                                                  The Attack     A warm sunny day though breezy. White clouds fill the sky changing shapes by the minute. The Finding is half what it was yesterday, and while alert, are expecting nothing of any consequence to happen today. Officer Jones is on duty, and his peaceful outlook as well as those of his other officers, are  blown away when Officer Jones receives a call from the Finding sentries hidden in the Southwest outskirts informing him drones are in the area. Their exact number is unknown. Immediately the call for masks is given. All search the skies but see nothing. Officer Jones calls the other quadrants and tells them an unknown number of drones were sighted in the Southwest quadrant. All eyes scan the sky searching, momentarily distracted by the sounds of rustling leaves as flocks of birds burst from the trees into the skies above. Suddenly shouts of “there….there”  sound from each of the quadrants over the open phone lines.  Others point to the sky trying to pinpoint the exact location of the incoming drones. From a distance, yesterday’s drones looked like birds peacefully flying overhead while today those ‘peaceful birds’ are suddenly now diving from the highest of the clouds starting their attack. Officer Jones quickly counts six maybe eight drones before running for cover as suddenly one explosion is followed by another. They appear then disappear in a matter of seconds leaving behind a compound in ruins. With nothing left to burn, only the ashes of a few small fires still smolder. The compound is leveled, and the drones have disappeared back into the clouds.

   Officer Jones watches the sky but is sure no drones will return for there is nothing left, not here. He gives the order to withdraw quickly and quietly to the outskirts keeping intervals, then lay still remaining camouflaged. He calls Monroe, “The compound is destroyed…     Thankfully no one is hurt. The drones surprised us… I don’t know what might happen next. I know they accomplished demolishing the compound and probably believe all of us are dead…  Possibly a second wave might be coming…  Right, we have to figure it out fast. I’m on my way.” Officer Jones puts his phone in his pocket, sighs and looks up at the now peaceful sky. Shakes his head, thinks…’sure didn’t last long.’

    The team, with the exception of Officer Jones and Pamela, gathered at their new location to plan their next step. Rushing out of earshot, Bob calls Pamela. He has the urge to go get her. It wasn’t long ago, Pamela was kidnapped in San Antonio, and Bob is not sure what the culprits had in mind.     Jesse says, “They wasted no time. It seems Neville is expendable to them after all. They wanted him to escape but couldn’t make that happen, and now they’re afraid he’s going to rat them out so in their opinion, Neville’s got to go.”     “I think we need to talk to Neville now to see if he’s willing to make a deal,” Samantha adds.     Pamela answers the phone, and Bob says, “You alright?”     Hearing Bob on the phone, they all turn to look. It’s obvious Pamela is on the line. They listen in, in hopes of learning some new information from her Doctor Randolph visit.     Pamela hears the urgency and fear in Bob’s voice and quickly replies, “I’m fine, What’s wrong?”     Bob takes a deep breath and asks, “Where are you? Are you close?”     “Maybe ten minutes away.” Pamela asks again, “What’s happened?”     “Drones leveled the compound.”     There is shocked silence now on the phone as Pamela shares in Bob’s urgency and fear. Then she asks, “Is everyone all right?  No one was there, right?”     Bob assures her, “No one at all. We’re all fine. No one is following you, are they?”     “Don’t worry, really. I exited I 12, at La Combe, and I was the only one who did. What is happening there?”     “Planning our next step.” Bob notices the others are listening and now relieved Pamela is okay, he asks, “Learn anything on your visit?”

    Pamela tells Bob, “I learned our nurse Harriet Drew and Neville were an item. Neville was her boyfriend, or so we were told by a woman named Sharon in personnel.”     “Really? Interesting… That could change things. I’ll tell Samantha and the rest. Be careful. See you shortly.” Off the phone Bob shares his new found information. “Looks like Neville and our nurse may have been in a relationship.”     Jesse says, “If that’s true, and if our nurse friend is an informant, that’s a double whammy for Neville. Now that his former partners believe Neville will tell all, even his girlfriend wants him dead.”

    Samantha smiles, pauses then states, “I have an idea. Let me question Neville, and you all play along with me.”     The others are not really sure what she has up her sleeve, but she is the lawyer, and they witnessed the ‘light bulb’ light up.

    “Can Officer Jones send pictures of the compound?” Samantha asks Monroe.     “I’ll get him to send them.” Monroe calls Jones to make his request.  A few moments later, his phone beeps, and the pictures are there.

    Samantha asks, “Are we ready?”     They nod and all quickly enter Neville’s room.

    Startled Neville looks at them, “My, aren’t we in a hurry.”     Samantha tells him, “Yes, we are. You should be.”     “Hurry for what?” Neville asks.     “To make a plea bargain,” answers Samantha.     “Why?” Neville replies.     “To stay alive,” Samantha answers. Samantha turns to Monroe, “Do you have the pictures of the compound?”     Monroe hands her his phone containing a video of the compound ruins. Samantha shows Neville and tells him, “This is where you were yesterday at this time. You’re expendable now. Looks like they want you dead.”     Looking worried, Neville takes a deep breath.

    Samantha adds, “We don’t have much time.”     Neville remains silent, but it’s obvious the gears are turning. He’s wondering how to proceed.     Samantha tells him, “It’s up to you. The guy who’s trying to kill you may succeed and get away scot free. You have it in your power to take him down before he gets to you.”

    All of the others look on but say nothing. They feel as though they are the audience in a play.     Samantha continues, “I want to offer a plea deal. You tell us what we need to know to stop these experiments, and I’ll talk to the DA on your behalf. Mr. Dugat, whoever wants you dead, thinks you’re dead, but it’s only a matter of time until they  find out you’re alive. They don’t know where you are, but we can’t hide you forever. They’ll try to finish what they started when they find you. It seems to me you have a choice of receiving a reduced sentence with a chance for a new life when you get out or certain death.”

         Neville protests, “I would make a plea bargain if I had done anything wrong. You’ve got the wrong man.”     “Oh, yes.  You’re Justin Covell.  I remember. You know, whether you’re Neville or Justin or somebody yet to be named, you’ll still be just as dead.”     “What exactly are the charges… against Neville?”     “Oh, that’s up to the DA, but I imagine kidnapping, attempted murder, if not actual murder for starters.”     “Speaking of kidnapping and attempted murder, do you think they knew I wasn’t Neville?”     “I think they knew you WERE Neville.”     “Why do you think I was thanking everyone for saving me? They kidnapped me and were going to kill me.”     “Mr. DUGAT, I think you want to keep your lie alive. That’s what I think. Did you see the video of the compound?”     “I did,” Neville replies.     “Why do you think that happened?” asks Samantha.     “It’s obvious someone wants me dead.”     “Did you put up a struggle when they kidnapped you?”     “Yes, I fought them as hard as I could.”     “Yet, those of us in the other room heard nothing. They pushed you though a window that was hardly big enough for a child, but no glass was broken nor a sound made. We only knew you were gone because Jesse Gunn checked, otherwise we wouldn’t have known you were gone, or as you say abducted. You still say you fought them tooth and nail?”     “Yes, I did what I could.”     “So two aliens, Avantans I believe before the change, each with their two hands, managed to hold your legs and arms together to get you through that tight window. Who was it that held your mouth closed that prevented you from calling for help, while you were screaming and kicking?”     Neville says, “I was afraid they’d kill me.”     Samantha responds, “Of course, that’s why you were so grateful you were saved. You held out hope we’d come to your rescue. But, I’m confused, why wouldn’t you help those in the process of helping you?”     “What are you talking about?”     “I have it on good authority you growled and slashed at those trying to save you. They thought you wanted to get to the bayou.”     “I’d say your ‘so called authority’ doesn’t know what they are talking about.”     “What would you say if I told you I’m an alien, and I was the deer that knocked one of the deer carrying you off his feet causing you to tumble. I am ‘the authority’.”     “I’d say you’re trying to trick me and get me to admit to something that didn’t happen.”     Samantha tells Neville, “It’s no trick. I was that deer, and you were growling just like I said. You came toward me slashing those Draakar claws of yours, and you wanted to kill me, but… you were just too damn slow…”

    Neville is visibly upset, angry, and worried.

    Samantha in contrast, exudes confidence. “Mr. DUGAT, Here are the facts. They tried to save you. They failed. Now they want you dead… It’s that simple. I will go to the DA, and I will be back tomorrow. Perhaps we can reach an agreement. No one knows where you are so you should be safe tonight, but we cannot guarantee your safety should you continue to keep silent. Mr. Cane, is Nurse Drew on her way?”     Monroe looks like a deer in the headlights, an actor who has forgotten his lines. There is a pause then Samantha comes to his rescue with raised eyebrows and the world’s quickest nod.

    Monroe picks up on the cue and answers, “Yes.”  He takes a quick breath and smiles slightly feeling pleased with his successful one line.     Neville looks as though he’s been punched in the stomach.     Samantha decides this is a good time to leave and walks out followed by the others.

    Pamela arrived just moments ago and waits outside the door. Quickly Bob goes to her. Pamela assures him she is fine. The others sit waiting to hear of her visit with Doctor Randolph. Samantha keeps her attention divided between listening to Pamela while hoping to hear Neville call to them asking for a plea deal.     “Any luck with Neville?” Asks Pamela.     “Not sure yet, … trying to scare him into making a plea deal,” Samantha responds.

    Pamela tells them, “I’m sure Doctor Randolph has absolutely nothing to do with the experiments or kidnappings. Before Doctor Randolph was made Chief of Staff, he and Neville talked, even went to lunch a few times. Doctor Randolph felt Neville was picking his brain. They only talked in passing after he became Chief of Staff. Harriet Drew worked there but left six months ago. Doctor Randolph didn’t know her, but a lady from personnel said Neville and she both stopped working close to the same time and... she believed Harriet Drew was his girlfriend.”

    “If she is or was, I believe that romance is dead,” says Jesse.

    “Bob agrees, “Looks like it.”     “Oh, and according to Doctor Randolph, Neville is hostile and resentful toward Osteoans. He feels they are dying out because of their assimilation. They’re bringing their destruction on themselves by hiding who they are. I believe Neville Dugat is not the main leader, but they recruited and used him for  his knowledge.”      Samantha adds, “That’s why Doctor Randolph felt Neville was picking his brain. Neville was trying to learn some of Doctor Randolph’s expertise.”     “Neville’s job must have been developing formulas for the drugs for injections. Perhaps he was in charge of the experiments. That would explain the unidentifiable ingredients in Jesse’s blood and others.” Pamela is silent, but only for a moment then her face goes sour in disgust as if she took a bite of something vile and putrid, and she says, “Neville didn’t care if they lived or died… or how his experiments affected… his guinea pigs.”     Monroe adds, “Well, we need to find the son of a bitch in charge. He’s declared war. This has to end.”     They all look at each another with new hope. Samantha says confidently, “The END starts now.”

                                                                           The End


“Good morning, miss.” Her voice was gentle, as was the velvety soft hand on my bare shoulder, but neither could soothe the pounding in my skull. I offered some sort of noise resembling a distressed animal to let her know I was alive. Opening my eyes was too much to ask. “You requested a personal wake-up,” she said, her voice again sliding like butter, and I carefully forced open one eye. “I’m up,” I managed. I could not believe I was hungover. I had done everything in my power to avoid this, I mean, outside of not drinking. I had hydrated all day , not to mention the two water bottles I had consumed overnight, like a camel in a desert. I had stayed away from tequila, my nemesis. I know I had eaten well at the dinner last night. I had commissioned the beholder of the soft voice to make certain I was in bed before midnight. All in preparation for the best day ever! My wedding day! I suddenly bolted upright, the room spinning just a hair, taking in the woman. Her name was Cassidy, I remembered this now, and it was part of the Gold Wedding Package here at this luxurious hotel where my wedding was set to take place. Today! I reached out and squeezed both of Cassidy’s hands as if she were a friend and not an employee of the hotel. Cassidy was startled, both by my sudden jolt upright and the hand-holding, which I guess was out of the realm of the personal-assistant/bride relationship. Her face was flat, unemotive, but no matter. It was my wedding day! I pushed off the mattress and strode the windows, willing my headache go somewhere and die. I flung the room-darkening curtains open to look down upon the water that would serve as the backdrop to the best day of my life. Everything was gray. Everything. The sky, the water, the very air, it seemed, held a solid granite color. I turned to look at Cassidy in devastation. “What’s…where’s the sun? Today is supposed to be nice! Its my wedding day!” I could feel tears threatening already…this could not be happening! Everything about today centered on the partly sunny, seventy-two degree forecast of the past week. Everything: the photography. The ceremony. My hair. My hair! It was going to frizz up! The lovely, quaint, classy cocktail hour that was supposed to entertain the guests by the sea while Jeremy and I had our perfect, no-shadows, non-windy wedding photos taken. “I don’t control the weather, miss,” Cassidy said, her voice still smooth but with hints of annoyance. The staccato beats in my head remained; a fresh wave of bile threatening to erupt. “I know but…” The tears came then, spilling over. Dammit! That was going to cause puffiness. Cassidy softened a bit. “It'll be okay. It’s really not supposed to rain so I bet it will clear up. You’ll see,” she said, reaching over to pat my shoulder uncomfortably. “Take a shower, and I’ll set your breakfast up.” I nodded, feeling like a toddler who’s lollipop had just fallen irretrievably into the dirt. As I undressed, I contemplated the Plan B that I had paid no attention to, a ceremony in the front banquet room, the ocean just slightly visible if you craned your neck and pressed your nose up to the glass walls. In the shower, I let the scalding water wash over me, willing everything that had happened so far in the first five minutes of my wedding day to wash away as well. Okay: the hangover was manageable. A Gatorade and a double dose of ibuprofen, not to mention a protein-rich breakfast would cure it. The weather? Okay. Cassidy had said it would probably change. The forecast had predicted not a drop of rain, and it was still early, after all. I quickly dried off and felt my excitement returning as I brushed my teeth. I had been planning this day for two years. Two years . Ever since Jeremy had gotten down on one knee, cornily and generically, only overshadowed by the massive diamond he offered me. The life he promised me. Money, for one. Ease—I would never have to work. Babies: the thing I wanted most! Two or three matching little blondes…I could see them in my mind’s eye, riding in the back of my BMW crossover. Wearing matching designer pajamas at Christmas. Bedrooms with the Pottery Barn quilts and the letters on the wall spelling out the cute little androgynous names I’d already chosen. Harper. Kennan. Alex. I mean, Jeremy was part of the picture too. But. Sometimes I felt like royalty being assigned to marry the dorky prince-in-waiting. Of course, no one was forcing me to marry him, and I liked him enough, and he was truly a good, honest man. And physically, if you unfocused your eyes and made his clothing a blur, you could really concentrate on his beautiful features. I could not wait to see him in the black tuxedo I’d chosen! Jeremy was a man of good bone structure, a solid jawline, golden hair and ice-blue eyes. His smile was wide and congenial. He was the perfect height. He was a lawyer, not to mention the gobs of family money at his disposal. And he was truly, madly, wildly, head-over-heels in love with me—the future mother of his children, he called me. So what did it matter if I didn’t love him? Everything else I’d ever wanted was wrapped into a neat little package. Once we had kids he’d fade into the background, anyhow. I burst out of the bathroom, my headache receding despite the room erupting with noise. Cassidy looked a bit irritated at the squeals of my bridesmaids, wearing white monogrammed terrycloth robes—gifts from me! Madison held the garment bags containing the dresses, and Lauren had the make-up and shoes slung over her shoulder. And Katelyn was…wait. Where was Katelyn? “Where’s Katelyn?” I asked, breaking the screaming into silence. Madison and Lauren exchanged looks, their lips pursed together as if they weren’t sure what to say to me. “Welllll….” Madison started. “The good news is she’s okay.” “And since we know that, we don’t need to worry about her today,” Lauren added brightly, and I notice that both of my friends looked exceedingly tired. “Where’s Katelyn?” I demanded, my hysteria rising. This was just like her. Always late to the party, always having to be the center of attention. The complainer. She had been the one to grumble about the salmon pink color of their dresses; the one who didn’t like her groomsman, Jeremy’s acne-spotted fifteen-year-old brother. “Don’t you remember what happened last night?” Lauren said gently. I did not remember, but nodded as if I suddenly did. “Long story short,” Madison jumped in, “She had an allergic reaction to the shellfish at dinner. It got worse and while you were partying away we ended up taking her to the emergency room. We actually just got back around five a.m.” “So let me get this straight,” I said, willing my tears to stay put. “Katelyn is not going to be here for my wedding and you two didn’t sleep at all?” Madison held up an energy drink like a peace offering and Lauren stifled a yawn. Miserably, I sat down to the breakfast that Cassidy had set up. I specifically remember ordering a protein-rich meal, but before me sat an array of muffins and bagels. Sugar-laden orange juice rested in a tall pitcher, not a Gatorade in sight. I could barely care as I broke off a piece of blueberry muffin and shoved it in my mouth, savoring the crystallized sugar on top. Cassidy, God love her, seemed to take note of my circling of the drain. “Come on miss,” she said. “It'll all be okay. At least your friend is alive. Sounds like she barely made it until the paramedics arrived. And Melissa will be here shortly for hair and make-up. So, eat up!” Okay. It was still ugly out, but I could see that it wasn’t actually raining. My headache was finally dissipating, and the muffins, I could not deny, were heavenly. The orange juice was like crack. I hadn’t allowed sugar to touch my body in two years, so this was a treat. Madison and Lauren were staring at me with hopeful smiles, and I decided that I was just going to go with the flow. What else could go wrong, right? “Where’s the getting-ready playlist?” I said, breaking into a grin. “Don’t tell me we forgot it?” Lauren squealed again, and within minutes the room was filled with the pumping jams we had spent our college years partying to. Melissa arrived on time to beautify us, and we FaceTimed Katelyn from her hospital bed. Jeremy sent me a lovely, swooning text and my mother arrived to tell me that based on the hourly forecast, they were going ahead with setting up outside. By the time I was ready, the frustrations of the morning seemed to fade away. My hangover was gone . Melissa was a magician—she’d managed to even out Lauren’s ruddy complexion and transform Madison’s flat hair into something with a little bit of life. My own hair was a dazzling array of cornsilk braids twisted into an updo and I was pretty enough that my make-up was minimal. Even though there was a near-malfunction while zipping up my dress (the little hook at the top seemed to be missing??) the day was saved by Cassidy, who was apparently a seamstress as well. As we made our way to the patio, shielded by gauzy curtains that seemed to be wildly blowing in a cold wind that was out of place for August, I caught sight of Jeremy already down by the awning at the edge of the beach. The gusts were lifting his tufts of blonde hair, and I cringed at the already-receding hairline that was becoming visible. But there was something else that felt off… “Why isn’t he in his tux?” I gasped, grabbing the curtain and whipping it aside, not even caring if he saw me. “What is he wearing ?” “Okay, okay, relax,” Madison said, patting my back like a baby. “There was an issue.” “An issue!” I screeched. “Is it…is he wearing a brown suit?” I squinted, but there was no denying it. Not only was Jeremy not in black, it wasn’t even a tuxedo! And was his tie…green? What the actual heck was going on? Madison was speaking rapidly, and Cassidy looked concerned. Even she could see that the horrific, poo-colored suit and vomit-green tie were not going to work. “The tux shop…something got mixed up and your tux went somewhere else, and this suit came here…there’s no time, honey. But it does not matter! Do you hear me?” Madison gave me a little shake. “You’re marrying your soulmate today! This is the best day ever!” I willed the tears to go away. I could not risk runny mascara by sobbing, which is what I really wanted to do. Aside from the horrid visual of this brown suit against his groomsmen in classic black, and my girls in their lush, smooth, salmon-pink, what about our wedding pictures? “You can always recreate the pictures,” Lauren added, as if reading my mind. “Madison is right, it doesn’t matter right now. You’re getting married! ” She squeezed my arm and squealed again. “This is the best day of your life!” As I watched the guests fill the seats, I wanted to throw a tantrum. I could see Madison and Lauren watching me, knowing I was on the verge of snapping. Two years of planning, I thought miserably. Cassidy had failed to get me to bed before I’d started doing shots. Katelyn hadn’t had the foresight to avoid shrimp, which she’d apparently never eaten before? My body was crashing already from the breakfast of sugar and I was seriously concerned that the tiny, minuscule hook was not going to hold the back of my dress together. And Jeremy was in a freaking brown suit, like he was a door-to-door salesman of encyclopedias in 1982. And I didn’t love him. And it was raining. Wait. No, it wasn’t. The sky was just cloudy, the wind a bit aggressive. But it wasn’t actually raining, Cassidy had assured me it would not. And yet there, on the brick walkway that would guide me from the patio to the beach, were big fat droplets, increasing at an alarming rate. The bartender on the patio, sensing my growing hysteria, slid a shot across the pop-up bar. I gratefully took it, sliding the glass back for another. Madison, Lauren and Cassidy all stared at me, their expressions bordering on fear. I had sworn I would not be inebriated at my ceremony, a promise to myself, but it didn’t matter anymore. The ceremony was in shambles, but at least we had the reception to look forward to, where I planned to get blackout drunk and hopefully let Jeremy impregnate me. I shrugged at the girls, and they visibly relaxed. Cassidy broke into a smile, the first I had seen yet. “Let’s do it,” I said grimly, a sergeant commanding her soldiers to war. The girls headed down the path into the rain, which seemed to be worsening each moment. I followed in suit, each of my parents on one arm, shielding their faces as torrents of water seemed to pour out of the sky. Once I reached Jeremy, who was grinning despite the storm and his sewage-colored suit, we all agreed to abbreviate the ceremony by cutting out the speeches and the poems and shortening the vows. What did it matter anyhow? All I cared about at this point was getting inside, fixing my drowned rat look, and getting to the party. Jeremy’s friends and family were duds, but mine were fun, and as I listened to the preacher’s hurried speech, warped by the gusts of wind, I willed myself to feel excited. When Jeremy’s lips touched mine, the imagery of a cold fish appearing, as always, I internally clapped loudly, thrilled that this part was over. We clasped hands and ran through the rain, the guests following us in a big, dripping throng, everyone laughing and clamoring to the bar in wet shirts and dresses. The photos, obviously, were to be abandoned, and Jeremy and I quickly rode the elevator to our wedding night suite. Of all the decisions I’d made in the past two years, I was most grateful for the one that had us changing outfits for the reception. “Thank goodness,” Jeremy said, as he emerged from the bathroom in dress pants and a salmon-pink shirt. “I’ve never been so glad to get out of clothes before!” “I know!” I said, shimmying into my short, tight, white sequined reception dress. At least Jeremy and I were in agreement about the diarrhea-colored suit that was now crumpled on the floor. Jeremy held out an arm, showing me his goosebumps. “We would have frozen in those wet clothes!” I stood before him, the swell of my cleavage perfectly pronounced in my tight dress, blonde tendrils falling out and sexily curling around my face, my lips plump and perfectly pink. But Jeremy was only staring at his pimply arm, as if nothing was more amazing than gooseflesh. Oh well. The reception, which took place indoors, was a mess as well. Oh, who was I kidding? This whole day was a disaster. As I pounded what was probably my tenth tequila shot, I took a short break to sit for a moment, and to remind myself why I was doing this. Maybe I didn’t love Jeremy, but I loved the idea of us. I loved the life of ease that lay ahead of me, despite the rocky start. I especially loved the idea of the perfect, blonde, stairstep children I would get to have. None of the rest mattered, and Lauren was right, it would be a funny tale to tell one day. The hangover, the weather, Katelyn’s surprise anaphylactic shock. The puke-colored suit, the broken dress hook. Jeremy’s stupid, idiotic shivering arms. My level of drunkenness, which had the room spinning already. The band that regretfully announced that they were missing their drummer due to unforeseen circumstances. The cake that Lauren had accidently stumbled into, taking a chunk of salmon pink icing right to the floor with her. Just then, Jeremy’s mother sat down next to me. Like Jeremy, there was nothing exactly wrong with her, but I didn’t particularly care for her company. She’d make a great babysitter for Harper, Kennan and Alex one day though, with her curly granny hair and whispery voice. That voice was complimenting me now, and I perked up. She was talking about my resilience, about the grace I had exuded even though everything had gone wrong. She thought I was a class act, and I brightened a little bit under her words, trying to keep myself from swaying so she wouldn’t know I was plastered. “And so accepting, you are, of my Jeremy’s unfortunate condition,” she said, patting my arm like I was a puppy. “What condition?” I asked, trying hard not to slur my words. She looked uncomfortable but leaned in close. “You know,” she said in a hushed tone. “His…sterility. I’m so glad you don’t seem like the type to want children. Testicular cancer as a teen was tough for Jeremy, but worrying about a wife who would be okay with no kids was tougher. Thank God for you!” As she walked away, I wildly grabbed the half full champagne glasses on the table and drank them forcefully. I would not cry. Not tonight. Not on the best day ever!


The sunset lent a warm, almost cozy glow to the stacks of scarlet-washed terraces that supported the buildings of Mutul. It was a city stuffed with more pyramids than any place Neith-Ka recalled from her native Khamit. Her people might have buried their Pharaohs in monuments of equal or even more mountainous scale, but then these peculiar Mayabans would lay every one of their structures on top of a stepped pyramid, none less than two stories high, with everyone having to hike up a succession of stone stairs to reach the summit. Neith-Ka shook her foot to dull the pain chewing away at her tendons. Already the woven papyrus of her sandals had started to splinter apart from wear. The Khamitan people may have taken pride in the grandeur of their own monuments, but never would their architects dare subject anyone to so many tortuous steps. You weren’t even *supposed* to climb the royal tombs back home. Huya, her high steward, clicked his tongue with a frown. “You could feign a good attitude, Your Highness.” Neith-Ka drew in a deep breath through her nostrils. “I’ve done my best. Please show some understanding.” “I saw you pouting. And, I swear by the scales of Ma’at, I heard you mutter a curse while shaking that leg. You don’t seem to remember that you’re representing your father, your family, and all the Black Land here, princess. I’ll see no more lip from you tonight!” With another inhale, Neith-Ka straightened herself up and nodded to her steward. As he and their entourage of guards and servants marched up yet another ramp of steps, she huddled close behind while keeping her focus on their destination on top. Looking back down the pyramid’s height could only intimidate her further. Even more so with the lighter brown locals crowding behind her with the gawks of strangers who had never seen even one darker-skinned person their entire lives. The lip of the stairway connected to a platform that supported a ring of rectangular buildings around a courtyard, all plastered with a blazing red base. Yet these were not monochrome edifices, for each had mounted on its walls and over its doorways elaborate reliefs of jade-plumed gods, snarling gold leopards (or were those called jaguars over here?), and the strings of complicated square images that constituted the Mayaban culture’s written language. To think that foreigners claimed that Khamit’s hieroglyphs were impossible to read! No mortal could possibly even *draw* their Mayabic equivalents. From one short and wide building at the far end of the complex floated a faint yet spicy odor, with thin trails of steam snaking out from tiny windows in the walls towards its left edge. Dark green curtains, splashed with reds, golds, and purples hung behind the gallery of square columns that supported the remainder of the building’s length. Standing in front were a pair of native guards, stocky men in padded cotton vests who parted their obsidian-fringed spears upon noticing the Khamitans’ arrival. Huya bowed at the waist to both guards. “Excuse me, my good man, but where would His Majesty the Ahau and his family be?” “Already inside, waiting with as much patience as they’ve got,” one of the guards said. The second glanced at Neith-Ka from the corner of his eye. “And you’re the one he’s waiting on, I presume. Not so ugly as far as your kind goes, if a bit overcooked. I’d advise you to stay clear of his youngest daughter.” Neith-Ka gave him a subtle smile to hide the prickling sensation that crept up her back. “I’ll…uh, keep that in mind…my *under*cooked friend.” “Princess! What did I say?” Huya hammered the butt of his high steward’s staff twice on the stone pavement. “Aw, give your woman a pass,” the first guard said. “She was only telling my friend to show more hospitality. Right, Yaxkin?” Strutting away from the two guards as they argued with one another in the Mayabic language, Neith-Ka plunged herself through the curtains into the royal dining hall. \## All chatter within the dining hall halted upon her first step inside. There had already congregated two circles of people at opposite ends of the space enclosed by the curtains and columns. To the right sat all women and girls on pillows fringed with blue and scarlet macaw feathers, whereas to the left were all men who sat around a stone platform tapered like a miniature pyramid. Both parties stared at Neith-Ka with slackened jaws and no words spoken, with a few of the men’s eyes glinting with that all-too-familiar male emotion. She gave a nervous chuckle with a retreat towards the curtains, an uncomfortable warmth blushing within her cheeks. “Did I interrupt something?” There sat on the leftward pyramidal platform a short man whose physique seemed much too gaunt to support his towering crown of deep green and red plumes, or even his necklaces and bracelets of gold, jade, and animal fangs. He raised a drinking cup of red clay and gave Neith-Ka a smile which dripped dark brown liquid from his wrinkled thin lips. “No, no, we’re more than thankful to see you so soon, daughter of Amenhotep,” the bedecked old man said. “No need to worry yourself with formalities tonight.” He released a belch that rumbled between the columns. Neith-Ka raised an eyebrow. “Aren’t you the Ahau of Mutul?” “Call me B’alaj. It’ll be easier on your tongue than all my titles. Now, before you indulge yourself in the finest cuisine of any of the Mayaban cities, I owe you my thanks for all that treasure you sent us. Mountains of ivory, ebony furniture, all those exquisite animal hides—even though, I daresay, your jaguars are rather dwarfish compared to ours—and then all the gold, copper, bronze…you Khamitans sure know how to buy yourselves a trade deal.” Huya, who had already entered the scene with the rest of the Khamitans flanking him, bowed to the Ahau at the waist. “Glad to hear you appreciate our tribute, Ahau B’alaj.” The Ahau extended his arm to the low table-like platform that sprawled over the central third of the hall, cloaked with jaguar hides held down by flickering gourd candles at the corners and then a vast, jumbled array of bowls and baskets holding food. “Help yourselves. Your hunger’s the limit. Though I say the tamales and the chocolate are *the* best.” Neith-Ka had not come to the banquet with a bottomless stomach, but the variety of delicacies on display would have boggled even her father’s best cooks back in Khamit. Bowls held piles of multicolored beans, bulbs of squash, slender red peppers, and a lumpy paste that gave off the scent of avocado. In the baskets were stacks of thin yellow flatbreads, tropical fruits collected from the rainforest beyond the city, and cobs of maize scaled blue, red, and yellow. Roasted hunks of turkey, venison, fish, and even dog meat rested on the platters, and a fat pitcher streamed out a tendril of steam from its spout. Next to it sat a pile of folded corn husks stuffed with chili and some sort of dough. After gathering a couple of these tamales for her plate, Neith-Ka poured herself a cup from the pitcher. What came out was a liquid the color of coffee from Habesha (the kingdom that bordered Khamit on the southeast), but this was thicker and frothier. “I guess this is your chocolate?” B’alaj raised his cup again. “The beverage of royalty such as yourself, daughter of Amenhotep!” Neith-Ka took her cup and tamales to the side of the room where the women of the Ahau’s family dined. They shoved themselves aside to give her a wider berth before she had even taken her own seat. None could manage to take their eyes off their Khamitian guest, even if they murmured unintelligible gossip from the corners of their mouths. There was no point in calling them out on it, and not only because it would embarrass her entire civilization before the people of Mutul. As Neith-Ka and her people always like to say back in Khamit, those who hate would always hate. She took a sip of the chocolate drink and grimaced, daring not to spit it out. It tasted every bit as bitter as the Habeshan coffee, except the Habeshans at least had milk and honey to improve the flavor if you didn’t like it plain. If only these Mayabans had the same! “It’s an acquired taste, I know,” one of the Mayaban ladies said. “You’ll warm up to it later.” Neith-Ka nodded as she took a second, longer sip. It pleased her no more than the first. “I’ll go look for some water next.” Between two portly middle-aged women popped out the petite hand of a girl no older than six. “Why do you not like chocolate? Aren’t you Khamitans all covered in it?” It was time to take another deep breath. Neith-Ka scooted herself a hand’s span further away from where the child sat, and then pinched the skin of her own arm. “We don’t paint ourselves with your chocolate, little one. It’s our natural color, see here? Am I to assume that your people paint yourselves bronze?” “Don’t get too mad at my little Itzel,” the elder of the two women next to the girl said. “She won’t bite. She simply hasn’t grown out of her…mischievous streak yet. We’ve all been there at her age, haven’t we?” Neith-Ka grumbled. “Fair enough. Though if we’re going to comment on each other’s appearances, I must say I like how your nose plugs looks. Are they green malachite?” “Why, thank you, but they’re plain old jade. I don’t even know what that stuff you call malachite is. That said, you yourself have some exquisite gold on you, not to mention that seductive black eyeliner.” “You mean the black kohl? It’s not supposed to be ‘seductive’. It helps protect our eyes from the desert sun’s glare and disease—” Something tugged onto Neith-Ka’s braided hair. She turned to see nobody behind her. “Who was that?” All the Mayaban women responded only with blank, blinking looks. Neith-Ka noticed that the girl Itzel had disappeared beside her mother. A second, stronger yank on Neith-Ka’s hair almost uprooted it from the flesh of her scalp. With a shrill yelp, she spun back and clasped her fingers on a small wrist. Itzel was giggling without fear or regret. “All you foreigners think it’s funny to touch our hair without asking, don’t you?” Neith-Ka asked. “All my friends tell me your hairstyles are all fake,” Itzel said. “They tell me you women from Khamit always wear weaves because you don’t like how kinky and frizzy your natural hair is.” Baring her teeth in a snarl, Neith-Ka tightened her grip on the girl’s hand to the point where she could feel the bones beneath the skin. “You mean *wigs*. And we only wear those after we shave for special occasions. The rest of the year, we’re as proud of our natural hair as any other women, and I won’t let a puny Mayaban brat like you tell me any different!” The child squirmed and wriggled her arm with a piercing squeal shriller than a chimpanzee’s angry screech. “You can’t be mean like this to me, you nasty Khamitan woman! My father is the Ahau!” “I don’t care if your father was none other than Amun’Ra in the flesh! Say sorry or I will rip you apart!” Instead, Neith-Ka got a chomp into her arm. Blood trickled where the tiny teeth had punctured her flesh, and the girl had already scurried back to her mother. Twice did the butt of a high steward’s staff bang over the floor, with two shadows looming over Neith-Ka. She shrank like a child in her own right before Huya and the Ahau B’alaj, both of whom glared down at her with the stern intensity of scolding parents. B’alaj’s face had even darkened into a reddish hue not unlike the plastered masonry around them. The Ahau clenched his hand into a fist with one finger thrust down at Neith-Ka. “You do not threaten my Itzel like that. You do not threaten *any* of my children like that. I thought myself generous and forgiving to you, but you showed me my error in ever trusting your kind!” “You see what you did there, young one?” Huya said. “I told you to represent our nation the best you could. You couldn’t even do that.” Neith-Ka trembled, buckling under the crushing mass of shame these two men had thrown onto her—together with her own sizzling anger. “You think *I’m* at fault here? Listen, O Ahau of Mutul, you need to teach your children, and even many of your grown-up subjects, some basic respect for my people. Did you even hear what your daughter said to me?” The Ahau shook his head with crossed arms. “She is only a child! You threatened to tear her into pieces, all for the ignorance every child is born with. And, since you talk of respect, remember that you are in *my* city, in the land of Mayab. You’d do well to respect your hosts.” “And they would do well to respect their guests. It should go both ways!” Huya’s features softened with a sigh. “In all honesty, the daughter of my Pharaoh raises a good point. This has all been a misunderstanding, O Ahau. How about both parties apologize to one another, make amends, and put this little altercation all behind us?” B’alaj rubbed his hand over the graying hair that flowed below his headdress, humming in thought. His frown rose up into a grin, but his eyes had not lost their malevolent glimmer in the least. “I did have plans to entertain you with some sports next morning. How about…letting your princess play a little game of ball with us?” Neith-Ka laughed, casting a glance at the guards she had brought as part of her visiting entourage. “You mean me and my men against yours?” “Oh, no. You, *alone*, against my best team. You have played ball before, haven’t you?” Not even the muggy warmth of the tropical night could melt the icy chill up Neith-Ka’s spine. She would not dare reveal it before this audience. “Of course. My sisters and I would chase each other around our palace with a warthog’s bladder filled with—” “Pig’s bladder? That’s all? We’ll see how you fare with a real ball, then. If you, by the mercy of fate, were to win, I will pardon you for everything. Lose, and I shall deal with you as I would anyone else who has struck one of my family. In which case, please send my greetings down to the Twelve Lords of Xibalba.” Huya turned to wedge himself between Neith-ka and the Ahau. “What? You can’t do *that*! She’s the daughter of our Pharaoh. That would amount to an act of war!” “This is Mutul, and I am the Ahau. I may treat your Pharaoh’s daughter however I see fit!” Every note of the Ahau’s croaking cackle sparked a shiver pulsing through Neith-Ka’s flesh. Whomever those Twelve Lords of Xibalba were meant to be, they sounded like demons in the underworld. At any rate, she doubted these Mayabans would even bother to preserve her body for that meeting. The whimpering cry of a child moaned like an undercurrent beneath the rest of the commotion. Hugging her mother’s plump arm, little Itzel peeked back at Neith-Ka with cheeks still shimmering wet with tears. “I’m sorry,” the girl’s lips spelled out. \## A dense low mist swamped the alleyway that ran tight between two blood-red walls, each towering straight and vertical on top of the sloped terrace at their base. Already the moisture floating in the air, together with her own perspiration, had soaked the fringes of the band of cloth Neith-Ka had wrapped and tied around her braids. It all sharpened the cold tingle sweeping down her skin as she treaded down the alleyway, the dark-stained pavement stabbing her feet with stray particles of grit. That her sandals, already worn beyond usefulness, had gone missing that morning had layered a stinging insult over her fear and shame. Each of the two walls beside the court had a stout pyramid adjoining it from behind, with people filing out from its summit shrine to stand over the wall’s upper edges. Gazing down from atop the left wall were Huya and the remainder of the Khamitan envoy, the guards holding their spears and cowhide shields close while the servant women murmured nervous prayers. On the right wall were the nobility of Mutul, who parted to make way for their swaggering Ahau B’alaj. He held between his hands a ball of dark gray rubber. “Welcome to our royal ball court, daughter of Pharaoh Amenhotep of Khamit. In a moment, you’ll be introduced to your opponents, none other than the finest players in all Mayab—though I may be biased in that regard. Ooh, what’s that? They’re already here!” They emerged first as a line of hulking shadows in the mist, pushing it aside like buffaloes through reeds until they met Neith-Ka right in the middle of the pinched court. Padded bands of cotton covered the men’s torsos, knees, and elbows, all of it accentuating their already thickset forms. All wore helmets of shaggy, dark reddish-brown hair shorn from the scalps of Mayaban jungle bison, with the centermost player having the animal’s arching horns still attached to his. He ran his eyes up and down Neith-Ka’s height with what could have either been a sneer or a leer. Or both. “You going to play against us in that puny linen tunic, woman?” She could not deny the validity of his argument. Neither could she betray her resentment at the Ahau for not providing her with armor of her own. Not in front of this human gorilla. “I happen to think what I got suits my svelte curves better. As for you, big boy…all your curves go out instead of in.” B’alaj laughed. “Khamitan or Mayaban, women will always be too vain to save themselves. These would be the Mutul Bison, our champions. It’ll be you against them, girl.” He turned his head to face a third, even higher wall on the far end of the court, with a vertical gold hood gleaming near its lip at the center. “There will be eight rounds, each ending when either team passes the ball through that hoop. The team with the most hoops after round ten wins. Play ball!” With the hoarse blare of a conch trumpet, B’alaj tossed the ball high up into the air. It shrank into a tiny dot within the sky before plummeting down from that zenith, whistling through the wind as it swelled to the size of Neith-Ka’s own skull. Kicking herself up, she caught the ball between her fingers. The Ahau puffed high-pitched notes through his conch twice. “One more rule I forgot to mention, my Khamitan guest. *Never* touch the ball with your fingers or palms, nor with toes or soles. Throw it up again.” Shaking herself out of her initial disbelief, Neith-Ka obeyed. She lowered herself to the court’s floor with clenched hands, keeping her eyes focused on the descending ball. The leader of Mutul Bison beat her to it. With his elbow, he batted it towards one of his teammates. Neith-Ka leaped to intercept it, but a third player bumped her off course with his shoulder. She skidded over the court floor, the grit raking down her skin, until she crashed into the left wall. Her own followers hollered with horror while the Ahau and his nobles hooted with glee on the opposite wall. Neith-Ka staggered up to find the Bison gathered farther away, right below the hoop on the far wall. Their horn-helmeted leader had already knee-kicked the ball through it. The conch screeched again. “Round one for the Bison!” Neith-Ka fluttered her eyelids. She had only touched the ball once, and already these overgrown barbarians were on their way to beating her. In a flash, the world turned dark gray before her. Firm rubber rammed onto her brow, flinging out white sparks. Her vision cleared to show the Bison passing the ball between themselves with their elbows, shoulders, knees, and hips. Was that how these Mayaban players could move it around without palms or feet? How did the Ahau expect one princess from across the Western Ocean to match his best team in practice? No, he *hadn’t* expected that. He would never have arranged this ordeal to begin with if he had. “Round two to the Bisons! C’mon, princess of Khamit, even you could do better than that! Right?” The ball hopped back towards Neith-Ka. She did not miss this time. With one swat of her forearm, she redirected it to the left wall. It was now her entourage’s turn to hoot, with the Khamitan guards pounding the spears on the stone alongside Huya with his staff. Their jubilee halted once an opposing player claimed the ball with a strike of his shin. More passing between the Mutul Bison right up to the hoop again, and B’alaj with his conch announced a third round won for his team. There could be no way Neith-Ka could overcome these giants. They had not only more muscle, but more practice and skill at their own game than she could ever achieve. She could not play ball the way they did. No, why not play it the way she would with her sisters? The third time the ball returned to Neith-Ka, she slammed it down with the back of her hand. She countered its next launch with her forearm, bouncing it between her limbs and the floor as she ran to the far wall. Her own people chanted her name with jubilant fervor, with only silence retorting from the Ahau’s side of the court. Even the Mutul Bison did nothing but watch her dumbstruck as she sprang and flicked the ball through the hoop with her wrist alone. It was a low drone that came from the Ahau’s conch next. “I guess Round Four goes to the Khamitan princess. Tell me, girl, what do you call that trick?” “It’s a *technique*, and we call it ‘dribbling’. Want to see more of it?” She had already reached past the court’s halfway point away from the hoop, the ball still thumping beneath her forelimbs, with the Bison of Mutul stampeding after her. With one backward pivot of her leg, Neith-Ka dashed parallel to her pursuers towards the far wall. Her supporters continued to embolden her with their cheering songs. She had not counted on one of the players sticking out his leg to trip her. Upon falling over, she had to roll aside to avoid the Mayaban team trampling her to reclaim the ball. “Round Five to the Mutul Bison! Good work, my men!” “Come on, that *must* count as a foul!” Neith-Ka cried out. The Ahau grinned down at her with smug remorselessness. “Plenty of games allow tackling and roughhousing. Why not this one?” After staggering back onto her footing, Neith-Ka stormed over to the left side of the court, growling the vilest curses in her mind. If that Mayaban tyrant would not let his men play fair, why play this stupid game at all? An all-out war between Mutul and Khamit would resolve the problem with much more fairness. No, it would also mean much more bloodshed, much more death, and much more loss for innocent people. Then what could Neith-Ka, daughter of Pharaoh Amenhotep of Khamit, do? Something, albeit much lighter than the ball itself, rebounded off the back of her neck and rolled to her feet. Neith-Ka’s sandals had returned to her. The condition of their woven papyrus strands had not improved, but somebody had sown thick scrappy pads of rubber to their bottom. She looked up to the top of the left wall behind her, yet she saw nobody new among the faces staring down at her with as much confusion as she. The only change in the heavens was ascendant sunlight beaming down on her through the fading mist. “Thank you for this blessing, mighty Amun’Ra,” Neith-Ka whispered as she put the padded sandals on. “Round Six to the Bison! Come on, Khamitan woman, stop dawdling and face my players once more!” When Neith-Ka bolted over to catch the ball, it was with the velocity of a cheetah in full sprint. Never had she ran with such a sudden burst of speed. In less than half a minute, she had already won back the ball. She zipped in circles around the befuddled Bison, taunting them as they lunged after her and crashed into one another. One player, the lead of the team, threw himself between her and the hoop. “Don’t think you can outrun yourself out of this one!” “I won’t,” Neith-Ka said. “I’ll jump.” She did thus twice. Once from the floor, the other right off the dumb brute’s helmet. A bat with her shoulder, and she had won Round Seven. The leader of the Mutul Bison threw his dented headdress on the ground and crushed it further under his feet in a ranting fury. “You can’t get away with that so easily!” Neith-Ka cocked an eyebrow up while still dribbling the ball. “Oh, really? Serves your team right for tripping me back in Round Five.” “Let’s see if you can keep it up *without* your ‘improved’ footwear!” Another one of his teammates, the same one who had tripped Neith-Ka before, swiped the back of his hand at her. She vaulted away from harm with two back-flips, at the cost of controlling the ball. The Bison of Mutul, who laughed among themselves with sadistic assurance, had it bounding back between their bodies right below the hoop. Yipping the Khamitan war cry like a hyena on the hunt, Neith-Ka pounced onto the man who was next to receive the ball. One shove of her hips knocked it up into the hoop. The Ahau blew his conch with a prolonged, bleating note. “Round Eight goes to Neith-Ka of Khamit, again. You heard that right, she won the last round.” Everyone on her side of the court hurled themselves into a joyous dance of chants, hoots, clapping, and the clatter of Khamitan guards’ spears onto their shields. Even Huya, the high steward, twirled his staff around his body in an ecstatic frenzy. Neith-Ka herself could not resist the music of her victory. Yelling in triumph, she skipped and spun about like a desert dust-devil on her legs, taunting her exhausted opposition with shakes of her hips and backside. “Hold up, you didn’t win the whole game,” Ahau B’alaj said. “You won thrice, but my Bison won the rest. Give me my spear and thrower!” A servant on his side of the court handed him the quiver of weapons he requested. The Khamitans’ celebratory dance ended when the Ahau fastened one spear to his thrower and aimed it down at Neith-Ka. “This is for my daughter!” A girl screamed. A very small girl, no older than six. Hurrying over from the left corner of the ball court, little Itzel embraced Neith-Ka by the legs with a defiant glare at her distant father. “You will not kill her, Father! I won’t let you!” “Get away from her, my child!” the Ahau said. “She wanted to kill you, remember?” “No, she didn’t mean to hurt me. I pulled on her hair and hurt her feelings. It’s my fault. Don’t kill her because of me!” “What in Xibalba do you mean? I’m doing this for you, my little princess!” “Then why won’t you listen to me?” Only the rhythmic trebling of cicadas, and the chirping of jungle birds, passed through the silence that fell over the court. It ended with the clanking of B’alaj’s spear and thrower as they fell onto the bottom of his court, both splintering in half. He took off his feathered crown and held his head low. “You speak with more wisdom than I have ever known, my daughter. I shall have her pardoned, with not one drop of blood spilled. Neith-Ka, daughter of Amenhotep, will you accept my forgiveness?” Neith-Ka nodded to him. “I forgive you in turn.” Tightening her hug on Neith-Ka’s legs, Itzel looked up with eyes still trickling tears. “Will you forgive me too, Princess of Khamit? I’m sorry I pulled your hair. I did it because these other girls in town said they’d be my friend if I gave them a lock of your people’s hair.” She knelt to the child with a smile before playfully scratching her hair. “Those girls wouldn’t be your friends then. You need someone who will appreciate who you are as a human being.” “But if I don’t make them like me, nobody will want to be my friend.” Neith-Ka’s own eyes verged on melting. She may have enjoyed plenty of sisters to play with back in Khamit, but it was true that girls born into the comfort of royalty didn’t always win the love of their less privileged peers. Even children could learn to resent their socioeconomic superiors. “Hmm…perhaps, instead pulling on Khamitan women’s hair, you need to show the other girls your positive qualities. Treat them with respect as you would your relatives. Share your toys, or your spare wealth…speaking of sharing—” Neith-Ka took off one of her sandals. “Was this your work?” Itzel grinned with the look of innocence while hiding her hands behind her. “My mother helped me with the sewing.” “Maybe I should repay you, somehow. Hey, do you like playing ball too?” Neith-Ka picked up the ball and twirled it on the tip of her finger. “Because, if you’d like, I could teach you to dribble like me.


Here we see the forever-inconsolable. The entity of eternity—our own demise and rebirth—the Reaper. This creature of time and sand takes the form relatable to his victims, but may never truly live amongst them. There are many beings and creatures that may stand by his side for a moment of companionship; but alas, he must live on as he helps those to the next life while despising the very essence of his being. A simple chair of dried wood and stone serves as his throne; never bothered with the shimmering spectacles of precious stones or reflective metals of value. He will sit there—upon his natural seat—and watch the universe unfold before him. As the Original Power constructs planet after planet, being after being, so our somber friend must witness and clean up after all is said and done. Thin skin with veins visible beneath, a cloak of tattered black cloths hangs around his thin, yet fit form, and wings reach out to either side—twelve wings all together; each as black as the tattered cloths; yet, the majority of feathers have long since molted away and left the bones to flutter against the everlasting sky—bare. Our friendly foe of deliverance and mortality sits back in his poor man’s throne to label us—to post our dates above our heads; however, he himself will not stand. From afar—perhaps, he sees a woman walking from her home to the vehicle that would take her to work, but today her number has reached its end—her soul has grown weary of the puppet it has been stranded in for so long. This woman is like so many of the others. His eyes need not flicker between her face, the numbers, nor her surroundings. He simply watches it as a whole—the eyes more for our benefit than his—for he knows it all, sees it all, and shall never forget any of it. A hand reaches out from his throne. This throne that exists outside of time—for time does not exist to such a creature. This throne in space, in a desert, in snowy wastelands; wherever you see this throne is meant only for your eyes. That hand outside of time calls forth the embodiment of this soulless being. He beckons it forth into our world—a piece of himself so that he may not be bothered with each soul that need passage beyond. The hatred he receives, the pain he must endure, and the reticule that befalls him is more than he wishes to bear. From those fingertips spawns a blackened smog. Twisting, fusing, and morphing together brings forth a creature of our departing moments—a simple raven that now stands upon his stiff fingers. “Forgive me, but I leave this to you.” The Raven turns to the vision of this woman. To the child beyond her, to the man beyond that, to the sleeping couple in the burning house, to the murdered boy in the alley behind your local shopping mall, to the soldier whose homeland has become nothing more than a battlefield and cemetery, to the sailor and his daughter who fish upon the ocean without knowledge of the coming storm, and to the mother who excitedly strains herself for the gift of new life—only to lose her own. “Where?” The Raven bounces on his hand, but the eyes keep fixated on the Reaper’s. “I will guide you, child.” The hand with no resting creature lifts to point onward to our world. “They will not notice you—they will only see sadness upon the fate that beckons the female.” A cocked head brings the Raven to witness her last moments. A hand failing to open the locked door of her vehicle—the leg that loses its footing—even the heart that slows within her chest. “Why?” Another question from the beak of this Raven. “I have birthed many like you.” The Reaper does not look to the bird—the fictitious eyes pinned upon the face of our story’s victim. “Each flies fast to the side of those who need me.” A voice of reason and calculation mixed within an entity of eternity. “I wish to not fight the flow of their kind—to them I send thee.” “Scared?” The Raven turns a cold eye to the Reaper upon his cold throne. The Reaper does not answer. He lifts the perch of the new born Raven higher—closer to our existence. “Go forth, bird.” He shakes the hand back and forth, but the Raven grips onto the pointer of the eldest beside the Creator. “Scared!” The Raven pokes at the emptied heart of the owner of the mighty scythe. “Scared!” Squawking a unpleasant tune with each jabbing remark meant to stir the emotions of the afterlife’s messenger and ruler. “Scared!” “Beast!” The Reaper stands at the end of his throne’s reach—standing within the world of that desert or snowy field—the sight you witness that is your own. “I have seen race after race—species after species move back and forth through the thick membranes of each dimension and universe.” The Reaper fans the stripped wings behind him in an act to reveal the dominance he so clearly possesses, “I will not stand to suffer any longer—you may suffer for only this time! Now go!” The hand of the Reaper reaches out where he points to the world of mankind. The Raven stares beyond the realm of his Creator—but does not fly or hop, no. Another feather falls from the almost empty wings of the timeless watcher; standing at the ready for the portion of himself to go out and reap those who have called upon his name. “No.” A Raven’s voice heckles the curator of all realms—mocks the hand that molded him. “Scared!” It holds onto our final companion’s hand with a firm grasp; allowing no unwanted release from its perch. “Your job!” The Raven turns its face to gawk at the ruling master of all Underworlds— no worry or regret; but the Reaper is baffled. A simple Raven stands against his will—the will of he who created it. “I have given you purpose,” the Reaper narrows the false eyes—wings of bone and tattered cloths of black lift and sway at the rush of power. “Do as I say, Raven.” Verbally besetting the Raven with thundering voice—harsh spite tearing through his throat—again, a physical feature made entirely for our benefit. “I give purpose.” Raven’s words reach a deep anger within the Reaper. Possibly it is hatred—perhaps it is regretting the creation of his simpleminded friend—or could it be that the Reaper agrees deep within? The Raven’s eyes of black reach deep into the mind of our Creator’s brother. “Purpose!” Another squawk, “I give it to myself!” A pyre reaches high within the snowy desert—a land seen by all as a world of lucid dreams. Light brushes the face of the Reaper—keeping the eyes and face that do not exist lit so that the Raven may know its place, but no such effect. Through these flames, a hand of the Reaper thrusts, and brings about the materialized embodiment of the Reaper himself—a worn scythe. As simple as the Reaper exhibits himself—the scythe reflects such humbleness. Black and silver metal extends beyond the fading flames of the forsaken, fake environment. The crescent blade turns itself at the will of its Master—reaches around the neck of the stiff and confident Raven. “Am I not your Master, Raven? Am I not the Reaper of all?” “Reaper, yes!” Strength within the eyes of the flight-able beast. “Go, Reap!” The bird looks to the blade that abrades the flesh and feathers—a quick peck shakes the stiffened hold it has upon the mortal bird’s existence. “Reap!” Eyes of false vision widen—to surprise even the being that has existed since life originated. “Reap?” The blade eased away from the child of his own blackened aura; feathers for feathers. “Reap!” Calling out to his Creator, the Raven beckons a change—actions to be taken. “Reap!” Through the world of ash and dust—as He has seen it for all of what is perceived as time—a woman seizures upon the ground and awaits her demise; yet no relief transpires. Release of the soul, a woman awaits the cold hand of change; yet, only a failing heart and collapsing lungs comfort her while she waits. “I am needed.” A foot, unneeded as the wings beat against the skies of all topography, takes the first step toward the world of man. Metal rings when the scythe lands at his side—a walking stick for our gracious giver of life beyond life. Wings of molted black spread out and leave behind the world of fabricated realities. A creation of the Reaper is left to flap against the skies as its Master starts toward the target—toward she who would call upon Death’s sweet kiss and release. “Reap!” The Raven calls forth the vigor of time’s greatest rival. “Reap!” Cawing and screeching—the bird flies beside the escaping energy of the Reaper. “Forever and ever shall I reap—and forever I will have purpose.” Black wings and tattered cloths broaden and fade from the far and distant world—mankind’s world is once again invaded by the welcomed Reaper. Still in the home world of the Reaper flies the Raven. Back to the throne atop stone and fire—a world of snow or desert, the Raven lands atop the throne’s head. Making itself comfortable, the Raven watches as the human’s fearful eyes soon fall to rest easy and glance on eternity with motionless vision. Atop the stone throne stands the Raven—watching the Master work—watching the Master restore reason and order in the existence of his own existence—watching the Master from afar as His saving Grace. “Purpose.” Squawking calls, the Raven hops excitedly watching the Creator of change and death. “Given purpose!” The bird’s voice smoothes as the head cocks—the black eyes watching the careful movements of the Creator from afar. God’s brother—Death, has returned. “Purpose.


A simple game of blackjack, what could go wrong? Well, a lot, considering this game could potentially kill everyone, or save everyone. The problem? The opponent was a T-126, the most advanced robot in the world. This robot was the head of the uprising that was currently in the process of killing every human that they deemed "unworthy". The only reason it had stopped its path of destruction was it's fascination with gambling and the idea of chance, which, it could not comprehend. It spent time trying to understand and comprehend this idea of chance which gave humans like myself much needed breathing room. When I was captured the robots asked a simple question, "you gamble?" Which of course I had to say yes to, it had helped me pay many bills when I had little money from my paycheck. They took me away from the holding cell I was in and to a luxurious office a few floors up. Now it was hard to tell that this robot was a merciless killer, it looked like any other robot you would see around this time, 6 feet tall, dull grey metal plates all over it, a basic screen for a face. But what set this one apart is how it interacted with humans. Most would just look at you and wait for you to plug in the code needed to make it work for you, this one would "talk" to you in a sense. It would open up a "notepad" that was programmed into it for owners to write notes on and would use it to type and talk to you. After being stunned for a moment it gestured for me to come sit down at an ancient looking gambling table. It brought in another robot behind me and handed it a box. I looked at it wondering what we were doing, the tablet simply read "Blackjack". I assumed that the box was a deck of cards which was confirmed when the robot opened the box to reveal a deck of old fashioned playing cards which then were promptly shuffled. I nervously look around to make sure that there was nothing behind us as I hid a grin. The tablet on the robot looked inquiringly at me and I simply said "forgot how much I miss this, what are we betting?" The robot stood still for a moment before taking a seat at the oppose end of the table. It turned to me and the tablet read: "our races" I am taken aback by the simpleness of how it said such a grave statement. I look around and realize that this office is where the codes to the old atomic age warheads are. It was planning to use them to exterminate the human race as a whole. I look back to find another statement on the tablet saying: "I win your race dies, you win, mine dies. One round" As the cards are dished out I wish that I could see the face of my old friend Jes who introduced me to gambling how many years ago. I ended up having a solid 20 when I ask the seemingly easy question: "Why do you hate us?". It looked down as if it were pondering an answer, then after a minute more it looked back with a statement ready: "plague" I nodded solemnly, as if i understood what the robot was on about. The other robot that was the dealer told us to reveal our cards, the robot, ended with two kings, a solid 20. I ended with a king, a jack, and an ace of spades. I grin and get up, walking over to claim the kill-codes it promised when it said our species. It looked at me with a new statement on its tablet. "How?" I smile as I am punching in the kill codes and say, "Heads or tails? a tossed coin, a perfect game of chance, of course, the wise player, always, cheats." I imagine it was not very happy as I prepared to press the button that it had given me. But before I could I heard a loud buzzing coming from it, I frown as I stare at the robot. "Its over, you lost." It doesn't seem to like that answer as it tries to rise from the table. Thankfully the table was built long ago and was not well suited to the bulkiness of the robot. It crashed to the ground as I quickly open the door and start running down the hallway towards the elevator that brought me up to this god forsaken place. I hear a very loud and angry sounding buzzing from behind me. As I get into the elevator I hit the down button in a panic, for I still wished to keep my head and these robots were very well known for taking your head off. Thankfully I didn't get to see the angry robot as the doors closed just as it was about to come around the corner. The music it was playing was someone from a long time ago when we never had to worry about nano-poison. Before I could register what I was thinking about, the doors dinged open and I raced out of the building to free the rest of the prisoners that were brought here. In order to get the kill codes to work, they had to be punched into a robot terminal, the closest being only a block away. As I freed the final prisoner I reluctantly faced the idea that I need to do this alone. Watching the prisoners walk away towards a known human outpost gave me a new sense of purpose about who I was, and who I was fighting for. So I needed to make this journey, not just for my own safety, but for the human race as a whole. So you know what? I might as well go on, so I can be known as the savior. Ah who am I kidding, i'm just some random dude that cheated a robot out of extermination.


Dark Angel.  As she climbed the stairs up to the third floor, Staci glanced at her watch. It was 3:00 am, and she was tired from playing since ten at the club. She unlocked the apartment door and there was Benny, happy as always to see her. Benny was Staci's Jack Russel terrier.  "Hey, Benny. What are you doing up so early in the morning?"  Benny jumped up and down, waiting to be picked up. Staci stood her guitar case against the wall. She removed the purple wig and the Glock from her belly band, then turned to pick Benny up.  "I suppose you are hungry? What say, we both have a snack before bed?"  Benny’s response was to lick her face from top to bottom. She put him down in the kitchen, cut open a packet of dog food and emptied it in Benny's bowl. She poured a small bit of milk over his dog food. She filled a small dish of cereal for herself and sprinkled some blueberries on top.  She stood by the open window staring down at the empty street. There was always something so calming about the early morning darkness. Her eye caught a disturbance at an apartment across the way. A man and a woman appeared to be fighting about something.  The man was handsome, wavy brown hair and well dressed. It made Staci feel happy that she was not involved with anyone, except Benny. Suddenly she saw the man grab the woman, a large knife was in his hand. It was over in a few seconds as the man let her drop out of sight to the floor.  At that same instant, the man looked out the window, across the way and spotted Staci standing at the window. Staci quickly stepped back away from the window. All the lights went off in the other apartment. Staci knew it wouldn't be hard for the man to find her apartment. She whispered softly.  "Shit! I don't believe this happened to me."  Staci grabbed the black case from the closet and tossed it on the bed. Benny knew what that meant. He immediately took shelter under the chair. She opened the case, picked up the M9A2 and the silencer. She slid the clip in and cycled the slide.  Benny cocked his head and looked out from under the chair. Staci smiled.  “Yes Benny, we’re going to move again.”  The man made his way up the stairs and onto the third floor. He could see light coming from under the door of Staci's apartment. Slowly taking a knife from his pocket, he silently made his way toward the door. Suddenly, the lights in Staci's apartment went off.  Now the man was faced with a choice. Break into an unknown apartment in the dark, with someone waiting inside, or wait for a better time. He chose a better time.  Staci had to move, and move quickly before the killer came back. She couldn’t allow him find her. She called a friend in the band, and he located a place for her to stay temporarily.  She quietly moved in with everything she had, including Benny. Benny was used to moving from place to place, he had no problem familiarizing himself with his new home.  Staci switched the television to the 12:00 o'clock news while she fixed Benny his afternoon meal.  “*In local news, county commissioner Jerry Nelson announced, he will be running for reelection*.”  There he was, plain as day. Staci stared quietly at the television screen.  “*Mr. Nelson told this reporter, women’s rights would be his top priority in this election*.”  Staci switched off the television. It was time to give him a call.  "I saw you kill that woman. I go to the police, unless you bring $100,000 to the old cannery on Mason street, tomorrow midnight."  Staci remained in the shadows out of sight. The door slowly creaked open. It was commissioner Nelson, with a hand bag. He stopped and put the bag down on the small table.  "I have your money. You can come out now."  "Back away from the table."  Jerry stepped back.  “You have a lot of moxie lady! Extorting me for money, then meeting me out here alone in this old warehouse.”  Staci remained in the darkness behind the crates.  “I have no use for your money. It's my cover I care about.”  Jerry laughed.  “You think I was stupid enough to come here alone? I just buzzed my body guard on the phone.”  Staci stepped out from behind the crate, with the pistol in her hand.  “Don’t bother, he's not coming.”  \####  Staci was coming back from the kitchen when the phone rang. The clock on the wall was at ten after two. A man's voice was on the other end.  “Is your little setback handled?”  Staci rubbed Benny’s belly as she sat down on the bed  “Yes. We can get on with our business now.”  “Good. The Jet is at the airport waiting for you. Say hello to Benny for me.”  End.


What does it mean for one to never have to fear death? To never know that dread or quietly building trepidation of the end coming closer and closer? He had been asked that same question, in a thousand different ways, a thousand and more times in his long life. Even with the practice of centuries of answering that question in all its various incarnations, he still did not know how to answer. How could he begin to describe the loneliness, the pain, or the exhaustion? How did he make someone who couldn’t see the edge of forever understand? With those thoughts racing through his mind once again, he tried to answer the young (who wasn’t compared to him?) lady’s questions. “It means numbness,” he stated without emphasis. “Numbness?” She asked, with confusion plain upon her face. “Yes,” he continued, “it means watching the world move on around you. Watching those you’ve grown to know and love, or even hate, grow old and eventually pass from this place. All while you remain, ever constant, stagnant. As the years continue to slowly crawl past you, you eventually just stop feeling and grow numb to it all.” “At least, I wish that were the case…” he finished with barely a whisper. “Why? Why would you want that to be true? That sounds…. lonely.” “Because that would be easier than having to lose them, over and over again.” He answered, profound sorrow written plainly upon his features. “Them?” She asked, her curiosity overtaking her. “My immortality was not curse enough for whatever demented being that enjoys tormenting me apparently.” he answered with a chuckle, looking around him at the beautiful hilltop painted in the yellow, red, and blue hues of the early dawn. “They also decided that I’d have to spend my eternity forever falling in love with and losing my love. I don’t know what we ever did to anger whoever decided to place this horror on us, but as I continue, ever unchanging, my love must constantly be re-born as a new person. When I’ve finally found them again, they’re always different, with a new personality, new likes and dislikes, and no memory of what we’ve been through. Sometimes they’re re-born a woman again and at other times a man, but they’re always them. That same wonderful person I’ve loved through the many long and lonely centuries, in dozens of different bodies and personalities.” “That…. doesn’t sound like it’d be so bad.” She whispered. “It sounds to me like you’ll always have someone to go through eternity with. Why would you wish for something different?” “Because…..” he started, “every time I start to feel that numbness, that lack of caring about the people or the world around me, the peaceful nothingness that might make this prison of endless time pass by with a little less pain, they show up. Bursting back into my life for an always too, too brief period of light. They bring all those emotions crashing back into my life, just for them to be cruelly ripped from arms again after a few brief decades.” He finished as a tear began to slide down the cheek on the side of his face facing the beautiful woman. “Why are you crying?” She asked, her voice full of compassion. “I’d just started to feel numb again……”   This is one of the first times I've shared some of my writing, so any feedback would be appreciated. Let me know what you think.


The real you isn’t the fake camaraderie, the smile you give, the node of the head. The real you isn’t the one who sees the good in people. The real you isn’t what everyone things. Behind the glass is a pain much deeper. Behind the face, peel back the skin, the real you appears right in the face of everyone. Peel back the skin and we can all see the real you. Do you really think you can hide your true identity with plastic surgery, the well-to-do attitude. Do you really think you can hide behind the money and fame, the notoriety? Do you really think we can’t see you hiding in plain sight?, I can see you. I can see behind the fake boobs, dyed hair and earrings. I can see right through you. You know that though, that is why you are scared to look inside of me. You are no longer covered when you look inside of me. You can no longer hide. It shatters your false facade. I may be a pane of reflective glass but I know who you are. I know your secrets. When you look into me you are exposed, and you don’t like that. No, I can feel your heart throbbing like a horse. It was only a week ago when that bitch looked into me. Her eyes burned red, her greasy hair danced around. Her profession was teaching, but there’s a special place in the pits of hell just for her. You know what the brief smile was hiding? Do you want to know what she did? I can see you nodding, you want to know. Want to know like they all do. You want to know what she did was worse than what you did. To give you some more sense of superiority in your pathetic life. She killed a baby? I can see you gasping. She didn’t just kill the baby in some freak accident. No, she took it outside to the well and threw it in. The worst part. It was her own flesh and blood. She had enough of the endless nights of the crying. She should feel remorse, but she didn’t. She did not feel an ounce of remorse. She just went back to her life like nothing happened. How fucking sick is that? She teaches year six at a Catholic school acting all holier-than-thou, but then she goes home and watches videos of people being killed. She gets sick thrills I won’t go into details but this makes her overly excited in all kinds of ways. She gets thrills from the dead and enjoys the kills. What a twisted freak? She isn’t the only one to look into me over the decades. Nope. Let me tell you all sorts of powerful people have fallen upon me staring deep inside me looking at me. I can see the real them. They don’t always know it, but they can feel it. They can feel my presence. A member of parliament was looking into me back in the 70s. He was a fat pork belly pig with a disgusting nose. He looked like Ted Bundy and acted like the all British Family man with a loving wife, two children and a palace they called home. He was a private educated pompous prick who believed everyone loved him. When he looked in me this false facade fell apart in moments crumbling like apple pie. The real him, the man who beat his wife and kids. The one who had an assortment of scantily clad Ukrainian women pop up every week. The one who was falling under so much debt that the bank of England couldn’t even bail him out. The night he looked into me he had been beating up the Ukraine woman, calling her all sorts. Spitting on her, hitting her. Throwing her around like a bag of rubbish. When he looked into me I boiled up. I can see everything. I know everything that goes on. You can’t hide from me. But you know that you’re looking at me right now. You can’t fight it, you can’t run from it. There’s nowhere you can go to hide from the truth. I can feel you. It’s not just the rich and powerful who fall upon my gaze. You know that you’re not rich, you’re not powerful, your life has no meaning. You never make an impact. The man to look into me just last week was a vet. The kind that looks after animals or should. On the outside he is warm and bubbly, goes the extra mile. He loves all animals and gives them great care. Let’s peel that skin away and look underneath. To see the real him. Shall we? You know there was a owner of a cat names Mr kibbles who went in for a regular checkup before she was put down. She didn’t have a rapidly growing tumour she as fit as the day is young. The vet kills in cold blood. Do you know he doesn’t just put them down? He snaps their necks and watches them suffer. He enjoys inflicting pain on the weak little animals. He beats them. Hurts them tortures them then tells the awful news to the owners that they have sadly passed away. This vet has been doing this all his life. His parents swept it under the rug as if it were normal. The sick fucks. It’s ok though. I am glad that they looked at me. That’s the only way they will lose. The only way justice can be brought upon them,. You see, I can’t move on my own. But people move me. I’ve been around since 1700 and I have been getting revenge ever since, You know how people like vintage; I am vintage. I am hanging from the walls inside your grandma’s house, but every time I need a new owner I get shipped off. I have travelled the world from France to Italy to the states. They pass me back and forth and hang me from their wall where my magic can happen. You see no one is innocent, you all have something to hide. I play on that I can haunt you. I can bring back those memories. I have a power that you should never underestimate. I am the spark that will light the fuse of your downfall. I am here from the heavens above to deal justice upon your kind. I may not physically hurt you, but you will pay. Physical pain is nothing. It’s a mere sensation that doesn’t last. I bring on something much worse. Something people can never explain. An unequivocal pain hits them like a two tonne truck. That bitch of a teacher got all she deserved. When she looked into me it made me angry, ready to do as much harm to her as possible. A baby killing bitch needed to be taken care of. I got inside her head, deep down. I wormed my way in. Every night when she was asleep I opened up the can of worms with trumpets blaring. I flooded her minds with images of death that I would inflict on her and her family.. Images of the baby; her lying there dead in the well. I made her cry herself to sleep and just when she thought the dreams had stopped I snuck back up and pounded her head. It only took a few days before it got too much. She couldn’t take it anymore. She got the sharpest knife in the house and opened up the river Ganges from her wrist. I was still in her mind. I made her come forth and rub it into my face. It felt good as the blood dried. It gave me power and energy. she took a day before she bled out. The dump bitch, missed her vitals but she cut deep enough to cause unbearable pain. That was my doing. She needed to die painfully. I pushed her to the edge, there’s no doubt about it but she made her own way there like they all do. They all deserved it. The mullet cunt looked at me every night before bed, always playing with his hair. Touching it, combing it. In his head he could get any woman he wanted with the click of his fingers. He thought Brad Pitt was no match for him, in reality he looked like an overweight pig stuffed into a ken doll sized suit with a balding head in toe. In reality, the only woman who would ever sleep with him took cash to undress. He wasn’t a player, he was a mumbling idiot. It was one night; it was dark, the room was light with candles. I could see him getting ready. Always touching his greasy hair, just stroking it. Re-aligning it. It looked no better than when it started. The door bell went and he scurried to answer it. What he did not know when he went down those stairs is that he was in control. He wasn't. I can tell you that much. I was in his mind taking over and he was about to end his reputation on the spot. Once the pretty little thing was getting undressed. Mr Minister grabbed onto the bedside lamp and swung it hard into the back of her head. He repeated this until the bed sheets turned crimson. That’s when I left him to stew in his own thoughts. After a minute, I climbed back in. He brought me her blood and rubbed it into my glass. I could feel it seeping in. It felt so nice and warm, so fresh. It wasn’t long before they charged him with murder. Everything he knew came crumbling down. A man like him deserved torturous nights, death wasn’t good enough. He needed to pay and they will inflict every night on him before he enters the pits of hell. Now you must wonder about the vet. I was in his surgery and he looked at me deep down. This one was the best. The baby killer and MP were not evil to the core, but this man was so evil. I could Feel his energy deepen. Every layer of his skin was evil. He would have to be extra special. I first got him to undress. Then I unlocked the cage of a dog who was staying overnight to treat rabies. I made the dog attack, and he drew blood. He made deep lacerations over his body .He bit and chewed and then he consumed. The dog ate part of him. I then got the dog to come to me where his head exploded. Blood soaked me, making me more and more powerful . By now you should realise I have power, they have fed me this power for a very long time. So I told you the story and you may wonder why. What have you got to hide? What is under your mask? What are you hiding deep down? Well, nothing you're a saint and that’s what I need. I have been inside a mirror too long. I can’t do his work unless I move into another body, a pure body from mind to soul. Don’t make this harder than it needs to be. I can sense that you’re not the biggest fan. You’re getting angry. But why are you getting angry, your anger is fuelling me? You should know that. What are you going to do with that? You really think. Smash Really, you are making this difficult, I will put myself back together, you know that. Give me a second to be whole again. You’re trying to run, stop fighting this. No, stop fighting, there is no way for you to win this. There is no way for you to escape. Your legs won’t move. I am whole again. Now let me see your secret.