**There was once a man who wanted to build a castle with no machinery, only his hands.** **People laughed at his dream because of the absurdity and his physicality.** **He was short and scrawny, and he could easily hire a construction crew with bulldozers, cranes and cement mixers to build it for him.** **The world didn’t understand why he wanted to build the castle with his bare hands.** **He knew not the entire reason why, but he knew it would be fully known once he embraced the task.**  **The stones from the quarry came to the plot of land where the scrawny man eagerly waited.** **A crowd gathered on the hill to watch, the delivery men from the quarry stayed to watch the joke of a man.** **The scrawny man with great enthusiasm went to lift the first heavy stone, the cornerstone.** **He heaved with all his might but only lifted it two feet before the dropped it.** **The crowd laughed and mocked at his first stumble.** **They called him silly and foolish and laughed harder as they watched him pick up the stone again and drop it a few feet later.** **This went on until the crowd became hungry for supper and decided to continue the mockery at their dining tables.** **He set the cornerstone at dusk; nearly a full days work for one stone.** **One stone down.**  **The next day some of the neighbors stop by before work and saw the scrawny man on his land again, this time working on the second stone.** **They stopped and watched for a few minutes, mocked him and then went to their lonely cubicles.** **They drove by after work to see the infeasible progress.** **This time they saw a second stone set with the cornerstone with the third being carried slowly by the scrawny man.** **They mocked him for his slow progress and then went home to watch reality tv idly.** **The neighbors quickly lost interest and went along their dull lives.** **Work, T.V., Eat, Drink and Sleep.** **A safe life.** **Except for the scrawny man.** **He was on a mission.**  **Each passing day he became stronger from every stone he set.** **His sinewy arms became muscular, and his chicken-like legs became massive.** **Every day he was able to move one more stone then the previous.** **Within a few weeks, he had the foundation set, and he began work on the walls.** **A few months went by, and he had the first story completed.** **Some of his neighbors looked at him now with amazement as he was actually doing it.** **Some felt ashamed of the mockery.** **But a few felt anger and jealousy.** **Their small minds saw the man’s daring task as an insult to them.** **Who was this man to define his fate? The scrawny man needs to be normal like them.** **Like cancer with a ledger, the company they proudly worked for was slowly killing them by removing their humanity; but the few masked it with denial by calling it hard work, job security, and loyalty.** **The few plotted and decided this man shouldn’t be able to build his castle.**  **One night, the now short but muscular man went home and went into a deep slumber.** **The few, drunk off of beer and jealousy, went to his impressively partially constructed castle and began tearing it down with sledgehammers, crowbars, and hate.** **The walls fell, and the foundation was broken beyond repair.** **The few watched from the hill that following morning as the man ran to his fallen castle, cursed and cried in defeat.** **The few laughed and felt like they taught him a lesson on being an individual.** **They laughed as they went to their cubicles and were reminded of their misery.** **They gleefully went to get another hit from the man’s misery after work but were surprised at what they saw.** **The man had begun rebuilding his castle.**  **Word spread across the country of the cruel act and the man’s defiant response.** **The word fell on the right ears, and it was interpreted as a call to action.** **The first that came to the short-muscular-defiant man was a mason.** **The mason understood what the man was doing and why even though they could not articulate the reason.** **The mason had extensive knowledge and experience of stonework and knew how to make the castle stronger.** **The short-muscular-defiant-man accepted the mason’s help on the condition that the castle will only be built by hand.** **The mason smiled and began his craft.**  **A glass blower from California came to the partially built castle and offered his help.** **Towed by his truck were a portable kiln and his equipment.** **The glass blower, a talented and renowned artist, said that the man’s castle would need exquisite stain glass windows.** **He will make glass so remarkable that people will come all over the world to admire the windows.** **The short-muscular-defiant-man gladly accepted, and the glass blower began making the windows in his makeshift workshop.** **A lovely, complementary couple followed the glass blower.** **The husband a blacksmith and the wife a carpenter.** **They heard his story and understood why he was building the castle, and they offered their services to his dream.** **Both together would create doors, furniture, cabinetry, even the smallest detail of the nails will be envied by royalty.** **The short-muscular-defiant-grateful-man gladly accepted.**  **Steadily people from around the world heard the call, even though they could not explain it, and came to offer their services to the monumental task.** **Plumbers came and teamed up with the blacksmith to make the pipes for one of a kind plumbing system.** **Electricians, roofers, and engineers offered their services and began using their hands and expertise to construct the castle in a way that will demand the best of their respective arts.** **Artists, spinsters and world-renowned gardeners offered their crafts to bring beauty to the castle.** **The honest rich who earned their keep understood what the man was doing, and they donated money and resources; for they too have built castles.** **The neighbors who once mocked him left work to help the short-muscular-defiant-grateful-man in any way they can.** **Some moved stones, some cooked and did laundry for the crew, but most assisted and became apprentices to the masters of the world.**  **The company lost employees, and the jealous few who attempted to defeat the man found themselves bitter and lonely in their office.** **The few were given promotions but only because there was less competition.** **But, with the promotions and raise came the extra work and longer hours in the office.** **Too afraid to quit and seduced by their new cash, they accepted their prison.** **Denial was the castle they built for themselves.**  **Ten years later the castle was built, and the world had a new wonder.** **Gothic in essence.** **Modern in look.** **Built not for a King, nor a God, but for an idea which cannot be spoken but only understood.** **An idea which lives in all of us.** **The short-muscular-defiant-grateful-accomplished man was no longer the same man from the beginning.** **He went on the hill and watched the sunset behind his castle and began to cry in ecstasy.** **He finally fully understood why the castle was built.** **Everyone had a place, a room and their crafts had found a home.** **They felt a deep sadness though.** **What’s next?** **The man felt the same.** **What was next after this great feat?** **Nobody was the same, and they wished to keep going.**  **The man smiled and said, “Go into the world and practice your love. Share your talent, your art, yourself. My castle, your home, will always be here for you.”** **Some stayed, lived in and maintained the castle.** **Most left to share their gifts with the world.** **To inspire others with their craft.** **The short-muscular-defiant-grateful-accomplished-wise-man finally rested and admired the castle.** **For it was not only a symbol of not one man’s daring feat but a culmination of the best of humanity.** **A paradise on Earth.


The infirmary was permeated with the disgusting odor of expiring flesh. The door was left open in a vain attempt at some ventilation, and groaning could be heard across the entire west wing of the Castle as a result. I desperately attempt to save who I can. My family's name is Lazarus, and it is my duty to protect the coven. I drape bandages over my hands which had been submerged in healing liquid for the past hour. It wraps around the young Vampire’s stomach — coaxing one of the silver bullets to the surface. “Uh… uh… ahh… AHHHHHHHHHHH!!!” He screamed instinctively, causing the room to shake. “Calm down boy, I know it hurts.” I say with reassurance as I try to maintain my bedside manner. “This is the last one, then you will be *fine*.” His black blood oozed from the wound and congealed as it left his body. Our blood was not like human blood, and anyone unaware of our physiology would think I was extracting some kind of tar pudding from him. I assuaged the final bullet out, catching it in the cloth. I dropped it into a tin nearby, and it fell with a satisfying clink. “There, all better?” I said warmly to the poor suffering boy. “Yes, thank you madam.” He managed a smile through the pain. I appreciated his efforts, and rested a hand on his shoulder. I stood up, allowing one of my attendants to deal with his recuperation. I wiped some of the blood onto my apron and went to the washing station. All of my emotions came forth at once. A potent mixture of sadness, despair and confusion flooded my mind. I have been a nurse for almost two hundred years, and I have never seen an attack on my people from outsiders with this severity. From other Vampires? Of course. The constant struggle for supremacy in our hierarchal system was a given. The dead bodies from warring covens in the Tudor wars numbered in the tens of thousands. The silver bullets, religious incantations, and ceremonial burnings however? These were new. Never had human beings been very successful in murdering Vampires. There had been a few cases throughout history, but these were extraordinarily rare. Yet here lay three of our kind, on the brink of death — two were unlikely to survive. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ Micah and I pushed our way through the many iron doors that lead from the King’s keep with a force that nearly removed them from their hinges. “Can you believe this?” I called behind me. “Nah.” Micah grunted. I wouldn’t believe it if they didn’t call this fancy meeting. “Such timing.” I whispered, attempting to cover my mouth with my hand. “We were on the brink of something great.” “Well. Maybe we can see this as an opportunity to get closer…” Micah looked around quickly “To the others. See where there loyalties lie.” Ever the optimist. I smiled inwardly as I pressed on. He was right, of course, we could turn this situation to our advantage, no matter how dire. I turned the next corner without looking forward and felt myself immediately propelled backwards. I caught myself before I fell, bracing with the crumbling sidewall. I looked up to see what caused it. “Wren scum.” A rotund laughter shook the already crumbling walls around us. Sam Tilian stood in front of me, flushed as ever. He was flanked by one of his companions from before, but this time their demeanor wasn’t so inviting. “Sam, I see you didn’t leave any food for the others.” The corners of my mouth turned upwards in a wicked smile. “Always were the funny one, ay, Rathiel?” This time he wasn’t laughing. I turned my head to my right — A claw caught the side of my face. “SIT. DOWN.” Came a blood curdling scream. His taller companion who was reserved in the dining hall showed no signs of pacifism now. He hit me like the hilt of a two handed blade, straight in the right side of my cheek. I fell to the ground in a daze, nothing escaping my mouth except a decompressing groan. In the next second, they were on me. I braced myself for impact, my forearms crossed above my eyes. Then, in an instant — he was on them. I saw the plume of smoke appear behind their shoulders, Micah must have noticed the commotion ahead and waited, drawing them in, using me as bait. I couldn’t help but be impressed. He let out a guttural roar as he placed one hand on each of their heads. Their eyes widened as their senses caught his presence, too late. He slammed them both to the ground. Seizing the opportunity, I rushed to my feet. I stood at his side, claws raised. There were no weapons permitted in the castle, save the Royal Guard. But our family was one of dirt and mud, proficient in brawling out of necessity. Our fangs protruded with our mouths agape, and we let out a simultaneous *hisssss* that signaled our combat readiness. They returned the stance, save their backs being slightly arched, resulting in a much lower center of gravity. Micah charged first. He locked arms with the taller one, grappling fiercely. I closed the gap and threw a right hook at Sam, glancing him on the side of his face. Before he could recover, I raised my boot and delivered a kick to his chest, submerging him in a column that decorated the hallway. I turned immediately and saw my brother pinned. In a swift step, I was behind him, arms locked under the taller man’s armpits, holding him up. Micah took the lead and delivered blow after blow on his chest, as he screamed out in pain. Micah’s muscles pumped with adrenaline, his veins bursting through his forearms. After a minute of punishment, the Tilian started to slump — I noticed the flash of Micah’s emerald encrusted brass knuckles on his hands. I smiled. Nothing needed to be said. Sam was still slumped on the pillar, and his companion was a crumpled mess on the ground. We wiped our hands of it, dragging their scotch imbued bodies to the side of the hallway where they wouldn’t disturb anyone. We make our way down the hall with renewed vigor. A scrap with some of the young bloods was always good for the confidence. “Tut. Tut.” A familiar voice confronted us. “Layla..” She held a gloved hand up to my lips. “I won’t tell if you won’t, boys.” She winked, her blue eyes sparkled beneath her crimson hood. She had the most wry, all-knowing smile. It was best to just drop the subject. “So…” She kept walking, beckoning us forward. “My birds told me you had a meeting with the King?” “You always have an inkling of everything, don’t you night owl.” I said in a tone that dripped with annoyance. “Yes, we met with the King. Yes it is confidential. No I won’t speak about it.” “Funny. My Birds also tell me about a wounded clan burdening the infirmary. Some might not make it, they say…” We were nearing the Wren quarters now. With one final look at Micah, I opened the door and beckoned them both inside.


Tessa walked down the street with her arms full of grocery bags. Normally she and her boyfriend, Brandon, would drive down to the market for their weekly shopping trips but she had decided to walk today. Brandon had gone out to have lunch with his mother and he had taken the car that they shared. Luckily for her, the market was only a ten minute walk away.

As Tessa walked, she looked up at the sky. The sun was out, but the sky seemed just a tad colorless. There were a couple of clouds that looked dark. “I hope it doesn’t rain soon.” She muttered as she continued to stare upwards.

When she finally looked back down at the path that lay ahead of her, she instantly froze in her tracks. A black cat, one that seemed to have appeared out of nowhere, was standing right in front of her. Its green eyes eerily studied her and before Tessa could react, the cat hissed and darted towards her.

Tessa shrieked and nearly dropped her bags. She watched helplessly as the cat streaked by her and continued on in the direction that she had been walking in.

That was a black cat. She felt like she couldn’t breathe. Oh my God, it's happening again.

This was bad. This was very, very bad. Tessa tightened her grip on the bag and started walking again. She tried to walk steadily but her mind began to race and before she knew it, she had broken into a full on sprint. No matter how fast she ran, she couldn’t shake the image of the black cat from her head.

Within a few minutes, Tessa finally reached her home and she was relieved to spot their old sedan in the driveway. Racing up the steps, Tessa threw open the front door and collapsed with the groceries to the floor as soon as she was inside.

The ruckus instantly made Brandon appear from the living room, where he had been resting on the couch. “Tessa? Did you drop something?” His carefree smile dropped from his face as soon as he spotted his girlfriend sprawled on the ground, surrounded by the produce she had just bought. “What happened?” “A cat.” Was all Tessa managed to say as she slowly got to her feet. Instead of picking up the groceries, she briskly walked past him and into the living room.

“A cat?” Brandon repeated as he quickly closed the front door and followed her. “What about a cat? “ “Not just any cat.” Tessa explained as she went up and closed all the blinds tightly. The room grew noticeably darker. Once she was done, she double checked that all the windows were locked shut. “It was a black cat. It crossed in front of me.”

“Oh.” Brandon stared at her for a few seconds, still unsure of what to make of the situation. “So what?”

“So what?!” Tessa whirled around to face him. She couldn’t believe how nonchalant and calm he was being about the whole thing. “A black cat crossed in front of me.” She repeated once again, making sure to emphasize each word.

“I still don’t get it.” Brandon said, shaking his head.

“Ugh, Brandon, you’re not listening to me!” Tessa exclaimed, her voice growing shrill. “When I was walking back from the market, a black cat crossed in front of me, right in my path.”

“Tessa, I’m sorry.” Brandon reached out to put a hand on her shoulder to comfort her, but Tessa shrugged him off. “But I don’t understand what’s happening. You’re acting really weird. Why is this cat so important?”  Tessa ignored his question and instead turned her attention to the coffee table that they had in the middle of their living room. She squatted down next to it and its surface with her hands. “Is this wood?”

“What?”

“Is this table made out of wood?” Tessa asked again, the urgency evident in her voice. She continued to feel the table. “This is the one that we got from the thrift story last year, remember? Do you think this is real wood?”

“Does it matter?”

“Of course it matters.”

“Um…” Brandon was utterly confused and had no idea what to make of the situation. He had never seen Tessa act this strangely before. “I think it's wood?” He finally said.

“Good.” Tessa replied. She made a fist and proceeded to tap on the table seven times in a row. She counted each one out loud, and once she was done she slowly got back up again. “What?” She asked defensively when she saw the look on Brandon’s face.

“Why’d you do that?” Brandon asked.

“Because I needed to knock on wood.” Tessa said.

Brandon continued to stare at her. The more she said, the less he understood. “But why though?”

“Because I need some good luck to cancel out the bad luck that I got from the cat.”

“The cat gave you bad luck?” Brandon questioned. “How…why do you think that?”

“God, how are you this clueless?” Tessa exclaimed. “If a black cat crosses your path, that’s a bad omen.”

“Oh…” The realization finally dawned on Brandon. “Oh, it's one of those superstitions. Sorry, I never really pay attention to any of those sorts of things.”

“Well you should.” Tessa huffed. She pulled out her phone and handed it to him. “Can you plug this in for me? It died while I was at the market.”

“Why me?”

“Because I don’t want to risk getting shocked by the electricity.”

Brandon frowned. “I don’t think that’s going to happen.” He said gently as he grabbed her phone. “I think you’re overreacting a little bit.” “No, you’re the one who’s underreacting. You’re not taking this seriously enough.” Tessa watched him carefully as he grabbed the charging cord and plugged in her phone. “Something bad is going to happen to me. I don’t know what exactly, but I just know it's coming.”

Brandon shook his head. “Babe, you gotta relax. Those superstitions are just stories. You’re not suddenly cursed with bad luck because a cat crossed in front of you.”

“No, you’re wrong.” Tessa started pacing around the room. She could feel the fear coursing through her veins. “They’re real. All those superstitions are real.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because I’ve seen it happen again and again.” Tessa started to nervously tug on her fingers. “So many of my family members have been struck down by these bad luck omens. It's real, I know it is.”

 “Tessa--” Brandon tried to put her arms around her once again, but she cut him off before he could offer any comforting words.

“--My uncle Ted broke a mirror once and a few hours later he collapsed dead from a heart attack!”

“Yeah but didn’t he basically live off fast food and tobacco?” Brandon pointed out quietly. “You can’t blame the shattered mirror for the consequences of his lifestyle choices.”

Tessa continued on, not giving any indication that she had even heard what he said. “You remember my cousin Veronica? She accidentally opened an umbrella indoors and that night there was a carbon monoxide leak in her house. She and her kids died in their sleep.”

“Again, very unfortunate that that happened but I don’t think that the umbrella had anything to do with it.” Brandon insisted. “You can’t just assume that all these bad luck superstitions are actually causing these events to occur.”

Tessa’s eyes started to fill with tears and her voice wavered as she carried on. “My mother gave birth to my younger sister on a Friday the 13th and she ended up dying from complications after the labor.”

“That’s awful, and I’m so sorry that you lost your mom, but your sister is alive and well.” Brandon was starting to get the feeling that there was something very very wrong going on inside the mind of his girlfriend. “You can’t blame her death on a particular day.”

“You don’t get it, Brandon!” Tessa snapped at him. “I am absolutely terrified right now for my life, and you’re just over here doubting everything that I’m saying instead of being a supportive boyfriend.”

“You’re right, I’m sorry. I’m being a jerk.” Brandon apologized, making a mental note to call Tessa’s father as soon as he had a chance to. “What do you need right now? What can I do to help you?”

“I need salt.” Tessa muttered as she turned around and marched towards the kitchen.

“Salt?” Brandon repeated as he trailed before her. He watched in horror as she opened each cupboard and began to pull things out and onto the floor. Various containers of spices and herbs and teas spilled out, but Tessa didn’t even seem to be aware of the mess she was making.

“Where is it?” She whined as she continued to throw things over her shoulder. “I need salt. I need to throw salt over my shoulder. I need all the good luck I can get.”

“I don’t think we have salt.” Brandon reached out and grabbed her arm before she could throw out a pricey panini press that he had gotten her for her Christmas last year. “You have to stop looking.”

Tessa whirled around to look at him, with a blank expression on her. “I need salt.” She repeated once again, her voice sounding more and more robotic with every syllable she uttered. She sighed and stepped over the mess as she headed for the front door.

“Tessa, where are you going?” Brandon asked as he followed right behind her.

“I’m going back to the market.” Tessa stepped over the fallen groceries that still lay on the floor and pushed the door open. “I need salt.”

“It looks like it’s going to start raining any second now.” Brandon said, looking up at the gloomy sky that was full of large dark clouds. “Why don’t you wait a bit, I promise as soon this weather passes, I’ll go out and buy you salt.”

“I’ll be quick.” Tessa insisted, going down the front steps. “Give me the car keys, it’ll be faster if I drive.”

“Tessa…” Brandon reached out and grabbed her shoulder to stop her.

“You want to help me, don’t you?” Tessa said, turning to look at him.

“You said you would, right?”

“Of course I’ll help you.” Brandon promised. “But I just don’t think--”

“--Please just give me the keys!”

Brandon hesitated. He didn’t like the way that Tessa was acting, she was way too frazzled and anxious. But it was her car too, so he eventually relented and dug the keys out of his pocket.

“Thank you.” Tessa gave him a weak smile as she grabbed the keys. “While I’m gone, can you look through the grass and see if you can find any four leaf clovers for me? I need all the good luck I can get.” “Yeah, I can do that.” Brandon sighed, finally accepting that there was no stopping Tessa. “Wait, don’t you want to take your phone? It’s still inside.”

“No, no, it's fine.” Tessa insisted. “I have my wallet in my pocket, I don’t need my phone. I’ll be back in fifteen minutes tops.” With those final words, she got into the car and turned on the engine. “Bye, drive safe!” Brandon called after her. He can feel himself frowning as he watched her pull out of the driveway and drive away.

He looked down at the grass, their lawn was in desperate need of being mowed. There were a couple of patches of clovers here and there, none of them seemed to have four leaves though. Still, he had promised that he would look so he got down on his knees and started shifting through all each singular clover.

He couldn’t believe that he was doing this. He couldn’t believe that Tessa was acting like this. It made him feel a bit uneasy, the way that she genuinely seemed to believe in all of the ridiculous superstitions.

I guess I can’t blame her. He thought to himself. So many of her relatives had died tragic deaths, and he figured that believing in the superstitions was Tessa’s way of processing and dealing with the losses. As he continued to look, Brandon felt a few raindrops hit his head. Within seconds the light sprinkle turned into a heavy downpour, and he was forced to run inside the house.

He hadn’t been able to find a four leaf clover, and he knew Tessa would be upset with him when she came back from the market. As soon as the rain stopped, he’d go back outside and look again. Maybe he could even tear apart some of the clovers and try to make his own version of a four leaf one with some tape.

Brandon waited by the window for Tessa to come back. The minutes passed by, but he didn’t see her come down the street. He started to get restless, wondering why she was taking so long. After nearly an hour had gone by, Brandon finally saw some headlights in the distance and he ran to the door.

He threw open the door and stepped onto the porch, expecting to see Tessa pull into the driveway, but to his horror it was a police car that pulled up. The police officer walked up to Brandon with a grim look on his face, in his hands he held Tessa’s drivers license.

“Is this the home of Tessa Smith?” The officer asked.

Brandon stared speechless at the man. His mind filled with dozens of theories of how the officer could have possibly gotten a hold of Tessa’s license, and none of them were good. “It is.” He finally said. “Did something happen to her?”

“Your girlfriend’s car was hit by a driver that ran a red light.” The officer said. “Her injuries were severe and paramedics were unable to find a pulse at the scene.”

“Oh my god.” Brandon felt his knees buckle and he almost fell to the ground. He looked at the officer in disbelief. “But I just saw her an hour ago, she was fine!”

 “She was transported to St. Mary’s hospital.” The officer continued. “I can take you there now.”

“Yes of course, just give me a minute.” Brandon ran back into the house to grab Tessa’s phone, making a mental list of all the people he was going to have to call. It was still charging and when he unplugged it he saw that the battery was at 66%.

Brandon ran back outside, feeling like the world was about to fall apart any second. He just couldn’t wrap his head around what had just happened.

There’s no way this happened because she was cursed with bad luck. He tried to tell himself. Everyone knew that those stupid superstitions were just nonsense.

Still, as he made his way over to the police car, he looked out to the end of the driveway and he felt his blood run cold inside his body.

A black cat was standing there, staring at him.


Hello! This is an expanded version of a story I posted before. Basically, I took the abstract "story" I had and added an intro and outro to it. It leans more towards traditional fantasy now, I think. While I've gone over the main portion of the story a few times, the segments I bookended it with are very much rough drafts, so it's definitely a work in progress. Hopefully you still enjoy it as it is now, however. ;)  Monster of the Lake By Thomas Bradford The cabin was dark, its smell damp from the rain. But it was warm. The old woman settled herself across from him. The fire was between them, its crackling tongues casting the dwelling’s light. Throngs of shadows danced on the four walls around them, writhing in motion to the fire’s sparks. Beneath the dampness there was another scent, faint but familiar to him. “Rosehip,” the old woman said, when he asked. Her weary voice was thin, like old reeds which have been worn through by wind and time. *Rosehip.* Impossible to find in this icy wilderness. She must have had it for some time. “You’ve been expecting me,” he said. He still wore his wolf cloak; the thick fur gave off a gentle steam as it dried. The old woman nodded. “I keep some for all my visitors, few as they are in these dying days.” He didn’t reply to this. Slowly his gaze fell from the deepened shadows of her wrinkled face to the mesmerizing sway of the flames. His eyes lifted again when she said, “You mean to cross, do you?” Both were silent a moment before he nodded. “Yes,” he answered. “I have little time to spare and no supplies to waste. I must go across and be on my way.” “I see. You are not the first to insist this. My visitors may be rare, but I have heard your words before. You are not unique, nor are you the first to foolishly trust in a sword to keep you from danger.” There was a pause, interrupted only by the distant voice of the wind outside, and the subtle whispers of the fire. The steel hilt at his side reflected the light. “I do not mean to insult you,” the old woman said. She raised a hand as if to placate him and a few of her many bracelets slid down her forearm. “I only wish to warn you off. There is danger in the path you face. Peril, the likes of which cannot be slain with metal, if indeed at all. This lake is like no other. It does not freeze, nor does it allow all who venture across to reach the other side.” He answered the grim look in her eyes with an exasperated stare. “Then warn me,” he said, “so that I may be off again, old one.” The old woman shook her head. She gathered the folds of her heavy robes and drew them tighter at her neck. “Words do not work on their own here,” she said. “This I learned a long time ago. I must show you, as well. Will you see?” Confused, he replied, “What do you mean?” “I burn the rosehip not just for the warm scent,” the old woman said, her thin voice low. She pulled a small pouch from inside her robes. “Should I add to it, you will see and experience my warning for yourself. There was another who was caught in this lake, you see, and through their eyes you will see the graveness of its threat.” He didn’t speak. They stared at each other for a time; looking into her eyes, he saw no signs of treachery. “Will you see?” She asked him again. Finally, he nodded, and loosening the drawstrings of the small pouch, the old woman took a pinch of what was inside and cast it into the fire. As the smoke in the little dwelling gathered, and enveloped him, he began to hear the old woman speak as if from far away. Somewhere across the lake, perhaps . . . \# In a forest of tall trees there is a clearing, and in this clearing is a lake. Upon the surface of this lake, you float. The forest is quiet, the lake still. Your body gently lifts and falls on the water’s surface, divided between the black depths and the cold air. This division is not equal, with your greater half belonging to the depths. Your ears are submerged, the sounds of the world muffled and distant, beyond your reach. The sky is gray, dark, with the threat of a storm that never comes, a promise of rain that is never fulfilled. A perpetual cold has seeped into your bones, leaving your soul with the longing for fire, and warmth. There is no one besides you. You are floating alone. Yet that is not entirely the truth, because there is something else. Something down below, at the end of the darkness. Something that lives in the depths of the lake, with its eyes eternally poised, searching for you. There’s something in the lake. It wants you down there with it. And now, when the waters are still and nothing disturbs the mirror of their surface, when your thoughts are content, there appears an object rising beneath you. A coil, unfurling from the black void below you. A coil of metal. A hook, rusted and dull, rising at the end of a serpentine chain cast by a corpulent hand. All is quiet, peaceful, and you never suspect the chain’s presence. Taken unawares, like the prey of a stalking animal, you are hooked by this chain. With no chance to cry out, you are pulled beneath the surface without a sound. The waters are undisturbed by your departure. Gently they ebb and flow, their reflection of the sky unbroken in your absence. More perfect. Spiraling, descending, you watch the daylight recede. First it is at arm’s length, and you can still reach for it, then the moment has passed and it is beyond your grasp. With each tug of the chain, it drifts further and further away, as you sink with the hook that has caught you. Darkness covers you, the Stygian world closing in, smothering your sight, severing your hope. You cannot breathe. The darkness is not empty. Certain things dwell there – misshapen things, not living, but neither dead. Aspects of yourself, the dark reflections that exist in you. Thoughts, memories, once forgotten but now remembered in terrible flashes. Like ghoulish specters they rise from the deep, one by one to greet you like old friends, each with a smile on its face. Smiles which bare many teeth. There is no air to scream, no chance to free yourself. Your only recourse is to cry, the tears flowing into the water around you, joining with the lake, making it stronger as you are pulled down. Down. Your only company the phantoms of time, the things you never wanted to remember, but will never fully forget. The daylight has disappeared, the surface gone from you so completely that you are uncertain it was ever real. The world below becomes your reality, the dark water and grinning faces your nightmare, and your mind is filled with the terrible certainty that you will never get out again. Everything is distorted, all clarity lost. You become convinced that if there ever was a world above, somewhere free of this dark place, that that world is not for you. That you belong out of sight, in the darkness. As you think of giving in, of stopping your struggle to let the chain pulling you take its course, one last flicker of clarity does emerge, and you wonder how many times this has happened, and for what reason it continues to happen. What is the purpose of this lake, and why are you there? The chain pulls and pulls. You’re close to the bottom. With no air to breathe, surely you should be dead by now. And yet you live, trapped in this state of suffocation, desperate and denied the salvation of a single breath. Revolving slowly, your eyes catch a glimpse below of the thing that has ensnared you. Just a glimpse, a vague outline of the monstrous creature. Something that looks human. Eyes searing with hatred, a loathing that can never be undone. It grasps the chain, a murderous intensity in its eyes, in that grip, in every movement it makes. This creature wants you dead. It wants nothing more than for you to end. This thing exists because you exist. Its life is tied undeniably to yours, and yet it wants you to die. It does not care, for its sole purpose in being is for you to suffer, and ultimately cease to be. To meet this creature, to descend to the bottom of this lake and stare into its pale face, is to mean your death. Until then, all your efforts will be distorted, reshaped into ridiculous failures unworthy of note. All your dreams will be taken from you, smothered in their cribs while you watch in silence. Perhaps you will fall to the lake’s bottom one day. Perhaps the monster will win in the end. But today the hook’s hold on you isn’t strong enough, and you slip free. Terror takes hold as you flail, scrambling back to the surface, to pull yourself out of this nightmare. The monster remains where it is, for it is patient and sure that one day it will have you. Your ascent from the terrible deep seems never-ending, and you are afraid the surface might have been something you dreamed a long time ago. Or that perhaps the darkness has irreversibly changed you in some way, spoiled you, and now you can never return. You don’t see the surface appear before you. There is no long and ardent journey towards some far-off light. One moment you’re still mired beneath, with the voices and whispers from the past pressing around your head, each getting its final say in before you pass from their domain. Each phantom grinning and chuckling at your pathetic motions. And then you are out, once again floating at the surface, without a splash or a loud gasp for air. You’re just back, like nothing had happened. The chill air drying your face is the only indication you ever left. No relief at your escape, no thankfulness to still be alive – your mind runs with one terrible certainty: It will happen again. Sooner or later there will be another hook, another chain, and you will be pulled under again. True escape will never be possible. You are trapped in this place, trapped in this cycle without end. No. A cycle with one end. The quiet is broken by your screams, the peaceful air filled with your wretched cries. There are people standing at the edge of the lake. You didn’t notice them before, but you see them now. How can they not see you? How does your screams, your thrashing, not get their attention? But they do see. They are not blind. All around the lake’s perimeter the people stand in silence, watching as you struggle, listening as you wail and cry, unable to save yourself. Some of the people have never swam these dark waters; others know the dangers. None can help. They’re consumed, all of them. Concerned with their own problems, their own dreams. They don’t have time for yours. Some of the people leave, disappearing into the fog and the trees, perhaps to wander into lakes of their own one day. The others look away, and hope that your cries will end soon. \# The fire had died. No sounds came from outside, be it rain or wind, and when he turned his head he could see daylight peeking around the hanging hides of the cabin’s entrance. “The night has passed,” the old woman confirmed. She still sat across from him, her legs folded beneath her. Her eyes were closed, and her voice sounded more fragile and timeworn than ever. “The lake beyond this cabin is not quite the same as the one you saw, and felt. Nor is it entirely different. You will not find anyone floating in its center. But I believe, if you were to swim into its depths, you would find a creature that should not exist in this world. One that exists, instead, in many. “Thus my warning to you is given, and thus you may be on your way.” The cabin was cold. No trace of warmth lingered in the air, nor remained in the lining of his cloak. Rather than inquire further, he simply rose from the floor, feeling the slowness of his joints – awakening after hours of dormancy – as he did. He made to leave. “Do you still mean to cross?” the old woman asked from behind him. Turning his head, his hand resting on the heavy hides, he said, “I’ll go around.” With that, he pulled the flaps aside and left the cabin.


I am eight years old.

I’m nineteen.

“Come on, get ready. We’re leaving.” “I have all my stuff by the door, Mom. Mom, can you help me put my sleeves over my gloves? Mom, what time are we supposed to be there? Are we leaving now, Mom? Is Baby Savana coming?” “Oh that’s right! Do you need help with anything?” She smiles at me, hoisting her bag filled with styrofoam cups and thermoses of hot chocolate to her shoulder. “Let’s go.” I sit, all scrunched down in my seat. Mom helps me buckle up because my hands are rendered useless by the gloves. It is hot with all these layers: undershirt, long-sleeved shirt, sweater, jacket, not to mention the heavy boots hanging at the end of my likewise entrapped legs. I am hot and thirsty before we get there. It seems to take forever. Mom says it’s only supposed to be five minutes but she must be wrong. I’m wearing leggings under my jeans, a t-shirt, and jacket. My gloves are in my pocket along with my toque, I’ll pull them on when I get there.

Our whole homeschooling group is here! All of my friends! We laugh and chatter and run for the pile of sleds that Daddy is taking out of the back of the van. Alex gets there before I do and takes the good one. We have to take the one-seaters instead, and I am left with the thin plastic one. That’s okay. It goes the fastest. We run for the hill— or trudge, rather: all of us equally encumbered by our loving mothers. We get out of the Armada and I put my seat down to let my siblings in the back out. They all grab sleds. I take the thin plastic one, used to the occurrence. I’ll get the big one later on. I challenge Mom with a race to the hill. She just laughs, and I march along to the hill, following her and Dad. Then Alex rams into my side and takes off running. I glower at him and chase him across the hard snow, then lose my traction and end up on my rear. He asks if I’m alright. I remain on the ground till he turns around and helps me up. We make our way with wiser speed towards the hill where our siblings are already halfway down. We get on our sleds and holler until one of the dads pushes us off. We wanted to race, but only one dad was near at the time, so we got pushed off separately, but there is still room for competition. Who went the farthest? We do a couple rounds, sweating our way up the hills and screaming our way down. The hill is huge. It only takes a couple seconds to get down. The path up, though, is a different story, struggling through the slushy path with our bundled bodies already hindered, dragging our sleds and not even talking for need of oxygen to our muscles.

I sit down on my sled and shove myself to the tipping point. Just as I get going, I feel hands on my shoulders. Someone shoves me but holds onto my right shoulder just a bit longer. I spin away down the hill, catching sight of Alex tumbling after me for several yards, grinning maliciously. Apparently, scaring me was worth the fall. I let out a scream of delight as my world revolves around me while I fly forwards.

“Daddy, can you spin me?” He does, and I shriek, holding on to my sled for dear life, when a thought comes to me. I pry my fingers off the handles and thrust them valiantly into the air. For a moment I am the bravest kid in the homeschool group, before my sled stops short and ejects me onto my side. I roll to a stop, spitting the gritty snow out of my mouth, and try to get my bearings, then get smacked on the cheekbone by my errant sled. Tears start to my eyes, but Marian and Sara come down nearby and help me up. They assure me that I looked pretty cool before I fell.

Climbing the hill is easier now. It’s not nearly as high as what it used to seem like. I can keep up with Mom now. Tyler asks if we’ll pull him up. We both laugh and inform him that he can use his own legs, but we slow down graciously so he doesn’t have to walk up alone. Phil charges the hill as we reach the top, holding a long sled in front of him, and takes a running dive. I laugh. There is no way I could do that now— I have become way too sensible. Fear would stop me. Also, my womanly assets are a bit of a deterrent.

I grip the long sled that I have stolen from Alex tightly and dive over the edge of the hill. The idea that this might be foolishness has not yet entered my mind, only exhilaration and adrenaline. I fly headfirst and land on the sled. A grunt escapes me as I make contact with the packed track. Sailing down the hill is marvellous. I get some snow in my face, but if I keep my lips pinched and eyelids scrunched so I can barely see, I am fine. I make my way back up the hill and find Nathan at the top, waiting for a sled. His little brother, Elijah, or Elisha, I could never remember, leaps down the hill the same way I did. He tries to stop him but can’t, then warns me seriously that going down on my stomach could be dangerous. I point out the obvious fact— that I am dead yet and in fact feel quite fine. He nods and says I will never know until one day I go to a doctor and find out that I have broken something inside of myself by hitting all the rocks and ramps with my stomach. As a fellow eight-year-old, his word is nearly gospel, so I resolve not to do it again.

“We’re all done now, you can go for one more slide.” I beg Daddy to push me, and he says that he supposes he can push me one more time. I ask him to do it harder than all the other times so I go even faster and maybe break the farthest record. I come up short and disappointed, but when I get to the top, every feeling is put aside for the hot chocolate in styrofoam cups that is sure to get spilled over my gloves. I resolve to take my last slide in silence. It is a strange feeling, flying along in the brisk air, and I whisper a thanks to God for a fun afternoon. The sun sparkles on the snow we haven’t trampled, and I can’t help it. I break my resolve and let out a whoop of pure joy. It was inevitable.


The choice was simple. I could pull the trigger, one shot, and I could save my family. Everyone but her, the only one I truly loved. Were they worth it? Were those who pushed me down, made me a depressed lonely soul worth saving just so I could save the few I love? I checked the time on my watch. 3:48. 12 minutes left. I clicked off the safety, and walked up to her. "I want you to shoot, honey. I'll be with you up there, someday. I'm not worth all of their lives. Not all of them. I love you, but you have to let go," she whispered to me. I started sobbing, and sat there for what seemed like only a minute, just to spend her last moments of her life with her. I checked the watch again. 3:55. I was running out of time, I had to choose. I was torn, and no decision would leave me happy. I paced around the room, trying to find a solution, to make things right, to not have to make the choice that would eventually kill me either way, that was all my fault in the first place. It was 3:58. 2 more minutes. I pulled the gun up to her head. "I'm sorry for this. I'm sorry for everything, for all of this. It wasn't your fault. I love you." I felt the trigger for awhile, and just thought. Thought about what I was going to do, thought about what I could do. I took the gun, put it up to her head, and slowly pushed down on the trigger.


Resolve. At the academy it was stated that this was a characteristic that set him apart from the other candidates. Crawling through muddy water and beneath barbed wire became another day in the office for him. In their early 20’s, the other students knew little of loss or pain. Cowboys from small farming towns mostly, seeking the glory from the heroism promised to them by the officers that came to the career fair along with the FFA teaching students how to properly milk cattle. It was no surprise that half of them opted to pursue a badge instead of reaching for an utter. There was no drive for them, no deeper meaning for them to be here. No resolution to the restlessness they felt aside from the escape from the clutch of the small farming towns that held them down like a cinderblock tied to the leg of someone who has upset the mob. Jon was the exception; he replayed the night on repeat in his head. A call received 1 AM that he chose to ignore thinking it was another telemarketer like the one that had bothered him the night before. The next morning, he woke up to 23 missed calls from his mother, 32 from his father, and one, one lone missed call from his younger sister, Ashley. He started with this one, thinking it odd that the volume of calls was not as high as the others. Her voice sounded scattered and timid like she could not properly collect her thoughts “Hey sorry to wake you up I’m… I’m probably being paranoid, but I’m walking home from this Alt-J concert I went to and I swear this guy is like… he keeps making the same turns as me… anyway wanted to pretend I was calling the cops to see if it would work so ignore this next part; HI, YES OFFICER I THINK THAT THIS GUY IS LIKE FOLLOWING ME HO….” The message cut out abruptly. Jon cursed under his breath. Her ancient I-phone had a terrible battery life, and half the time he tried to contact her it was dead. He tried the latest message from his father “JON WAKE UP, ASHLEY IS MISSING, SHE DIDN’T COME HOME LAST NIGHT WE NEED TO KNOW IF SHE WENT TO STAY WITH YOU.” The blood in Jon’s veins grew thick and he felt as if he might faint. He tried to find leads himself after it happened. How could he not? He used the last known location of his sister on Find my Friend, the corner of 5 th  and Cedar, and wandered for hours hoping to find some shred of evidence that everyone else had somehow overlooked, to no avail. When Jon failed, he crawled into a bottle of navy strength gin and stayed there until one night while on his usual bender, the Alt-J song “Tesselate” came on the radio, and he was instantly reminded of why he was there in the first place. The next week he applied to the police academy. Jon raised his hand in a small classroom filled with other police academy candidates. The students behind him could see that the first two knuckles on his right hand were bruised from sparring. Jon had gained notoriety for taking the exercises a little too seriously. Like many in his situation he sought out self-inflicted forms of physical harm to cope with the insurmountable thought that it was his fault his sister was still missing. “Use a calm voice and build a rapport with the individual by telling them basic information about yourself and asking them about themselves.” The class was in suicide prevention, and the question related to what an officer should say when a tortured soul was threatening to jump. Under his breath Jon muttered, “That’s what they did for me at least.” “Sorry, what was that, Jon?” “That’s what I would do, at the very least, sir.” Upon receiving his badge, Jon sought out trouble. He sped towards active shootings and received three complaints about unnecessary brutality when arresting a dealer attempting to peddle something stronger than marijuana to a minor. While not strictly by the book, the actions, in his mind at least, were justified. A slap on the wrist or community service for someone creating a drug habit in children was just not enough for Jon to be satisfied, so again the bruises on the first two knuckles of his right hand formed. His captain disagreed with his self-imposed sense of justice, and his antics frequently landed him in hot water. So today, when Jon was called in to answer for his latest antics he made the walk across the office like a dog with his tail tucked between his legs to the condescending looks of the other officers, including his own partner, who didn’t share his affinity for going overboard and was frequently the reason he was turned in. “Have a seat there, Jon.” The captain took out a folder of all his indiscretions and slammed it down onto the desk with an authoritative crash. “Do you know what this is Jon?” “Fan mail?” “Perhaps letters from admiring parents thanking me for keeping their children off drugs?” “Or better yet, an apology letter from you to your ex-wife, begging her to come back and promising not to spend New Year’s Eve in the office chastising your best officer instead of with your only daughter.” “Enough, you smug prick.” “I’m suspending you from field work, effective immediately, if I see you away from that desk in the next month, you’re done, is that clear son?” “As crystal.” Jon slumped back down in his chair and stared at all the paperwork on his desk leaning like a tower with poor foundation in downtown San Francisco. Jon turned on two radios, one for music and the other the police radio he was so accustomed to listening to in hopes that some form of incident would call him into battle. The static on radio 2 crackled “reports of a drunk driver heading eastbound on I-8” Jon flipped through the case files, and lethargically typed out incident reports on his computer. As the night wore on more and more officers left on patrol or to go home to their respective families until Jon was the only one remaining. In the spotlight of his desk lamp, he felt like one of the suspects he had interrogated so many times before. Alt-J came onto radio 1 “Breezeblocks”. Jon opened the drawer to his desk and stared at the bottle of navy strength gin he kept there to remind himself of how far he had come. From the front pocket of his uniform, he took out his 5 year coin, then used it to pop the cork out of the top of the bottle. They say it only takes one sip for an alcoholic to return to their former condition regardless of how much time had elapsed. A familiar numb came over him and the pain from the song softened slightly and made the night a little more bearable. The volume of the bottle waned like a moon hiding from astronomers as the days grew longer, until half of it sat empty on the desk. Jon rested his head on a pillow sized stack of papers and drifted slowing into a restless sleep. The static from radio 2 stirred him from his drunken stupor “Missing person, last known location corner of 5 th  and Cedar. White female, late 20’s.” Jon sat up like a child who had just discovered what happened when you stick a fork into an electrical outlet. He got to his feet, without hesitation holstered his gun and stumbled past the other desks, dropping lamps and paperwork as he walked. He unlocked his squad car and after multiple tries guided the keys into the ignition. In a craze he sped past stop signs and made his way toward the crossroad his sister had disappeared from years before. A white sedan sped fast through the intersection, trying to catch a yellow light. The driver was a man of small stature with a large beard and square framed transition glasses. Jon dropped his phone between the seats and did not care to ease up on the gas pedal as he fished for the device in between them. Thinking he was invincible with the sirens on, Jon slammed into the driver’s site of the small sedan and sent both vehicles into a whirlwind of bent metal and glass shards. Recovering more quickly than the other driver, Jon emerged from his car with a sense of dread that filled his lungs, displacing the cold air of the winter night. He stumbled towards the window of the white sedan and cringed at the blood dripping down the man’s forehead. Shards of glass littered his clothing, and the airbag failed to deploy, meaning that the combined momentum from the two vehicles was transferred directly into the skull of the dead man in the driver’s seat. Jon checked for a pulse, mostly out of habit, knowing the answer would not bring him peace. Nothing. Jon tried the handle, but it was fused to the car. He reached into the right pocked of the man through the window to check for identification, and when his hand emerged again small cuts from the glass added to the bruised decorations on his hand like some demented Christmas tree. Joseph P. Kosh. 144323 Cedar Street. Jon paused. The voice from his instructor rang in his ears. “52 percent of all car accidents happen within a 5 minute radius of the residence.” Jon typed the address into his phone, and sure enough 4 blocks over stood the residence of Joseph P. Kosh. His career was over, he knew this. Beating up a drug dealer was nothing when compared to murdering a civilian on New Year’s Eve while driving drunk in a squad car. In his altered state Jon decided the most logical course of action would be to try to explain to the family what had happened to their father, or son, or uncle. He owed them that, at least some feeble attempt to describe why he was driving in the state he was in. He stumbled the 4 blocks to the house, an old brick home that was poorly kept with faded paint and ancient windowpanes that clung to the house for dear life. Jon limped up the steps and made it to the front door. He knocked. No answer. He tried again. Nothing. I’ll leave a note, it won’t be long before someone reports the accident, and the captain finds a way to hang me out to dry for good. Jon took a small lockpick set out from the inside of his wallet. Not strictly standard issue, but when the occasion arose the kit was invaluable. A few turns later he was in. He stumbled into the small house. The floor was littered with Bud Light cans, and an ashtray overflowed on the small wooden coffee table. The place reeked of nicotine and something else that Jon could not quite place. Mold perhaps? He clicked on the light from his toolbelt and scanned the house for signs of other occupants. Nothing. Walking through the living room he passed a small bathroom that smelled of urine and middle school body spray. Continuing down the hall he found the bedroom. Above the bed was a picture of a clown smiling brightly in the florescent light cast upon him. “Bit of a creep Joseph” Jon mumbled to himself. Quickly regretting his decision to enter the home of his victim he scanned the room for a piece of paper onto which he could scribble a half-hearted apology for any relation that might care to know how Joseph had passed. Upon the desk in the corner a laptop stood open. Jon moved the mouse, deciding that an email would do if it meant spending one less second in this god forsaken clown sewer. The laptop came to life to an opened email from Southwest airlines. A one-way flight to Mexico, red eye, leaving at 12pm. Odd, Jon thought to himself, some form of new year’s resolution perhaps? A new start in a different country? Jon shined the light around the room further to make sure he was alone. His light caught the closet, the sliding door to which stood open. A perfect row of multicolored sweaters stood lined up with individual tags on each one. Leaving the desk, Jon began inspecting the tags, starting with the one furthest to the left of the closet. Sarah P. 1991 – Pearl Jam. He tried the next, Kristy S. 1992 – Nirvana. The tags continued, one for each year, always a woman’s name, always with a concert corresponding to the year scribbled on the tag. Jon’s hands began to shake, and from down the street he heard sirens approaching. “No, no, no, no, no, no, not yet” 2003, 2013, 2017….. then finally, 2022. Jon stared in disbelief at the red sweater he had bought his sister 5 years prior, upon the tag, in neat small handwriting were the words “Ashley P. 2022 – Alt J.”


Bitter Day Bitter Coffee He started his day like any other person that enjoys a nice cup of folders would. He wakes up at 5 a.m. turns on the morning news and gets a pot of coffee on. He goes out to the front porch to grab his newspaper but something is off. There is a group of older teenagers hanging out down the street on the corner. Only they are there way early. He already woke up today with this feeling he couldnt shake nor describe and the suspicious kids down on the corner didnt help. He decided to write it off and continue on to make his cup of coffee. Only to realize he is basically out of sugar, which didnt help that feeling either, he decides to do without and sit down to his daily dose of caffeine and information. As he sat and drank his bitter coffee and watched this story on the news he continued to get more and more disgusted. Thinking about his life he had no kids no wife, Nothing to leave behind. He was always letting his mind drift on how things could be better but they never were an he never much tried. Nonetheless He was watching a story about a woman not too far from where he lives and she was raped, robbed, and left for dead. She was found not 2 miles from where he was sitting. Feeling so hopeless and helpless for her he stood up and began pacing. Everyday he hears these storys but this one was different it was so close to home and he was almost sure who did it. As he was pacing back and forth and figuring how his life has been meaningless, but maybe he could do something here ,He grabbed his .38 special he keeps in the drawer in the bedroom as he paced a little more an thought about these kids, how they feel so entitled to do the things they do he started heading down to the corner block where these kids were earlier. He was in a blind rage. He couldnt belive the inhumanity these boys could have. As he drew nearer he heard them laughing and joking and smoking. As they see him approach all laughter ceases maybe it was the look in the mans eye. One of the older teenagers looks like leader asks "What the fuck do you want?". He responded in a way he normally wouldnt have but the story of that woman just wouldnt leave his mind. In an instant he drew his .38 all the other teenagers took off running but the leader. He was in such a blind rage unsure what he was doing the barrel of the gun had a slight shake to it. The leader asked "You gonna do somethin or what?" Right after asking that the leader whipped out his own gun getting a shot off but not before being hit by the .38 the mad had already drew. As they both lie there 10 feet apart in the middle of the street at 5:30 a.m.


I know it defiantly needs work. I'm really not even crazy about it. Its my first attempt at some first person perspective work and I gotta say, props to people who write first person, its difficult. I deal well with constructive criticism, just don't be an asshole. Oh ans also its my first reddit post ever. :P Well here it is: “It was the coldest night of the year. At least it felt like it. Well actually, every night feels like the coldest night of the year when your family can’t afford two blankets in the Yukon Wasteland. In the Yukon its kill or be killed… viciously. The average life expectancy of that shit hole of a habitat is twenty-three. Twenty-fucking-three. Lottery winners say our good ole pals here in the Hearth live up to a hundred years old! But anyways it was a damn cold night, I believe in November of 2308, correct me if I’m wrong Meg!” Meg replied, “I believe in October, Scotty” “Anyways in October of 2308, the senators came rolling through looking for their weekly tribute except this time, turns out they wanted people, and not just any people, children. The damn Hearth was too lazy to work their own fucking wheat fields. Yup me and Meg were two of the lucky bastards to be taken from our homes in the middle of the night without any prior knowledge or warning. My own parents didn’t even know I was taken. You have no idea what it’s like knowing that you will never see your family ever again. But I think both me and Meg can agree that our lucky little “extended work trip” saved our lives.


Growing up, I was always appreciated. Never once was I told I wasn't good enough, or that I wouldn't amount to anything. My parents weren't like that, my father was a pastor and my mother stayed at home raising us kids. They always looked after us, did what was best for us. And back when we didn't have much family was all we had, sounds a little cliche but it's true. And you would do anything for your family. August 2013 "Antony, come hear," those few words changed my life forever. My father was the type of man who liked to keep his cards close to his chest, never telling anyone anything if he didn't have to. My mother was the only exception to that rule, but the rest of us knew what was really going on. Me and my brother pretended like we didn't, but we did. When he called me over I didn't know if I was getting disowned or rewarded, and that was how he liked to have it. "Antony, me and your mother have been talking and..." the way my father spoke is how I always imagined someone like Caesar talking, a voice of confidence and control that just made you not just want to listen to him, but like you had no choice but to listen to him. "We both think it's time you start helping me down at the church." Now to a normal sixteen-year-old boy, spending their after school time in an old church may not sound like all that much fun. But to me, it was a dream come true, I would get paid to hang out with my dad and I would finally be let into the family business. Little did I know what a rude awakening I was in for down the line. After all, not everyone's father was the head of a major New York crime family. February 2014 By this time the screams and muffled gunshots coming from the back of the church had become less than a mild bother, most of the time I didn't even realize they were there. In a world like this one with violence and death on a daily basis, you had to grow a spine real quick. My father had me keeping the books, making sure that the real one and the one the cops would get if they ever ask were consistent enough to not seem suspicious. I was always good at math, a skill that the rest of my family didn't share. So while my brother Romulus was being groomed to take over the business someday; all intimidation and muscle, I was becoming a cheap teenaged accountant. And as hard as it may be to believe I was actually fine with where I was, unlike most people in the crime family, I didn't have ambitions. I didn't want to be in charge, I didn't need to be. I got to stay in my small room in the back of the church with a desk and a lamp, all that I needed. March 2019 Flash forward five years. Five years of me doing the exact same thing, crunching numbers and putting them in the books. The family was stable, it wasn't what it was but we were doing alright. But that all changed when it came time for my father to name his successor, he didn't give the seat to my brother, who he had been raising into the kind of leader he was… no, he said my name. All and all I was surprised, honoured, but surprised. And when I asked him why he chose me over my brother, he told me, "I don't want another tough brute running this family Antony, we've had enough of that and now they way we make our living is going extinct." He wanted someone smart to help run the family back into its prime, and he chose me to do it. I couldn't just say no, I wanted to but men like my father didn't accept no. So if I couldn't get out of it I would just have to do what he wanted, and I would have to do it the best I possibly could. I respected my father too much to half-ass a job he entrusted me with, even if it was one I didn't want. My brother wasn't too pleased with my father's choice. And I couldn't really blame him, imagine that your entire life, you believed that you had something as a sure thing and then when the moment finally comes it's given to someone else. He felt betrayed, and when our father wasn't around he made sure I knew it, "you scrawny mother fucker, I don't know how you did this but I'm going-." But as soon as dad was back in the room, he went back to being the voiceless thug he actually was, "You're doing the family proud, Antony." He didn't have to like Dads decision, but there was absolutely no way he could question it, not if he wanted to stay in the family. And once he was out of the family he lost all protections, and you don't do the kind of business he's done without making a few enemies. It sounds cliche but it's true. It only took a few months after the announcement that I would be the new Boss for my father to decide that it was time for him to retire. One hand I agreed with him, he was getting older and he didn't need the kind of stress that came with the job. On the other hand, him retiring meant I would have to take over sooner than I was expecting. I thought I would have enough time to prepare myself, I wasn't ready to run the family yet. I always thought my dad would die before giving up his seat, that's just the kind of man he was, he would give everything he had. But he decided to give it up while he was still breathing, and I wasn't quite sure what to do with that, but I didn't have to think about it long. They got me when I was walking home from the church. I should have been safe. But no, one minute you're walking down the street, the next you're chloroformed and thrown in the back of a van. The next thing I remember is waking up in the cliche mob torture warehouse tied to a chair. I mean this place had it all, broken windows, in the middle of nowhere, lots of floor space, the works. At first, I was alone, it's a technique that lets the victim realize the gravity of the situation, let their fear build up. But it didn't really bother me, when my kidnappers finally decided to show themselves, I was entirely disappointed. The pair, a man and a woman, were wearing these weird anime masks with blank smiling expressions. If they were wearing masks that meant I was going home alive and that they would be hunted down like dogs. "Hello, Mr Blackwell," the woman, talked first, calm, clearly a professional. Fortunately for myself, being the son of a crime boss made being kidnapped a real possibility growing up, and learning not to be afraid of stuff like this was just a part of it. My father would have me kidnapped a couple of times a year, just for a situation like this one. "You are going to give up your seat as the head of the Blackwell family and pass it down to your brother." You have no idea how much I wanted to give it up, just to get out of this damp warehouse if nothing else. But my father was the God of his own little world, and if you disappointed him it didn't matter how much he loved you, he would smite you. "And why would I do that." "Because if you don't, we'll carve your face up so good your own mother won't be able to recognise you," I had heard of this lady before, The Plastic Surgeon. She could make anyone's reflection a grotesque stranger if they didn't do what her client wanted, only ever touching the face, she wouldn't lay a finger on anything else. And now it seemed like it was my turn under her knife. "So… whats is going to be kid?" "I'm afraid I'm going to have to say no." And that's when I got the first of many punches. I'm pretty sure she broke my nose, not that it matters in the grand scheme of things. "Alright, that was your one and only chance. I don't care if in five minutes you cry out for me to stop, there are no second chances with me." And that's when the beatings began, up until she said the words that really made me nervous, "go get the belt sander." Over the next six months, she would take various sharp objects, from screws to sandpaper and shove them in my face, stabbing, slicing, and grinding away at my identity. She was actually quite inventive, something I could respect. Eventually, I couldn't even feel it anymore, it just became the only constant thing I had to look forward to. "Hahahaha!," it was a little scary, "hahaha! C'mon, is that the best you got? You didn't even scrape bone this time." The pain became my life, and why not try to enjoy it more than the masochist torturing me? Near the end, I'm pretty sure I had felt all the pain The Plastic Surgeon could deal out. But eventually, every party must end. “I'll admit you're tough for someone who looks so fragile,” at this point, I couldn't even talk, the skin of my face was more like a mask in itself, hanging on by a few threads. "But I'm afraid it's now time for our parting gift,” and that’s when she wheeled out the acid. You would think that your flesh burning, melting back in place would be my wake up call, but I was just happy to feel again. They dropped me off in the bad part of town, in nothing but a blanket and one of their masks to cover myself and keep my face in place. Some people at this point would have given up, no clothes, no face, a family who thinks your most likely dead. I had basically nothing… Except for a plan. “And now, we find ourselves at the end result of that plan,” in the empty, dimly lit restaurant the Blackwell crime family's dinner of twelve was interrupted by an unexpected thirteenth guest. Wearing the most audacious suit he could find: a bright red jacket and neon green pants, and the same mask his kidnappers left him with. His voice was flamboyant and excited The masks solid expression surveyed the room, looking at his captive audience. Every member at the table was bound and gagged, completely at the mercy of the prodigal son returned. “I mean it wasn't a hard leap for me to figure out that it was my own brother who hired The Plastic Surgeon. Who else would have wanted me out of the picture?” he stopped in front of a young man, sitting at the table, with fear in his eyes. “Just admit it,” he said pulling the tape off his brother's mouth. He was breathing heavily, sweat starting to form on his brow, "Alright Antony, I'm sorry-" “Oh wait, It doesn't really matter if you confess or not,” with that he cut the young man's throat, blood falling from his neck and into the young man's dinner as he struggled to breathe, drowning in his own blood. "But the plan doesn't stop there… after those long months in the warehouse, I thought I had gone insane. But then I realized, insanity is just a different form of clarity. And believe me, I am just starting to see things much more clearly. As soon as I figured out it was Romulus I knew I was going to kill him, I just had to figure out where and when. Lucky for me the annual family meeting was coming up, and even though I never attended one, I did all the books, so your "secret" meeting place," he said making air quotes with his hands, still holding the bloody knife, "was always just that old Italian restaurant dad used to take me to." As he talked he walked around the table, "next I needed to hire some muscle, fortunately, the family has no shortage of people they've pissed off." With a snap of his fingers, four men with gas tanks emerged from the shadows. "Now," he said addressing his father at the head of the table, "in a mobster movie, this would be the time that I say that this is just business, nothing personal… but," he lifts his mask to reveal the grotesque, scared, sliced, burned, and melted collection of flesh he had for a face. "This is extremely personal," on his command the men started pouring the gasoline on the members of the family. He pulled a matchbook from his pocket, tossing it from one hand to another, "now dad, I really don't want to do this, like I said… you were always nice to me. The best father I could have asked for," he takes a match from the matchbook. Lighting it, the match reflected off of the plastic, his plastic mask glowing in the firelight, “but this isn’t about me,” he drops the match and the entire table is set ablaze, the muffled screams of the other men echo throughout the room, his father just stared at him, his expression unreadable as he burned, “I’m sorry dad, but something happened in that warehouse. I didn't want this job at first, but the more they tortured me, told me to give it up the more I wanted to hold onto it. So that's what I'm going to do, make your dream come true, bring this family into the future better than it ever was… bu In order to do that I need a fresh start, the old way, your ways nearly destroyed our way of life, so I'm taking all the old pieces of the board. And we both know that the best way to clear the board is the best way to deal with anything… burn it down.


"I'm sorry. I know, I should've turned back miles ago. I just have this almost pathological compulsion to keep going forward. I simply despise having to retrace my steps. I'd rather take the long way around than go backward even a little. You remember when I forgot my bag on that work trip, and rather than drive the 20 minutes home, I opted to buy all new stuff, even a new bag?" He looked at himself briefly in the rearview mirror and nodded. "Thanks for understanding, Norman! You're welcome, Norman," he nodded to himself again and smirked. It was one of the peculiar habits he'd picked up on his many, many solo work trips. When the silence was too stifling or the road too long and empty, he'd sometimes have a little chat with himself to diffuse the tension. Rarely did it work. "This time, maybe I should have gone back," he added with a waiver.

He looked out on the long stretch of open road where his car had stopped. Flat and perfectly straight. It faded off into a stifling darkness even his high beams couldn’t reach. Then he glanced in the mirror at the road behind him. It was much darker but just as straight and flat. He thought he could see the faintest speck off in the distance. The little sign catching a bit of moonlight, perhaps? It had gleamed brightly in the headlights from his car. A crisp sheet of white paper tacked to a rotted, wooden post with an arrow and the word help scrawled beneath it. There were others too, many more, posted here and there along these desolate roads he'd been driving. Each scratched out as if written by a child. He shuddered. It had reminded him of a news story he'd read. Arrows painted on the road that all lead to a dead body. A woman was found killed beside her car but there was no sign of anyone else, just a pile of ash beside the body. Police has searched the woods, but found nothing. Rumors spread of cults and cannibals, or creatures in amongst the trees. The thought made his heart race more than he would admit.

That was far away, he reasoned, up North in a mountainous area of Vermont. And the arrows were painted on the road, not scrawled on pieces of paper. These signs were not that. But still, it was hard to ignore the similarity.

He checked his phone for the hundredth time, wondering if, against all odds, it had found a signal. Of course not. The last time it had registered anything, he'd been following directions off the highway to a gas station marked "temporarily closed," which in his experience meant "forever closed," but he decided to check anyway.

Indeed, the place was long gone, even boarded up. It was several miles from the highway so by the time he confirmed his suspicions, he was well and truly off course. He continued forward though, reasoning that there must be a town somewhere in this direction—anything but relenting and turning back.

Each mile he drove brought him closer to the point of no return, where if he had finally decided to go back, he would have run out of gas before getting there. He’d given himself no other option, the only way out was through. So he forged on, watching the gas needle slip lower and lower.

Over the years, he had driven many rental cars on his trips and found them all to be similar but different. They were all generic, domestic-made sedans in some innocuous color like slate gray or navy blue. The controls were all in relatively the same place. They were equally uncomfortable. But each had some little quirk, like a punchy accelerator or very touchy brakes. This one seemed to guzzle up the end of a tank of gas.

Or was it just this place that guzzled up time?

This area was broadly called the interior of a state that resided in what was also called the interior of the country, and he thought those descriptions seemed apt. It was landlocked and made up of endless flat planes of farmland stretching for miles in all directions. A patchwork of thousand-acre fields lined up perfectly like massive green tiles on a kitchen floor. There was something uncanny and disorienting about the repetition. The few roads that bisected the fields were miles apart and flanked by sky-high rows of feed corn. It made the drive eerie and suffocating, like traveling down a long, empty hallway. It was an unsettling sensation, being in the open air but so closed in at the same time.

Every few miles, he'd reach an intersection and strain his eyes looking for any sign of life, but nothing. Turn after turn and mile after mile, he had gone deeper and deeper into the green abyss as his rental sedan greedily drank up the precious fuel and his phone searched for a connection in vain. Eventually, with little fanfare or ceremony, the car shuddered, lurched, and died. A little light with a gas pump blinked on the dash. The silence closed in around the car to join the dark. "Lucky it's a warm night, huh, Norman? Yes indeed, Norman," he said, looking all around again for any sign of an approaching car. He couldn't decide if he was genuinely hoping to see one or not. He flicked on the hazard lights. They flashed red and yellow, lighting up the rows of corn and making the stalks twist into looming, emaciated figures encircling the car. His mind flashed back to the story about Vermont, and again, his heart began to race.

He looked away and tried to calm himself, noticing his hands were also shaking.

"It's okay, I'm sure someone will come along. And if not, it will be morning soon enough." He checked his phone again and relented that morning was still a long way off.

Norman leaned back in the chair and breathed deeply shutting his eyes. He thought to himself that the chair was more comfortable than he remembered and that his eyes were more tired than he had noticed. Driving on unfamiliar roads was surprisingly exhausting. He never realized it until he was done. It was both painfully monotonous and surprisingly tense. You were always on watch for something, anything. Before he could recognize it was happening, Norman was asleep.

He woke abruptly to the sound of screeching metal. The car was brightly lit, and for a moment, Norman thought it was daytime, but he quickly realized it was headlights behind him. They were old square lights spattered with mud. One of them was more dimly lit than the other. They were wide apart and relatively high, probably a truck or a van, he thought. He heard the vehicle door slam shut, and a figure stepped out of the darkness, silhouetted by the light beams. Norman twisted in his seat to look over his shoulder rather than through the mirror. The man was big and walked like he was tired. His shoulders were crooked, and his arms and huge hands hung down like they were heavy and made of stone. Norman stumbled out of the car and spun to face the approaching figure. "Uh, h- hello?" His voice quivered.

"Broke down?" A slow, gravelly voice came from the massive silhouette. "Want me to take a look?" "Oh… uh… okay. Thank you." He replied, backing away ever so slightly.

The man stepped forward, his face finally being lit enough to see. His skin was lined and weathered, like old cowhide. His hair was short and disheveled. Norman could smell sweat and soil. "I'm, uh, Norman." "Hank." "Hi, Han-" "So, how'd you end up out here?" The large man grumbled. "I - I got off the highway for gas back at exit 4B." "That's the Ryann's place, been closed for years now. Too bad, it was the only spot for gas that side of the valley." "Yeah, I realized that a bit too late." "A bit, indeed. That's something like twenty miles from here." "I kept hoping I'd find a town or something, but…" "Nothing 'round these parts. Just land." He stepped around to the engine. "You gonna pop the hood?" "Oh," Norman flustered, "I just ran out of gas." "Ah, I see. I can help ya with that," the man said as he began lumbering back to his truck. "Well, come on," he added gruffly upon seeing Norman staying back.

"Oh, uh, okay," he reluctantly agreed and followed.

Hank pulled back a heavy canvas sheet caked in dirt lying across the truck bed. Beneath it was a tangle of metal, wood, and rusted tools. He began rummaging through the heap, huffing and grunting as he did, the tools scratching against the old metal truck.

He stopped his search with is back to Norman and asked, "You seen those signs? Out on the roads, with the arrows?" Norman froze. His eyes widened, and his body tensed. "Yes," he barely managed to say. "Strange, huh?" "Yes… strange." They both went silent. Norman's frantic breathing was the only sound.

"You know who put them there?" The older man asked darkly.

"I believe I do," Norman said in almost a whisper. Hank turned slowly to face the other man, who was standing closer than he had realized.

"I did," said Norman as a thin smile crossed his face.

The knife glinted once in the light before sinking into Hank's abdomen. Then again, frighteningly fast into his lung and several other places across his torso. Hank swung out at Norman but missed as he collapsed, his breathing ragged and the world going dark around him.

He saw Norman's smiling face briefly once more before slipping away into shock.

"Job well done, Norman! Why thank you, Norman." He said with an excited waiver in his voice. He took some deep breaths and looked out over the expanse of dark emptiness. So alone in it again. He would give himself a moment to relish this. These trips didn't always prove so fruitful. The right conditions - somewhere remote, dark, and desolate with no phone service - often meant no one stumbled into his traps.

His heart was still racing, and his hands still shaking, but he knew he should move quickly now. His signs were still out there directing prey to this spot, and there was always the slightest chance someone else would come before he could leave.

That had happened once in Appalachia, but he'd been in a little parking lot off the road then. If the drivers had seen anything, they didn't stop to investigate. That area had been almost too easy. The murder didn't even make it beyond the local paper.

He opened the trunk and took out a gas canister, then removed his shirt, splattered with Hank's blood, and tossed it on the road. He gathered some alcohol wipes from his bag, the one he'd bought as a replacement when he'd forgotten his, and wiped his hands and the knife, then his face and hair, dropping the used wipes on his bloody shirt. He returned the knife to the bag and fished out a lighter instead. He quickly refilled the gas tank from the canister, saving the last bit for the pile of bloodied things in the road, which he liberally doused in fuel. He learned early on that the alcohol wipes are quite flammable, so only a good splash was necessary. No need to create a roaring beacon.

Norman then ran through his checklist as he donned a fresh shirt. He'll return to the town where he swapped license plates. A bonus to being in a rental is that the make and model are usually surprisingly easy to find a substitute plate someplace inconspicuous. He'd added this as a new precaution with the rise in popularity of ring cams and the like. If he's caught on tape, the plate will match the car but not the driver.

Drop the rental off with the night drop box and collect his car from around the block where he parked it, all getting him home by midday.

He thought about the signs he posted again. Now that it was complete and they had delivered him Hank, he had to decide whether to leave them or not. He didn't need to worry about fingerprints or DNA; they were too hard to gather from paper, plus his weren't on file. It will undoubtedly change the game if they connect them back to his work in Vermont or any of the other places, but that could be fun. He knew this was how they get caught, the others, but there was still something thrilling about that possibility. His heart raced again like it did whenever he thought about Vermont. His first national story. Regardless, he'll need to follow the signs back to the highway. He can decide as he goes. He had a thought then, leaving them might mean more press coverage. That would be nice.

Ok, they would stay. He was giddy at the thought.

He wished he could wait a bit longer and savor the moment, but he must start working on his next trip. He lit his clothes and the wipes on fire before returning the lighter to the bag and zipping it shut again. He closed the trunk and turned to look back at Hank once more.

"Thanks, Hank." Back in the car, he pulled away from the side of the road and back into the dark as he made an unfamiliar maneuver for him, a U-turn.

"It doesn't count as turning back when the job is done. Right, Norman? Absolutely right, Norman."

His drive to the highway was uneventful. He passed only one car along the way, several miles and several turns from Hank. He had kept his high beams on, a tactic he liked to use to blind the driver so they would be forced to look away as they passed. He had a fleeting thought: Maybe he should go back? The moment the thought entered his head, though, he knew he would not. If that driver found the body, and that was a big if, he would be long gone. No turning back. ---------- The other driver cursed as she struggled to keep her car on the road during the onslaught of blinding light. She was tired and in a bad mood. She hated night shifts at the hospital and just wanted to be home.

The spots in her eyes had just cleared when she reached her next turn. She squinted. Across the intersection was a piece of paper pointing in the other direction. It read help. She looked down the road where it signaled and saw nothing. She turned for home. She had done enough today.

Then she braked and cursed again but at herself this time. And she turned back.

She followed the sign. It lead her to another and then another and finally to a horror. There was so much blood. She froze for a minute. Not because of the blood but because of what might have done it. Was it still there? She suddenly recognized the truck and then the man. She leaped from the car and rushed out. "Hank!?! Hank!" She looked for the source of all the blood, but it was too dark. What happened to you?" He was so cold—too cold. She didn't expect a response.

She scrambled back to her feet, needing to get her trauma kit from the car, when she screamed. Something had grabbed her leg. It was Hank, he wasn't dead.