope that one year, on that fatal anniversary, she would come to him at their special place. *    *    * Fast forward to today. A technological age full of angular, futuristic buildings and vehicles that seemed to slink silently along like cats on the prowl. The small, sleek, gleaming craft moored near the bend in the river was no exception. Its brilliant white shell had turned to the prettiest of pinks as it absorbed the colour from the large, orange sun set low in the sky. The boat was like a chameleon that changed colour constantly depending on its surroundings, preventing the ultra-modern style and shape looking too incongruous against the natural beauty of the river and marshes.  It was early evening and the dying sun was sending its last vestiges of orange light across the landscape. What a lovely way to spend a honeymoon, Monica thought as she looked up from the book she was reading, what a good job we keep some of the old traditions going! She wondered if she should go below and project the rest of the book on to the wall mounted screen, but she still liked to read a “proper” book and, besides, the atmosphere on deck was too magical to want to tear herself away from it. “That’s really interesting” she called to Martin who poked his head up through the stairwell to ask what she was talking about. “I’ve been reading about the two High School lovers who used to meet on that small beachy bit a long time ago, until they were torn apart by her despicable father.  Funny I wonder what a High School was like. Can’t imagine not studying from home like we all do now. Hang on – it was actually 100 years ago to this very day. Legend has it that the boy, he was called Edward, still wanders around waiting for his love to return. That is soooo sad. I wonder if we’ll see him at all.  Apparently, the awful father still hangs around as well looking for young lovers to prey on. It happened about this time of day as well” she grimaced looking at her watch. She shivered as Martin sat down beside her.  “It’s ok, it’s not you”, she smiled. Perhaps I got too involved in the story, but it is a little scary as we are definitely young and in love! Hope we’re not in the wrong place at the wrong time” she said apprehensively. “I almost feel as if we’re not alone, or am I just talking something up?”. He pulled her close, watching as the coolness of the early evening met the heat of the day resulting in a gradual mist building up and moving up the river. “You’ll be ok” he whispered lightheartedly into his new wife’s neck, I’ll always be here to protect you!”. Inwardly he wondered what it must be like to just meet someone by chance and fall in love. Young people nowadays were paired up by ultra-super computers – and given three possible matches to find the right partner. Fortunately it had been third time lucky for him! *    *    * Edward saw the mist as well. He was mesmerised by its slow-moving, ever changing form as it glided along the river, covering everything in its path. He thought he must be seeing things as, gradually rising from the water, the form seemed to become Julia. Surely he was dreaming but, the more he watched, the more it became her. This beautiful, colourless apparition with flowing curls and the loveliest of faces, was now enveloped in a cloak of grey that still allowed him glimpses of the peasant skirt beneath he remembered so well. She gave him the gentlest of smiles and beckoned him to join her. It seemed the most natural thing to take his place beside her – after all this was what he had been waiting for all those years. They swept silently on gripping each other’s hands tightly. She turned her head and stared back into the greyness with a frightened look. This made him glance back as well – and then he realised that way down river the mist had changed to a thick fog that was beginning to gather momentum, swirling and rushing to catch them up with a velocity he couldn’t believe. His heart sank. He had recognised the shape the fog was taking on as …………. Julia’s father. Julia sped forward pulling him with her until they came across the small  boat neatly moored with two young people, very much in love, visibly wrapped in each other’s arms. By this time the furious fog was fast catching them up.  Julia quickly enveloped Edward with her cloak, the two separate misty bodies becoming one that descended on the boat, covering it completely thus hiding it from view. Its thickness muffled any sound Monica and Martin made as they felt its dampness enveloping them.

The fog, now raging and looking just as malevolent and angry as Julia’s father had been when he drowned, swept over the shielding blanket unaware that his prey, both living and dead, was beneath him. As he sped on upstream, finally failing to wreak havoc, he began to lose control and gradually dissipated into thin air as if he’d never existed. So, one hundred years after that dreadful evening, Julia finally got there in time and, together with her love was able to put an end to her father’s evil wanderings. She and Edward were given their second chance, at last, to be together for eternity. The ghost story is no longer of any interest to anyone, so Julia and Edward are free to roam the river at will, content in each other’s company, and able to go to their special place when the heat of the day meets the coolness of evening – knowing her father will never harm anyone again.


The sun touched the fertile landscape with its golden fingers as the cockerel crowed triumphantly. The rhythms of the dawn swelled with the growing light, marking the end of the night's dominion. Amidst the celebration of nature, a young man lay quietly in his bed, shades drawn and windows shut, and he stared contemplatively at the ceiling above him. He felt ill this morning, not of the body but of the mind. He had begun feeling this way every so often since the death of his father about five years before. His friends had tried their best to comfort him, but no amount of joy could extinguish the lingering darkness in his heart. The sun was about halfway to its zenith when the young man forced himself out of bed, no longer able to tolerate his idleness. Today was meant as a day of rest, one in which the townspeople could enjoy the company of their loved ones and indulge themselves in their favorite pastimes. But not for the young man. He was utterly alone, with no friends or family to commune with and no hobby that gave him passion anymore. The last of his close friends had moved to the city for work. A mining mogul had begun recruiting nearby townsfolk to work in his lucrative emerald mine, enticing them with promises of riches and stability. Leading a plain life in his small cottage was enough stability for the young man. His father had taught him the beauty of living among nature and being in touch with the earth. He told him that the only way to truly understand oneself was to study the ways of nature and find one’s place among it. As man was born of the earth, he must spend his life learning from it, and end his life by returning to it. But his father was gone, and the young man could no longer appreciate the beauty his father had once admired without being reminded of the pain of not having him there to share it. The young man opened the door to his cottage and stepped onto the soft green grass, shielding his eyes from the overwhelming light of the sun. The day was nearly at its half point, and with nothing else to do, the young man decided to take a walk. It was warm outside as it was springtime, but there was still a residual winter chill in the breeze. If the young man were not sick, this would have been his ideal type of day. He used to love fishing in the lake. On some days of rest, he and his friends would fish all day and build a fire to roast their spoils in the evening, and on others, he would go on walks with his father to learn from him the different types of birds, plants, and insects that crossed their path. His father was the one who had taught him how to fish, which ones were the best to eat, and which ones were best to throw back into the lake. The young man walked past the lake not far from his cottage. Two small children were splashing their feet in the shallow waters by the shore, their parents watching cautiously nearby. Across the way, three adolescents cast their fishing lines into the deeper part of the lake where the biggest fish resided. The young man stopped for a moment to watch them. He couldn’t hear what they were saying, but he could see the flash of their teeth as they smiled and joked with one another, and he could swear that their laughter was carried on the wind and tickled his ears. His path slowly diverged from the happy scene at the lake and took him further into the rugged countryside. Here, the grass grew thicker and wilder and the trees taller and more overgrown. Something about this land was welcoming to him as it seemed to shut him off from his burdens in the real world. Suddenly, a flash of orange flitted in his peripheral and he quickly snapped his gaze to it. It was a robin that had alighted on a bare branch of a nearby tree down a shallow hill, its bright orange breast a stark contrast against the dull grey bark of the tree. It sang with its sweet, high-pitched melodic voice - a smile touched the corners of the young man’s mouth. He gingerly stepped toward it to get a closer look, but it quickly leapt from the branch and glided further down the hill where it disappeared into the rocks. The young man was astonished: where had it gone? He figured there must be a burrow in the hillside it had flown into, but he had never noticed any significant holes or tunnels before. He decided to investigate and started down the shallow hill. The rocks were more numerous on the side of the hill and the path more treacherous, but he was usually very sure-footed. This time, however, his toe caught on a small protruding rock in the ground, and he felt himself tumble forward. He fell the rest of the way down but only suffered minor cuts on his hands and knees and a bump on the head. Before him was a substantial hole in the ground that appeared to be the maw of a cave. It was just large enough for a man to crawl into comfortably. The robin had to have flown in there, for there were no other holes or burrows nearby. He couldn’t recall ever seeing this cave before, but sometimes heavy spring rains and rushes of water from melted snow uncovered hidden parts of the earth that perhaps were meant to remain concealed. He stuck his head partly into the hole and listened for the sound of the robin, and he thought he could hear a faint flutter of wings. He suddenly worried the bird perhaps had injured itself or couldn’t find its way back out. A chirp issued deep within the cave and echoed within a seemingly vast space. Curious, the young man ventured further into the mouth and let his eyes adjust to the darker environment before him. He could begin to make out a tunnel that seemed to decline at a slight angle. The air that swept up from the tunnel seemed to come in breaths, the smell of it humid and stale. Pushing his hands against the sides of the tunnel to steady himself, he began his descent into the throat of the cave. As he delved deeper, encouraged by the occasional chirp of the robin, he felt the temperature drop and the light recede rapidly. He began to hear the echoes that emanated from some cavernous space ahead even though he couldn’t see an end to the tunnel. As the darkness began to envelop him entirely, a momentary panic rose in his chest. What if he couldn’t get back out? How would he find his way around to help the robin if he had no light with which to see? He cursed himself and pressed his palms hard against the walls to stop himself from going further. He winced as the rock dug into the cuts on his hands. The tunnel was too tight for him to turn around, so the best he could do was crawl backwards to the mouth of the cave. Working against gravity, he propelled himself with the heels of his hands and balls of his feet. He was making good headway, but the exertion was beginning to fatigue him, and perspiration gathered on his forehead and dripped off the tip of his nose. The warmth of the air above began to permeate into the tunnel, filling him with hope, and his energy renewed as he climbed higher and higher. That was when tragedy struck. His palms, slick with sweat and blood, gave way and slid down the sides of the tunnel, his chest and chin slamming onto the rocky passage. The arching of his feet, once providing traction for his ascent, inadvertently aided in his fall as it launched him forward in his panic. He tried to reach out for something to grab onto, but the tunnel was smooth, smoother than he remembered, and the decline felt steeper, too. He was too terrified to yell as he tumbled into the abyss and was consumed by the cave. It seemed like he fell for many minutes, maybe even hours or days. The cave was timeless. The young man let himself be drawn into its bowels since there was nothing he could do to prevent it. His eyes strained to collect the few photons that managed to make their way to these unimaginable depths. He prepared himself mentally for the inevitable landing at the bottom of the cave, but it didn’t come; he just kept falling.

Just when he began to think the tunnel might lead all the way to the center of the earth, the floor gave way. For a moment, he felt as though he was swimming through the dark waters of a massive lake. But then his stomach lurched as gravity pulled him toward an unseen ground. His panic renewed, and he shielded his head with his arms as he crashed onto the rocks. He lay motionless for a time in a fetal position, his arms still covering his head, eyes closed. His breaths were ragged and quick; his heart beat wildly in his chest. He felt a sharp pain in his side, but the rest of his body felt numb. There was a consistent dripping noise behind him, and an occasional splash like a small fish leaping in a body of water. Slowly, he relaxed his muscles and began to unfurl his body. He opened his eyes, but nothing seemed to change. The void was still before him. He blinked a couple of times, but there was no distinction between the opening and closing of his lids. He sighed deeply and looked in the direction where he thought he had fallen; no shred of light betrayed the position of the calamitous tunnel. A chirp in the distance stirred the air around him and he felt an instant spark of hope in his chest. He carefully got to his feet, clutching at the pain in his side. With his free hand waving ahead of him to feel for any obstacles in his path, he shuffled his way in the direction of the bird. Just as he wished for another sound from the robin, a string of high-pitched notes issued from the space in front of him, even further away than last time. His free hand struck a piece of rock and he nearly cried out in surprise. He soon realized that the rock was a wall, and that the space around him had gotten narrower. He inched his way forward, using his free hand against the rock as a guide. The air seemed to compress and his chest felt heavy. He wasn’t sure if it was from some external stimulus or if it was all in his head. The rock gradually eased away from him and the passage expanded. It was deafeningly silent. The young man could hear his own blood rushing through his veins to his beating heart and flowing out through his arteries. He uttered a small sound, but his voice was immediately swallowed by the darkness. A sharp cry cut through the darkness and the young man covered his ears. It was the robin, but it sounded distressed. “Where are you?” he called, his voice muted. He thought he saw in the corner of his eye a flutter of wings. He turned around and stumbled forward and grasped at the wings but didn’t feel feathers.

He felt flesh. He fell back in horror and tried to make out the figure before him. It was amorphous, almost blending in with the rest of the cave, but he could swear that he could make out a familiar shape.

“F-Father?” Something moved and he gasped. His eyes stung with tears, his breathing uneven and frantic. He heard breathing that was not his own - the breaths smelled humid and stale. A footstep padded gently on the rock, and then another. The young man’s breaths quickened and his heartbeats sounded wet and heavy, the blood roaring in his ears. “ Dear god! ” His eyes widened as he tried to make out the full shape of the being in front of him. Pat. Another padded footstep. “Oh god! What - ?” Pat . “ It can’t be. ” Pat . “ Why me? Why now? ” Pat . The young man began weeping. “ Please, I beg you, stop! Come no closer! ” The footsteps stopped only a few feet away and the breaths fell gently on his face. The terror fused with some other emotion like euphoria. It squeezed his heart until he felt it would burst. He slowly reached out and touched something. Trembling, he sobbed, “ It is - ! I-I can’t believe - ! No, it can’t - ! Father! I-I love -”


        The extra room was really unnecessary when Darren accepted the lease. He lived alone and far enough away that no one from back home would come to visit often- if at all. Still, though, he liked the idea of a two-bedroom place. Maybe he could turn the spare space into a writing office and art studio. Maybe it would be empty for a year.        Darren decided to bring a small desk with a humble chair into the room by the window that overlooked the small lake backdropped by the tiny square of woods that people enjoyed to pretend were enough nature despite the mountains being ten minutes down the road. Nevertheless, the faint sounds of children playing war and adults enjoying the wildflowers and trees would hopefully inspire him. That room would be the most monumental setting of his young adult life.        In this plain room, a cookie-cutter lookalike of everything else in the apartment complex is where January would bring a newfound inspiration for the novel that had entered a continuous cycle of writing, rewriting, and being forgotten about. The words flowed for his mind, through the fingertips, to the page on the screen before Darren would have a chance to notice that headway was being achieved. Fully-fleshed characters with vivid scenes and coherent storyline developed perfectly.        February delivered a hidden talent for painting. Using the woods and water as an idea, the room became filled with watercolor images of friends fishing together, hopeful to bring a prize bass out from under the surface to brag about; lovers clutching each other tightly in the snow as others glided gracefully across the ice on figure skates; and colorful depictions of deer and foxes running through the trees to find food and shelter for the night before the sun would rise and bring new priorities for sustenance and shelter. Friends would compliment the paintings and a few collectors even bought some works.        The first draft of the novel was finished in mid-March. Almost exactly at the halfway point in the odd-numbered month. A heartwarming tale of two high schoolers stumbling into a world of magic and wonder by accidentally moving a loose brick in an old mansion. The two friends were the catalyst to a great war between good and evil with fleshed-out god and devil leaders who commanded their armies. The novel was written through the eyes of a woman who had been a child when the war happened and was writing as a memoir with historic facts about how the Heroes of Wonderia (as they became known) had gone from ordinary children to epic heroes. The novel was given the title

The Walled World  as a hint to how the story would be tipped off.        The first calls from the publishing houses came in late April after the rework on the book had gone as smoothly as the actual writing. A dear friend and (secret) potential lover would give free editing advice after being emailed a copy of the five hundred seventy-three-page tale. She helped him with grammatical errors and character inadequacies with criticism on how to make the exciting scenes more fun to read, the book would be an even six hundred pages after her help. Darren landed on the company that offered the most money for a first-time author and his paintings became solely based on his world of Wonderia. Those works would eventually be released as mass-produced copies in a book for the hardcore fans to get more of a fix before the follow-up was released.        May came with a sudden lapse of joy. After four straight months of goodness, Darren would get a call while he was dusting the surfaces. By then, the room had become crammed with bookshelves over packed with science fiction, horror, and fantasy works, completed and in-process paintings piled high in a corner, and a few plants that helped bring some life into the area. His uncle had died after a four-year battle with blood cancer. That night, the walls and carpeting silently cradled Darren’s mourning body as a large bottle of cheap whiskey was drained down his tight throat.        The process of heartbroken alcoholism would continue as the room sat empty for two weeks in June when Darren would fly home to attend the funeral. This rekindled a flame with the friend who had edited his book. Dinner and a walk in the park exposed years of hidden love and plans for her to visit soon.        July would see the spare room being cleaned of a collection of empty wine, beer, and liquor bottles with dried blood and vomit stains removed from the walls. Vacuuming and dusting would also take place just about every day in anticipation of Darren’s new girlfriend and old best friend, Kiara’s, visit. A few paintings that would go in the Wonderia art collection were finished in here and sent off to the publisher’s headquarters.        Kiara came to visit in August. If the walls of this room had eyes, it would have silently viewed the two painting cutesy images of favorite book scenes and imaginative date ideas completed to old love songs playing on a ten-year-old speaker. It would have also have witnessed long kisses and playful touching before the sounds of pure romance echoed from all about the apartment. In this room, Darren had truly realized what true happiness felt like.        In September, the return to school and cooling meant fewer people gallivanting around the lake outside. No more hearing children scream loudly as their parents watched from a blanket on the grass. The birds no longer floated around the surface as they began their journeys to warmer places until next April. This month was instead reserved for long phone calls to Kiara and the book publishers, who were planning a tour for Darren to take around the country to make his name and title more well-known.        The soft, cold breezes and crumbling leaves of October brought cinnamon scents and spooky decorations into the room. Darren would write ghost stories to supplement the book income and paint scenes that depicted haunted houses and cackling jack-o-lanterns. Warm tea and candy also became a regular consumption for this month as nightly horror movies were watched in darkened excitement. Kiara also visited again this month for Halloween activities and horror story aid.        Thanksgiving became a big priority in November. This is also when the inanimate space of the office would learn that Darren would not be renewing his lease. The far-away girlfriend and the six-month tour in the first half of the year to advertise the book would mean another year at the apartment would be exchanged for hotel rooms and moving in with Kiara. The room would have experienced emotions of sadness or sorrow, but being unliving would just sit as if nothing happened. The smell of turkey filled the apartment and the room as Kiara aided Darren in cooking a meal way too large for just two young people to consume themselves.        December brought snow and gift wrapping. Little boxes in colorful paper with the names of various friends and relatives scribbled on them piled high. A couple more stories were written in the holiday spirit to cash in on the feeling of nostalgia for holidays passed. The most memorable gift that would be brought into this room was a little ring studded with diamonds and the words “Forever my love” etched in the metal that Darren would use to propose to Kiara. She would say yes, forever solidifying their love for one another. Darren would enter the room one last time on December thirty-first to bring the last bit of packed boxes out to the truck that would deliver his belongings to Kiara’s front porch.        The room said nothing. Darren would never stop to think that one room could bring so much in just a year for him. Who remembers a room? Soon enough, the small space used as an office would see new residents, some staying for a year, others staying longer until the complex was eventually torn down and the river covered over and trees cut away a decade later to make room for an expanding neighborhood. Though the room felt no emotions and did not live, if it had, it would have smiled- dying with the fond and sad memories of many past residents.


“That’s it for tonight’s show! Have yourself a safe trip home!” The announcer made that statement about twenty minutes ago, but I still stand here. My ears are ringing from the loud music. The last stanza of the Angel Wings hit song echoes through my brain repeatedly.  “Shut Up, Shut Up, Just Shut the Hell Up!” I don’t even like the song. But I’m mesmerized by the cute girls who sing it. I know I’m too old to be following a K-pop group. I think their ages are from eighteen to twenty-one and I’m forty. The open stadium is empty except for me. I’m standing here among the empty plastic cups, food wrappers, and half-burnt-out glow sticks. The ground is covered with confetti that drifts like colorful snow blowing back and forth. At last, a big sweeper emerges from a side door to clean up the mess, and the driver yells at me,  “Come on, buddy, we’re closed! You got to leave!” With my head still throbbing, I look at him with dull eyes. “I’ve got nowhere to go.” And that’s the truth. “I don’t give a shit!” he frowns. “Get out, or I’ll call the cops!” A cold night wind blows as I stagger into the empty parking lot. It tugs at my hair and clothes. I feel like I’m in the middle of a desert rather than the big city of Tokyo. I used to have a nice job working in a video store in Tanuma, 93 kilometers away. I was the manager.  One day I heard this catchy little tune on my radio by a K-pop group named Angel Wings. I was intrigued and looked them up. That was about two years ago, and they were even younger then.  So I started watching their videos and TV appearances.  Next, I had to get every CD they put out. Like some kind of teenage kid, I had posters on my walls, expensive figurines, all kinds of stuff. Ultimately, I started planning my weekends to travel to Korea and watch live shows. That cost a lot of money, but I felt I had to do it if I wanted to follow them as a true fan.  My friends, those who used to be my friends, all think I’m crazy and have stopped associating with me because all I ever talk about is Angel Wings. Turning my collar to the cold, I scan the street before me for an alley where I might spend the night. Spotting an all-night diner, I decide I have enough on my credit card to buy a coffee.   The sign out front simply says, “Welcome.” Stepping inside, I first notice that it’s nice and warm. The scent of coffee fills the air, and I breathe it in deeply. The place is small and covered with wood paneling. The main feature is the wrap-around counter with swivel bar stools. A gentleman is sitting on the last stool. He grumbles, gives me a disgusted look, and resumes reading his paper. After waiting for five minutes, I ask the man reading the paper if there was someone to serve me. “Yeah. That would be me,” he answeres without looking up. “What do you want?” My mouth drops open. “Why didn’t he just ask me that when I came in?” I think to myself. “I’d like a cup of coffee, please.” He sighs heavily, folds his paper, takes a hit off his cigarette, and goes behind the counter. Then, over his shoulder, he calls, “I suppose you want something in it.” “Cream and sugar, please.” After a moment’s pause, he turns angrily and glares at me. “How many?” “How many?” Shaking his head, he then pronounces each word clearly and slowly to make sure that stupid me understands. “How many sugars and how much cream .”

 “No cream, just three sugars, thanks.” He brings my coffee over, “You come from that concert down the street?” “Yeah,” I answer while placing my credit card on the counter. Again he sighs while pointing to the sign above my head that reads, “Cash Only.” I reach into my pocket, take out all my change, and place it on the counter. “That’s it, that’s all I got.” Without counting it, he palms his left hand under the counter’s edge and sweeps the change into it. He deposits it into his dirty apron pocket,  “ You’re a little old for that kind of music, aren’t you? What are you, some kind of pervert? You get off looking at little girls?” My face turns red.  I snap.  “Who the hell are you? It’s bad enough that you’re rude, but I won’t stand for being called a pervert!”   He arches his eyebrow and runs his tongue over his teeth, turning away from me. “Hey!” I scream. “Where do you get off saying such a thing? I want to know!” “You want to know? Well, I’ll tell you. Since she was little, my daughter had always wanted to be a K-pop idol. At sixteen, she found a company to take her on and train her. She signed a contract for eight years that, during that time, they would house her, feed her, and pay for all her clothes. Sounds great, doesn’t it?  They house you in a dormitory of fifty other girls, five to a room. They charge you for everything.  You must pay them back when you start making money. So right away, she owed the company 3,502.3074 yen. My poor daughter wasn’t beautiful, but she was nice-looking.  Looks matter the most, more so than your singing. Electronically they can fix your singing, but not your looks. She worked very hard and was in three different groups. She would go to meet and greet sessions and tell me how many older men wanted their picture taken with the lead singers but never with her. The company noticed this and figured she was not well-liked and was getting older. She was twenty-two. They let her go.  After she paid off her debt, she had nothing left. Six years of her life gone with nothing to show for it. The only thing she knew was how to sing and dance. She had no other life skills at all. She said all the older men would stand in the front, drooling over the lead singers, and paid no attention to the backups. She once sobbed to me, “We’re entertainers! We’re real people! We have feelings too!”

He places his hands on the counter and drops his chin to his chest. “I’m sorry I called you a pervert before. I realize now that you are a victim too. To these big companies, these girls aren’t real they’re just a product to sell, and if they don’t sell, they’re dropped from the product line. They’re shown how to look you in the eye as they sing, so it seems they only sing to you. They smile and seem glad to see you. During a photo shoot, they are told to hold your hand to make it more personal and make you feel special. The company does all this because they know that men like you are probably lonely. So they draw you in and take you for every yen they can get leaving you with not even enough change to pay for a cup of coffee.” Looking at my partial reflection in my cup of coffee, I ask the question I’m sure I already know the answer to. “Where’s your daughter now?” In a small, sad voice, he replies, “She took her own life because she couldn’t see any other future. She knew she would never obtain her dream. You’re still young, and you can still start over. Go home, find a good job, and leave this all behind. Go and live a real life and be happy.” A tear runs down my nose and drips into my cup of coffee. I stand, bow to the gentleman, and say I’m sorry for his loss. We embrace before I walk out into the night to begin again.


Giving his goodbyes to his love ones, he was excited to go on this new adventure that life afforded him. He walks to the depot. He hears a whining and weak crying. He continues to walk the sound gets louder. He hears men laughing, speaking his Arabic calling this her a whore, plotting for the next man turn and what they were going to do her. I tried to ignore what was being done. All I could think about is what if that was my sister. I would want someone to help her. I walked softly back to the corner where I could pick up my bags and run once this was over. I peeked around the corner of the alley. I saw three men. They looked highly toxicated. The woman hands were tired and balled up cloth in her mouth. She cries. The other guy slaps her because she cries. He tells her that she should be enjoying this pleasure. I was getting sick to my stomach. I felt for my knife. It was in my secret spot. I walked around the corner. I see what happening. I tell them to stop. They laugh and began to threaten me. I threw my knife. It hit the third guy in the throat. I used my martial arts skills to break one neck and knock the other unconscious. I pick her up from off the ground and got my knife. She was bleeding from her vagina. I untied her, grabbed my bags and ran to the depot. It was perfect timing, the bus came. We rode and sat quietly. She held my hand so tightly that I wanted to say let go. I was all she had and she was all I had now.       When we got to the train station, I purchased her a ticket while she was in the bathroom changing clothes and getting the bleeding to stop. Our seats were beside each other. She whispered in my ear “my hero”. I know I wasn’t nobody hero. I was trying to figure out where she could go or where we can hide?  Once the train started moving, she feel asleep. I rested too. My mind was wondering where would she be safe. She woke up from a nightmare. She was completely drenched in sweat. I got her to calm down, her breathing slowly went back to normal. She looked at me pause, says “no me dejes”. I stopped and looked at her. I wondered how did she know. She speaks Spanish. How did she get here?       She started telling me a story about a casita and this family. She told how the father met this man. He seemed nice and very business minded. The father ran into a financial issue. The father agreed to work for him until the bill was paid in full. The father became ill. He couldn’t finish working for him. The man sold his wife and children. One day, the youngest child got away. She ran to the aunt and uncle for help. They found the aunt and uncle. She got away. She continues to run.       While he listens his heartaches. He didn’t know what to say or do. He knew his next step is to get to the airport. When he got to the airport, he trades his ticket in for two tickets to Asia. This gave me a few days to create her an id and other documents. I didn’t want to call my family to let them know. I picked up the phone but I couldn’t dial. I would just beat the phone. I was free! Now, I have freed someone else. She is so grateful. The more I get to spend with her I am falling in love with her. I get her to see a doctor. She can’t have any children due to the damage of those monsters.       We made it to Asia. I decide we go to Thailand. We stay in a little village that is quiet and wholesome. We found work and built our lives together. For months we would cry, for all the pain we felt. The healing began to take place. I still didn’t call my family. She went to school. She built her career. The opportunity presented itself for her to go to the United States. Twenty years, I am finally here. She took care of me, just as she promised. Things was going well. We were looking into adopting kids and preparing for family life. I never told her how much she meant to me. How much I was in love with her. I admired her for taking advantage of the opportunity that was presented to her. I was angry with her because she was the reason I couldn’t never return home.       She went to work like any other day. She drove her dream car, the BMW. Where we stayed it was hills and countryside. She was driving down the hill. A truck was on her side of the road. It hit her car and knocked her off the cliff. I didn’t’ know why I was crying 3:37p.m. She was coming home early from work to surprise me. It was my birthday! She had been acting moody a lot lately. I had found a note she had left on the bed for me. It read “I’ll make it up to you”, smiley face. That day felt like any other usual day. This time it wasn’t usual. I sold the house.       I finally picked up the phone. I called my family. I didn’t say a word. My mother soft frail voice said I know. I love you. The line was silent. I threw away the phone. I sit on this park bench, wondering, wishing, what it would be like if she was here. One day, I just stopped wondering, wishing and began to live just as she would want me too.

      That day I went to the park as usual. This time I had a cup of coffee. Coffee was something she always enjoyed. I sat there watching the sun rise. I am holding the card that said you was three months pregnant. Today, we would have been parents. As I take a sip of the coffee, from the shadows a beautiful golden retriever come sit at my feet. I laughed without a tear.


**The Monster of Loksdale:** Rain danced on the canopy overhead. The worn path below was splotched with sloppy mud and slick rocks. Birds did not chirp, nor did a tree crackle in the gusts. Something evil abound. A beast. It wasn’t strong, but it wasn’t a swift kill either. This type of beast required skill to take down. No ordinary swordsman, bow-for-hire, or regiment from Ranae’s finest could simply strike at its heart and trade in its head in for coin and glory. It was more complicated than that. The people of Loksdale needed professional help. They needed me. They needed a templar\*. Though, given the circumstances, a beast like this would be simple prey for patient hunters or swarms of footmen *if* they weren’t so silent, so deadly. They were lanky, blue-skinned humanoids bearing jagged teeth, razors for claws, and beating white eyes that did not function. But even if they couldn’t see with their eyes, their heightened senses dulled the fact. They are called: ‘caecorum’\*. Nasty creatures, them. The best way to counter a caecorum was to ignore it. They would, in return, do the same. Not this time, however. This one made a habit out of snatching people, children mostly, from local settlements as a source of food. It needed to die. Blade’s length hidden behind my robe, hand on its hilt, I had taken on the stance of New Mundi\* and waited patiently, eyes darting to and fro. Any proper vision was limited from behind my helmet, but it was enough, all I needed. Moments went by without movement. I shifted my gaze frantically from tree to tree, bush to bush. The only sound was the deafening rain that dropped to the canopy quicker and quicker the longer I stood around. Was the beast on my left? No. Behind me? No. My right? My behind— no. My front. The monster leapt from the canopy before me, claws ready to sink deep. I dodged to the right as it landed. The quickening rain hazed my vision. I moved to strike but it was gone. I stepped back and took on New Mundi once more. I watched, waited. *Where did it go?* I closed my eyes and listened, trying to make out an anomaly in the rain. Then I heard it. Feet swishing around in muddied water. It was behind. I spun around, unsheathed my sword, and thrusted it forward with all my might. The creature's screech pierced through the sound of the beating rain. All fell silent a moment. Dark blood dripped and mixed together with muddy water. I opened my eyes. The caecorum had not met with my plate, but with the end of my sword. I had struck true. It could only nip it’s awkward teeth at me, trying to claw through my gauntlet and blade. The blow was a fatal strike to the heart. It’s life essence would soon fade regardless of mercy, but I wasn’t hired to be sparing today. I stepped a tad closer to the blue beast and pushed him off my sword with one boot. It fell, back-first, into the mud with a hard splat. It rolled onto its stomach. It didn’t dare try and stand. The wound didn’t allow it. *I* wouldn’t allow it. The general of the local fort would need a show of proof that the caecorum was dead if they are to reward me properly for the deed. Watching the rain tap and bounce from the desperate creature, I sat indecisive, asking myself only of which part would be used as a trophy, as proof. I shrugged. A head always sufficed. To get to the general who called for me, I needed to go through Loksdale\* itself. It was an old, winding settlement with few homes and even fewer people. From the tales I’ve heard, the hamlet was built long ago by the families of Ranae’s Finest\*, the regiments of soldiers that are forever tasked with guarding the Overgrowth\* from any elven incursions. Just, the thing was, there hadn’t been any elven attacks on the continent in centuries. Perhaps they remain as a precaution or perhaps they were simply forgotten about by their superiors. Maybe someone knows. “You!” I heard someone call. Was it for me? I couldn’t say. I kept up my pace through the hamlet’s dirt roads. “Templar!” The voice called again. I stopped this time. Turning around, a local stood across the muddy pathway. He was a younger man, full head of brown hair, stiff stubble, and pale blue eyes. They called him Devon. I knew of him, helped me track the monster. I also knew of what he wanted: his little girl; the caecorum’s last victim. “You find her?” He asked, stepping closer. “Yes.” I begrudgingly stated. “Well? Where is she? Where’s my Lil’ Debbie?” “Dead, sadly. Along with the others who were taken.” I replied. Devon’s eyes grew wide. He looked to the muck, unable to make eye contact again. “Dead…” He remarked. I sighed, my hand tightening around the carcorum’s threaded hairs. I hated this part of the job. Hoped I could skip it this time by not addressing it, not making amends. It didn’t work. Devon fell completely silent. He clenched his fist and step within inches of me. “Could’ve saved her if you got ‘ere sooner, I’m sure!” He blurted in a rage. “‘er blood’s on your hands, not that *thing* you hold!” He gestured toward the head. I had to soothe him before he did something rash, something he’d regret. “My condolences for not saving her. She’s been avenged, if it counts for anythin—” “It counts for not a damn thing!” He said in a brash. Devon huffed. I could smell the foul aroma that irradiated off his tongue. His tears mixed with what few droplets of rain fell from the sky. He gave me a shove backward. My free hand instinctively fell upon the hilt of my blade. A small crowd began to spy on us from nearby huts, hovels, and street corners. I could see him wind up a fist. *Damn fool.* I thought. He’d shatter a bone on pure mithril\* anywhere he’d strike. I let go of my sword and grabbed hold of his wrist before the blow could land. “Attacking me won’t change a thing.” I said, releasing his arm. He fell onto his knees and began to weep. I looked down on him a moment. Devon balled uncontrollably. I turned away and kept walking, lest another spout of anger pour from him. The folk that watched began to disperse with my departure. I hung my head low. Was I at fault? His daughter was taken three nights ahead of my arrival. She was naut but bones and gore when I found the body. The possibilities of ‘what if’ rung throughout my mind but I shook them away. *It’s not befitting of a templar to second guess an action.* As I was taught. I couldn’t let it get to me. I needed to return to the task at hand. My employer resided in an old fort forever perched on a hill that overlooked the vast sprawl of untamed wilderness that lined the eastern coasts. The one I approached was one of the oldest, built just after man found victory in the War of Unity\*. They call it: Fort Duvane, appropriately named after the first general to command the garrison. Village folk from across the continent would tell their children about about the man named Duvane. It is said that, on the first night of a blistering winter, General Duvane ordered his men to stand out in the freezing temperatures and any who caught a cold were deemed unworthy of working the fort’s infrastructure. Duvane supervised them all night and, in a twist of irony, only Duvane caught a cold, thus being removed from power. In truth, the actual Duvane had forced his men to work endlessly in the cold with little rest which lead to his men hanging their dear general on a nearby tree. Amusing how tales passed down through the generations are blurred. Even more amusing how rowdy and lawless the first ranaens were. Different time, different people, I suppose. My long walk to the garrison had been stopped by the fort’s large, wooden gate. Outside it, one guard, decorated in cloth, leather, and plate (in that order) stood, arms crossed. He spied my likeness as I approached and signaled for me to halt. I stopped at his command. He uncrossed his arms and looked me over. From his lips, the man spat a wad of gunk off to the side before turning away and banging a fist on the gate. “Templar here to collect his reward! Open the gate!” He shouted. On the other side, a man — no, two men — shuffled around, unlocking the gate before slowing pulling it open. The gate’s cracked wood creaked and groaned as if it were in pain. I patiently waited, glancing in every direction. A few moments of admiring the views passed before the gate was finally opened and I was waved inside. A lone soldier waited for me on the inside. He was to be my escort to the general; not like I needed it. I had been here once a few hours earlier. Either way, I obediently followed quietly. To reach the general’s office, we had to trek across the courtyard, up the ramparts, and along the wall to a stubby tower on the far corner of the fort where we stopped at a door. The guardsman that accompanied me banged on the wood with the palm of his hand. “Templar’s back, sir!” He shouted. “Ah, uh, good! A moment, templar!” The general shouted back. From inside came faint giggling. It wasn’t the giggling of a man but a woman. My companion guard eyed the door and snickered. “Seems the boss’s got a bit company, eh? Probably one of them wenches that works the inn down the hill.” He said quietly enough for only my ears. “Possibly.” I replied, leaning back against the ramparts. We waited there for, what it seemed like, a moon cycle, before he finally called for me to come in. I opened the door and allowed my escort to shut it behind me. On the far end of the room, passed the prestigious decor and hunting trophies, sat the general, an aging man with grey hair, garbed in crimson red armor that proudly sported the ranaen lily on the breast. He was seated behind a solid oak desk cluttered with various knickknacks. Next to him, standing shyly against the wall was a young woman— no, a young *elven* woman wrapped in a clean, white towel. She had pointed ears, a fair complexion, and a delicate frame. It seemed the general had an escort of his own. “Come in, templar, make yourself at home.” He beamed. “What’s mine is yours…! Well, maybe not her.” He slyly winked the elf’s direction. She giggled. “Here for my reward.” I stated, stepping toward his desk and dropping the caecorum’s head on its surface. A few of the general’s ornaments and papers were misplaced by the head’s sudden arrival. Faint traces of blood fell from the open neck and stained the wooden desktop. The general’s face turned sour at the sight. Looking away from the decapitated head, he opened a desk drawer and dug through the compartment a moment before setting a hefty coin purse next to the head. “There you are,” He began. “Now leave me, templar, I’ve important... *business* to attend to.” The elf giggled again, shuffling over to meet the man. I reached down and took the bag. By its weight, it was roughly two hundred coins worth. I gave the general one firm nod before showing myself out. As I neared the door, he shouted my direction. “You need somethin’ to spend it on, try the inn at Whitehorse. Wenches there know how to work a bed!” He chuckled at his own joke, the elf giggling along for the third time. I left the general to his ‘important business’ and found my own way back out of the fort. As I stepped out the main gate, I looked out to the horizon.. The sun had fallen farther over the mountains. Darkness had engulfed the wide sprawl of land around me. There’s was little chance I’d risk the backroads of the continent this late, so I scaled down the hill and returned down to Loksdale to, hopefully, find an inn that supplied a decent bed without a required harlot. A proud and well-gowned lady stood on a grassy hill, far off in front of me. She was under the shade of a tree, one familiar. I stepped toward her. A man, proud and well-dressed stepped over to join her. He familiar too. I found myself running to them, my pace quickening. They both turned and looked on in horror. The world behind me began to fall into a deep abyss. I started the run faster. *Faster*. I began shouting at the couple, but it caught me The abyss was too fast and I was too slow. It’s pressure buckled my knees and dropped me to the ground. I watched it overtake the hill and the couple. There was laughter. Then there was screams. I was helpless. I had to watch. I couldn’t turn away. The thunder overhead caused my eyes to shoot open. I lay there for at least an hour, still armored, unable to fall back asleep. Every so often the lightning from outside would light my abode in a flash of blue from the small gaps between the walls and the roof near the top of the room. It was a nice (and clever) way to air out a room, even if it makes sleep difficult during storms. Eventually I sat up. The room flashed blue again. My eyes wandered in the darkness until they caught light from the gap between my door and the floor. Someone was still awake. I rubbed at my eyes before dragging myself out of bed. The room flashed blue once again. To start the day, I stretched my arms and legs before gearing up for my return to the monastery. I redid my sword’s sheath around the waist, slipped on my plated gloves, reattached my helmet, and threw on the standard white shaw every templar wore over my armor, tying it in place by it’s loose strip of cloth that dangled just above the hips. Carefully, I patted it down, making sure the drape fell below my ankles and wasn’t caught on any plate. *Never allow your robe to snag. It could cost you your life.* As told by my tutor. He was wise. I trusted his reasoning. Told the whole class of the unkept templar that couldn’t successfully dodge a sword because his robe caught under his plate. Truly, I don’t know if it was a true story or not. Either way, I follow his advice to this day. When I was ready, I snatched up my bag of gold and quietly retreated from my room. The inn was quiet as I entered the main lodging. The light that shined under the door was the tavern’s large fireplace that crinkled and cracked in hues of orange and yellow. Two others shared the room with me. One was the innkeeper who neatly tidied her station in the light of the fire. The other was Devon who wept at a far-side table. When I questioned him the day before, he had been drinking away his sorrows. *Heavily*. It was a miracle I got him to tell me anything about his daughter’s disappearance. In fact, his vague description of the girl was the only reason I found the caecorum’s lair. Now, however, he was without bottle and mug. Seems he was cut off sometime last night before he drank himself to death. “Morning.” The innkeeper whisper over to me, interrupting my thoughts. Her back was to me as she toyed with bottles, boxes, and cups, but she knew I was there. “Morning.” I replied. “Have a good sleep?” She asked. The main room flashed blue, thunder crackled overhead. “As good as any in this weather.” I said. “Understandable. Sorry ‘bout that.” She turned, bottle of ale in hand and a towel in the other. Her green eyes and fair skin sparkled in the orange fire. Very carefully she wiped the bottle clean and sat it on the counter. “I assume you’ll be leaving now?” “That’s right.” I replied. “How much do I owe you for the room?” I started to unravel the coin purse’s strings, but her words stopped me. “Not a copper, templar.” She smiled. “You helped us enough by slaying that monster. A free room is the least I can do for you… but, ah, sure you don’t wanna wait out the storm? It can get pretty bad out there.” “I’ve survived worse. I’ll be fine, thank you.” “Well, if that’s what you wish, good luck on the way back to your temple— ” “Monastery.” I interrupted. Lightning flashed. “Of course, my apologies…” She said, trailing off. “Hey, ah, if you’re ever in need of a place to stay, and you’re in the area, you’re always welcome here.” The frown she wore turned into a smile. “Be well and may the Eight watch over your travels.” I offered over a bow before turning over my room’s key and making off toward the exit. However, just before I got to the door, I stopped. From across the way, Devon’s sniffles mixed with the sounds of rain. I tried to ignore it, ignore him. but I couldn’t. I gripped the doors handle and attempted to pull it open, but I couldn’t. As hard as I tried, I couldn’t do anything, my mind focused on his demeanor. Lightning flashed. I found myself at the man’s side, the only place my body would take me. He had not looked at me yet, but he knew I was there. “What do *you* want?” Devon said in rugged tone. Without a ‘hello’, I reluctantly tossed the bag of jingling gold on the table. His ears perked and his eyes wandered over. “Your daughter’s body is just inside the Overgrowth.” I began. “Take a group of men, follow the dirt road, and make a left when you reach a crossroads. She’s… well, what’s left of her, is there, just inside the underbrush.” He slowly looked up as I spoke, his tears subsiding. Devon went to speak, but my words came over his. “The coin is for the tab you built up drinking down all her booze yesterday.” I pointed toward the innkeeper who had been intently watching us from behind the bar. “Anything left over, use it and buy your daughter a nice casket, one from the capital. Spare no expense. Understand?” As the words left my mouth and he slid the hefty pouch away from my reach, I found myself second-guessing my actions. My hand formed a fist. Should I have done that? Maybe only half the coin was adequate. The grandmaster certainly wouldn’t be pleased I come with no coin… *again*. “I… I don’t know what to say.” Came Devon’s voice. “Don’t have to say anything,” I responded. “I’ll already get an earful for allowing you to run off with my coin.” Without another word, I strided away and met success in exiting the building this time. At least someone would be happy.


I’d been pacing for hours, it felt like. If no one looked too hard I probably looked distraught. My bright red hands were evidence of all the hand wringing I’d been doing in the dingy ER waiting room. I would be distraught, anyway, if my luck turned... I could either be off the job and have some easy money, free and clear, or I was going to have to cancel my plans for Belize. “Mr. Hardin?” I whirled to the source of the voice and was faced with a tired looking woman in scrubs. If I were a betting man I would’ve bet she cleaned up real nice when she wasn’t tits deep in ER patients. “I’m Doctor Williams, I’m the attending physician this evening. I understand you’re the patient’s brother?” *This should be good.* With the most anguished expression I could muster, I nodded. “Yeah, uhhh,... I’m sorry, I’m just really broken up about what happened. Can you tell me how he’s doing?” The doctor gestured to one of the lobby chairs. “If you wouldn’t mind taking a seat?” Actually I minded a lot. The last place I wanted to be was an ER waiting room when cops came sniffing around for family members. I adjusted my hat again like I was trying to settle myself, keeping my face pointed towards the floor. Dr Williams sat close, closer than I liked anyone to sit next to me, even if she was hot. *The sooner I can get out of here and confirm, the better.* I hate hospitals. And doctors. We're in a symbiotic relationship really, I bag ‘em, they tag ‘em, but no one needs to know I'm the one doing the bagging. No one except my boss’s boss. How else would I pay for that sweet first-class flight to Belize? “Mr Hardin, your brother’s accident was very severe in nature. Have you spoken to the officer handling his accident?” I nodded, even though one sight of a cop’s face would have me slipping out the back doors. *No cops. No need to talk to them.* My hands threatened to sweat just thinking about it. “They said it was real bad,” I lied. “Your brother sustained injuries that honestly it’s a miracle he made it to the hospital alive.” *Shit. Alive? So close.* Not that I had anything to do with the twisted way fate dropped my mark before I could get within sniping distance of him. I was just that lucky. *Was.* Maybe my luck had run out, if the bastard lived. Unconsciously my hands started their wringing again. I nearly stopped, but then thought better of it. I’m distraught, remember? “Can you do anything for him, doc? When can I see uhhh.. Frank?” The doc didn’t answer me. That’s when I noticed *her* hands, tightening and releasing back and forth. I snuck a view up to her face again, now all worry and a penciled-in furrowed brow. *Maybe it really is my lucky day.* “Doc?” “I’m very sorry, Mr Hardin….” No one ever tells you that acting is a big part of being an assassin. Not that anyone ever condones doing close-quarter hits, but sometimes it’s just part of the job. Fake name, fake ID, fake brother, real big paycheck. Ya just gotta turn on the waterworks. Three, two, one… “Oh god!” I choked out. “Oh, Frank!” Her hand touched my shoulder sympathetically. “I’m so very sorry, sir. We did all we could.” “Jesus, Frank! My favorite brother!” I buried my face in my hands, workin’ up some real good sobs while thinking of the tragedy that Ronald Reagan wasn’t still in the White House. “The nurse will be out soon if you’d like to say goodbye. Again, I’m so sorry. You have my deepest condolences.” Through my hands I saw her feet shuffle off quickly. *Thank god.* As soon as she was out of view I did the thing I’d been looking forward to doing for hours. Phone. Text message inbox. Recent contacts. One word. “Confirmed.” And then the second next thing I’d been looking forward to doing. Phone. Text messages. Settings. Customize auto-away message. *“I will be back in the office May 15th, please forward all requests to the regional office manager, Frank Hardin.


The Button in the Tree ====================== In an untouched part of the World. In the middle of a vast, dense jungle. Amidst the trees, and the vines, and the leaves, and the animals, and the insects. There is a tree. Surrounded by other trees that look the same. But in this particular tree. In a cramped dark abscess within. Encapsulated completely by bark. There is a button. A small, round, red, button. That's part of a metal box. A machine of sorts. It's the kind of button that you push. Covered in cobwebs, and dirt, and dust. Aged. If someone were to find this button. Inside this tree. In this vast, humid jungle. And push it. It would make a soft, clicking noise. Satisfying. In the moments that followed. In that jungle. Surrounded by life and lushness. Nothing would happen. No. Nothing. But deep down. Thousands of miles away. In between continents. At the bottom of a lightless ocean. In a trench. Where neither warmth nor light has ever reached. Where the pressure crushes all but the strangest creatures. There is a small circular dial. Made of stone. Part of the sea bed. But level and sharp. Carved to perfection. And this dial would start to rotate. Ever so slowly. A grinding noise would ripple outwards. Through the dark surrounding waters. And once it completed its cycle. A full circle. It would make a soft, clicking noise. Satisfying. In the moments that followed. Far below the waves. In that deep, dark ocean. Nothing would happen. No. Nothing. But high above sea level. On the other side of the World. On a jagged mountain. At the very summit. On a crooked outcrop. Where the winds run wild. Where the skulls of adventurers lie far below. Where the rock and snow are biting hard and unforgiving. There is a tube. Metallic. Thin. Strong. Defiant. Rooted in rock. But pointing to the stars. And this tube would lower itself. Silently. Down into the mountain. And when it was submerged. Completely. It would make a soft, clicking noise. Satisfying. In the moments that followed. On the peak of that harsh, ragged mountain. High up in the frozen heavens. Nothing would happen. No. Nothing. But out there. Far across the expanse of space. Through nebulae and quasar. On the other side of the great black vaccum. On a remote, barren planet. Is a vast desert. Ravaged by heat. Searing. Crackling. Burning. Sizzling. And in the middle of this desert. Is a ship. Built for traversing the stars. Desolate. Ruined. Lost forever. With wind howling through the holes in its shattered hull. Through twisted, hanging cables. Through ravaged metals. Through damaged conduits. Its ancient interior broken. Dead. But inside this ship. Deep within it's workings. On a console. Coated in dust and sand and memories. There is a small, round, red, light. And just for a brief moment. Unseen by all. It would flicker on. Alive. It would make a soft, clicking noise. Satisfying. In the moments that followed. On that barren, forgotten planet. Far from life. Far from everything. Its glow would slowly fade back. To black. And nothing would happen. No. Nothing.