The howling of the frosty wind grew louder and muffled the dark rays from the moon above. A wet fog seeped through the cracks of an old, rigid window pane and washed over a fairly aged bedside cabinet. The frail curtains delicately flowed and rippled across the room, casting a misty shadow across the rickety floorboards. A peaceful log occupied the bed, laying lifeless as it succumbed to the cold breeze which smothered it. The plum kissed skin and the flowing locks were the only elements that could distinguish the object. All seems peaceful, but the fiends of the night are hungry and searching for vulnerability in their prey. A foreign, vivid shadow filled the room with a toxic darkness, suffocating the last drops of life that the room once had. The window chain hovered subtly off the lock and creaked open the ancient window, allowing the unnatural climate of the outside world to flow freely into the solitude room. Following the musty fog was a meagre figure, clad in rotting green, hungry for a glowing youth. The being, glowing in a murky darkness, stood tall as an oak tree by the bedside of the innocent child, watching over like a dark angel before elevating the child into the airborne room. The pair flew astray into the darkened night sky, leaving the isolated bedsit to fend for itself against the demons of the night. An object, unfamiliar to any of human existence passed the moon and scraped the moonlight gracefully, yet so eerily, casting shadows across the silent town below. The girl, under a spell of deep unconsciousness had travelled into a universe of the unknown. The vicious substance coarsed through the teens veins and grappled the consciousness of her freshly developed brain, only to start letting her slip through into a much darker place, back to reality. The girl called out to the figure, who sat on a stool opposite, eagerly waiting for company from an uncomfortable victim it had grasped from the goodness of the world. “Where am I?” Called out the girl as she eased back into a world she was unfamiliar with. The cloak shuffled and obscured the face of the dark soul it covered, before replying; “Neverland, my dear”. Grasping onto the rag of a blanket, the girl attempted to scan the room for any sense of where she was. After worrying glancing from wall to wall, the cloaked mound moulded into a standing position. Following a deep, crackle of a cough, the figure spoke; “I know all about you Wendy. I’ve been watching you for weeks, waiting for the right opportunity. When the stars aligned and all the pieces of my plan came together I... Well, that doesn’t matter now, I have you”. Shivering with fear, Wendy attempted her grand escape only to be restricted by the tight, straw like ropes which held her close to the rusty old bed frame. The slightest turn of her wrists would scrape her skin like she was bounded by barbed wire. Shaking like a rabid dog, she tried with all her force to pull away from her deathbed but only resulting in deep uncomfort and only distancing further from an energetic soul with every attempt of release. The figure nonchalantly hovered over to the bedside as if the twisted scenario it had started was just a minor inconvenience. Growing taller as the black cloak leaned over the bed, a collection of bones wrapped in paper thin, wrinkly skin, tugged on the hood and lowered the barrier, revealing the scrawny being it harboured. The creature, which was barely noticeable as a human, beared a long mouldy-grey ruff of a beard which hung down on top of the dark cloak the man bore. The arm of the coat twitched as a gaunt hand slithered out and reached over to the flowing river of hair covering the girls blushed face. Carefully moving the hair to reveal Wendy’s terrified emotion, the man spoke; “I’m sorry, I haven’t introduced myself, how rude of me. I’m Peter”. Following his softly whispered words, the mortal grinned and scowled over Wendy, creating further shivering terror in the youth’s teary eyes. Crawling from the hair, the scrawny, scaly hand wandered down to the glossy buttons of her nightgown. Fiddling, the long-tainted nails of the hand unweaved the buttons and slowly unlocked the only fabrics acting as safety from the body of the teen. With an attempt to retrieve her snatched freedom, Wendy screamed at a volume unbearable to the human ear, the scream was met with a scattering of beetles and rodents escaping the siren of fear. Kicking and violently wriggling, she tried for a final time to escape the hands of her soon to be killer before he stole her innocent youth. But the attempt was unsuccessful. “Oh my dear, you’re not playing nicely. We can’t have that can we? Maybe this will calm you”. The man reached into a draw and scrambled across the wooden base before pulling out a yellowy handkerchief covered in spots of orange infection and held it over the sweet strawberry lips of the girl before allowing her sleep; “Goodnight Wendy my sweet girl”. Wendy’s eyes started to flutter softly before gradually falling closed. She dropped into a hole of darkness and her consciousness fell with her, leaving her body limp and vulnerable to anything by it.


I lifted my head over the parapet just long enough for it to not be shot off: from the hill I was on, on a beautiful sunny morning, I could see a plain of destruction: of combat, of metal wreckages, and craters, and corpses of young men all twisted up in barbed wire and strewn unnaturally, broken, over tank traps and artillery pieces with blown barrels and smashed wheels. I sat back down and couldn’t bring myself to care today; I had been seeing it over and over, and thinking about the consequences of the war, and couldn’t bring myself to think it was that important that we win. In my trench there was a column of ants running along a horizontal beam and I tried to watch them instead of thinking. I knew an old trick: I spat on my finger and made a line of saliva across the trail of the ant tracks. It stopped the ants when they got there: they walked back and forth along the spit barrier and tried to figure out what was going on, most of them turning around and going back the way they came. I watched one ant heading back, and I realised that every time he came across an ant coming the other way they stopped in front of each other for a moment. I wondered how much information they could exchange with the waving of their antennae: “some asshole’s spit all over our trail.”  I heard a shell whistle overhead, glad to hear it pass by without stopping. I couldn’t see the ants carrying anything in either direction: either they had very small bits of food with them or they were doing something else. I wondered what. I wondered if they ever stopped and watched the trail go by and wondered why it was that they did what they did. I knew that they apparently didn’t care about anything but the nest, and that they did their jobs blindly, but was that the limit of their minds? Was there one little corner of the brain, some tiny fragment that hinted at holding something else, even just in one single ant of the colony, a freak occurrence of a tiny thought that wanted to be something more? I wondered how big the piece of me that I felt was so big was, my consciousness or whatever it was, considering I was currently sitting in this trench on this hill, and considering that if someone came up the hill wearing the wrong coloured clothes I would, being honest with myself, shoot him without hesitation. Sure, I did seem to wonder about things pretty frequently–more than ants seem to-but it didn’t seem to be doing me any good, nor had it really ever. I thought back on a painting I had seen, of a sunrise over a harbour and the clamour of construction, a beautiful city being built on a beautiful morning while children raced toy boats in the water. What would that painter, whatever his name was, have done if he was in my position? Could he find any beauty in this scene?  The ants kept marching along the beam, surely noticing the way their ground shook when shells exploded nearby. They must have felt it but maybe they had no use for that information: there was certainly nothing they could do about it; and they had things to build, like the labourers in that painting. Did the ants feel as optimistic as that sunrise, as the kids by the cool harbour waters and the busy labourers sweating, while they were doing their part for the anthill? The ants all passed by a weed that had found itself a foothold in the trench wall; it was nice to have something green to look at, but I also knew that it was an edible weed. I plucked it, doing my best not to disturb the ant column as I did so, and chewed it. It didn’t taste like much, but I didn’t really regret plucking it. I took another peek over the parapet, chewing on the fibrous stem of the weed, and everything seemed the same: nothing dramatic was happening, no big attacks were being mounted; it was just a war of attrition built up of tiny blocks of personal tragedy; as those shells that whistled overhead smashed into a trench where someone else was sitting and maybe watching ants. I was glad to not be receiving any orders, or any enemy shells, and I kept on watching the ants.


First, it was Existentialism. He heard her voice ring out, shrill and self-assured, before he’d even taken a proper look at her. “Man first of all exists, encounters himself, surges up in the world, and defines himself afterwards. These were the words of John Paul Sartre in his 1946 essay on Existentialism and Humanism , which first laid out the philosophical framework of existentialism. As you will see, it still holds radical potential for us today...” The way she held herself, regal-like, with an air of pomposity as she reeled off French phrases and philosophical mantras like she’d coined them herself - her whole demeanour in fact - set his teeth grinding. It didn’t help that languages were one of the few subjects Marcus didn’t excel at. When he stood up to deliver for the opposition, his confidence had wavered and he could hear how unconvincing his appeals to biological essentialism sounded. Besides, the audience always loved a speaker who told them that they were more free than they thought they were, so he’d been on the back foot from the start. That had lost them a spot in the regional finals and the trophy had eventually gone to some prep school from Wiltshire. The next time, it was Life on Other Planets. He hadn’t seen her for six months, but as soon as everyone stepped on the stage to shake hands with the other teams, he felt the adrenaline rush through him. She wore a garnet school tie, a little tighter than you would get away with in his school. Marcus, by contrast, had self-consciously slipped his loosely knotted tie down to reveal an undone top button, hoping it projected a cool and calm image. He rolled his sleeves up as determinedly as if he was stepping into armour. It was the first bout of the county championships. “For centuries, man has believed that he was alone in the universe. But he looked to the stars and never stopped wondering. We are now in an age where we can say beyond reasonable doubt that there is a life beyond planet Earth. Recent studies of Mars by NASA probes have shown the presence of Formaldehyde and Ammonia in the atmosphere...” He delivered his speech clearly and pragmatically, condensing down large-scale statistics into easily digestible nuggets of information. There was a palpable air of excitement from the audience, and he knew that they’d be going home later today and repeating facts from his speech to their friends and family. By the time he had finished, they were like putty in his hands. As he stepped off stage, he caught her glowering up at him. She looked worried, he thought to himself, gleefully, and rightfully so. He’d already won over the audience, and it would take a lot to swing them back the other way. She stiffly shuffled to podium and began to speak in a low but firm voice. “My honourable opponent has told you today that it is beyond all reasonable doubt that there is life on other planets. He has said that man has always thought of himself alone in the universe. Both of these statements are demonstrably false.” “Man has always been terrified, above all, by the possibility that we are alone in a vast chasm of darkness. And to fill that void, he has created life where none is to be found, commonly in the form of deities or angels. And that age-old need for connection, ladies and gentleman, is the exact same driving force that lies behind modern claims of alien life, which are founded on flimsy evidence and dressed up in the language of pseudo-science...” It was a robust rebuttal, one that turned the spotlight on the audience themselves and forced them to examine their own desire to believe in Marcus’s arguments. A few of them shuffled uncomfortably in their seats. Marcus was impressed. Nonetheless, he sensed that this high-concept, rather cynical argument had largely failed to connect. The second proposition and opposition teammates gave adequate speeches of their own, before the debate turned to questions from the floor. Nearly all of the questions were directed to Marcus from people eager to know more about the possibility of past life on Mars. It was wrapped up with short summary speeches from himself and Ria. Any relief was immediately stifled by a surge of anxiety about what was to come next. In the county championships, teams were not only required to debate the main topic, but also to complete a second round in which they debated on an impromptu subject. They would be handed a bundle of information and given a mere 15 minutes to prepare. It was Marcus’s biggest fear that he would get flustered in the extra round and loose his cool, though normally he excelled under pressure. His teammate Ryan and himself quickly set to work leafing through the papers. “I heard that the Caulfield Grammar always knows the subjects in advance...” Ryan hissed in an accusatory tone. “What do you mean?” “Well, I hea-a-a-a-rd that their deputy head’s good buddies with the debating chair and so he catches wind of what subjects are going to be sprung on us. That’s why they’re always so prepared.” Marcus looked at his conspiratorial friend with a wry smile. “And where did you hear that story from?” “My brother Mike went to Caulfield for Sixth Form - only for a year before he dropped out and started that plumbing course. Mum and Dad were gutted they’d spent out only for Mike to throw it all away. Jokes on them, he’s already making more than they do. But that’s why I’m stuck at the Grange: they don’t want to risk the investment of a better school on me now.” He folded his arms, sulkily. “Right.” Said Marcus, acutely aware of how the clock was ticking on their preparation time. “So about this debate-” “And she’s a proper teacher’s pet that one. I heard from Mike that she’s set a record in her school for GCSE’s: 11 A*s, 1 A. The Grange won’t even let me take more than 10, bet I could set a record if I’d been given half a chance.” Suddenly his interest had been piqued. “You know her?” “You mean Ria? Yeah my brother is friends with her brother, she’s a total suck up. Apparently she has a poster of the periodic table on her bedroom wall!” Marcus nodded shiftily. He certainly didn’t have a poster like that displayed on his wall – but he did have a quiz app he used to test his memory of the periodic elements... “Do you think... you could introduce us? You know, afterwards.” Marcus asked. “I want to get a handle on the competition for future bouts.” He added quickly. “Pfft. Sure. Oh shit we’ve only got 8 minutes left. We better get on. Debate, on the opposition: Lying is always morally wrong. Apparently we’re meant to know about this guy Kant? ” The impromptu bout went as Ryan had predicted: the Caulfield school demolished them. In the end though, Marcus didn’t need an introduction to be brokered as Ria came up to him after the debates had finished and the teams were packing up. “So that was a decent argument you put forward there,” she said, haughtily. “About life on other planets, that is.” He laughed in a way that smoothed over his nerves. “Is that your way of saying well done?” “If it was that well done, you would have won,” she replied, a slight twinkle in her eyes. “But it was decent competition, I’ll give you that. You almost had me worried there. I don’t say that lightly you know.” “Thank you for your sincere congratulations” he said, playfully. There was an awkward silence for a moment, and he began filling up his backpack. Even as he leant over to slowly zip the bag up, he could feel her proximity to him and an electric tension fizzled in the air. “So, you’re Ria right? My friend knows your brother.” He volunteered. “Indeed, Ria is me. And you’re Marcus, I presume.” He felt a little thrill that she had sought out his name. “And how do you know that? I doubt you got the information from my brother, he’s been living in Australia for the past decade,” he joked. “It’s sewn on your backpack,” she retorted. His heart sunk. Thanks Mum . The disappointment must have flickered across his face because she reached out and placed her hand gently on his arm. “Don’t worry,” she said, “I like a man who’s organised.” She flashed him a flirtatious smile. “Let’s see if you can organise a victory next time?” And with that challenge, she flounced off to re-join her teammate. The third time, it was Freedom of Speech in Universities. Ryan took the lead and almost managed to swing the audience into believing that there was simply too much free speech in the world - before he started spouting off about universities being cradles of communism. The impromptu debate wasn’t much better, as the Caulfield school seemed to know a lot more on the topic of environmentalism and the imminent dangers of climate change. By this point, a month had passed and Marcus had worked up the courage to approach Ria after the debates and ask if she wanted to hang out. He hadn’t quite worked up the bottle to ask if she wanted to go out but it was a first step at least, he figured. He took a sharp breath in, rolled up his sleeves again, and walked over to where she was sat. She looked up at him, toying with an escapee curl of hair between her finger and thumb. “Not such a hotshot this time were we?” “No, I admit, I’ve been a bit distracted.” He said. “Ryan did a good job though.” “Your teammate? He was mediocre at best. Rather seems to think he’s smarter than he is.” Marcus was a bit put out by her comment, though secretly he felt the same. “Is that what you think of me?” “To begin with, maybe. I guess time will tell.” She broke into a warm smile. “Well... we could hang out some time, and put that supposition to the test?” He didn’t dare move a single facial muscle in case in case it went rogue and betrayed him. His stomach was clenched tightly. Ria replied, “That wouldn’t be such a bad notion,” and took out a small notebook, wrote down her number and pulled the page out. “Give me a ring?” They went on a date the very next evening. It was a jolt, seeing her out of school uniform; she wore a velvet red top with long puffy sleeves, and a pair of sleek black jeans. He asked her what she was planning to do at university. “Oh I’ll be on the University Challenge team, and likely run the Model UN.” She said, matter-of-factly. “I meant more, what do you plan on studying...” He said, in awe of her self-assurance. “Oh.” She laughed. “Well I intend on studying Politics and International Relations at Warwick. If I get the grades of course. And you?” “English at Sheffield. I’ve got a few mates up there already actually.” In his mind, he was already trying to calculate the distance between Sheffield and Warwick. “That sounds lovely.” She replied, looking intently at him, and her fingers inched a little closer to his so that they were a hairbreadth’s apart. They spoke some more about school and future plans, before he casually dropped in the rumour he’d heard from Ryan. “Is it true?” He asked. She scanned him for a moment, as if checking she could trust him. “Look, I’m more keen than anyone to win, I mean, going on to win the regionals would really help me get into the Parliamentary debate league and then the Model UN, but I feel really uncomfortable with it. Mr Scott keeps dropping all these heavy handed hints, and it’s hard not to act on them...” She looked ashamed. “It’s terrible, I know.” “No I get it.” Marcus said, shifting his hand onto hers. He could feel that her pulse was racing as fast as his. “I don’t know if it will fix anything,” she said, “but I can tell you what the next one’s going to be. It’s on the topic of AI – you know, artificial intelligence. Robots and all that.” At the end of the evening, he went to kiss her on the cheek goodbye at the same time as she went in for a hug, and he accidentally grazed across the corner of her lips. She held on to him longer than a normal hug, before whispering in his ear, “I’ll see you soon, opponent.” He had told Ryan about the impromptu subject at school the next day. “Where in the high hell did you hear that?” Ryan asked, incredulously. “From Ria actually.” “Oh no mate, she doesn’t fancy you does she? I mean fair play her telling us and all, but still. ” Marcus withered under Ryan’s mockery. “Nah, no way. And even she did, I’d never go for that. I have standards you know, mate.” He glanced around guiltily, even though he knew Ria was miles away. The two began preparing in earnest for the final debate, and by the time it arrived Marcus had devoured seven Isaac Asimov novels. When they got to the county finals, the hall was packed with people Marcus didn’t recognise though somewhere in the crowd his mum and dad were in attendance, excited to finally be invited to one of his debates. The Chair was a small beady, bearded man, who Marcus knew to be quite the stickler for rules, and he had to hush the crowd several times before the debates could begin. This time, the main topic was Social Media as a Force for Good. The debate opened with Marcus in first proposition, presenting a sweeping vision of an increasingly connected world and its benefit to human progress. Ria, in first opposition, argued fiercely that platforms like Facebook and Twitter had caused a breakdown in communication and enabled users to act in bad faith. Ryan to his credit gave a fantastic account of the role of social media in the Arab Spring and Ria’s teammate gave some damning statistics about the impact on young children. Marcus was exhausted by the time the questions from the floor and summaries were over. Finally, the bearded man gave a cough to indicate he was ready to announce the impromptu round. He read off a sheet: “Can Men and Women Ever be Equal?” What? Panicked, Marcus glanced over at Ria expecting to be met with a similarly aghast look. She wore a blank expression, gaze fixed firmly forwards towards the stage. Ryan muttered swear words under his breath as he and Marcus fumbled through the information sheets to try and piece together their proposition speeches. “For a nerd, she’s fecking useless,” he told Marcus, annoyed at the wasted hours spent pouring over sci-fi mags and robotics journals. Marcus closed his eyes, and tried to remember all the things his mum had taught him growing up, those preachy lectures about gender equality, and discrimination in the workplace and consent. He spotted his mum in the audience and she gave him an enthusiastic thumbs up. The bearded man signalled that it was time. Marcus stepped up and began: “Men and women are equal, but they have never had the opportunity to be treated as such. Of course, there’s been a lot of progress since the time of the suffragettes but even today the male perspective is seen as the default. And to treat men as the default is to deny women’s equal share in humanity; to deny that they are rounded individuals with their own wants, needs, and desires. When I was growing up my mum used to tell me...” He sat back down, exalted and a little proud of himself. It had been clumsy but it had been passionate and he even felt spurred to be a greater champion of women. Yes, he was going to be a better man, a better ally. He was going to outright tell Ryan and all his mates that he fancied a girl – no, a woman! – because she was smart, and she was confident, and because he valued her as a person in herself. As he sat back down, he glanced over at Ria again to see if she was impressed. Her expression brightened, and she cast a small grin his way. With one quick movement she loosened her tie and then made her way to the podium. “Men and women can never be equal for the same reason that the film When Harry Met Sally suggested that men and women can never be friends. The sex always gets in the way.” “I don’t deny the benefits of recent developments in women’s rights. But we would be deluding ourselves to think that any differences between men and women were merely artificial .” With this, she turned and momentarily locked her eyes squarely on his. Any trace of warmth had disappeared. “As a recent article in The Economist discussed, the sexual dimorphism of humans creates a fundamental power imbalance that cannot be simply legislated or debated away...” Beside him, Ryan started furiously shuffling through the information sheets, trying to find a reference to the article. Marcus simply stared, agape. “... and that, ladies and gentlemen, is why the science clearly shows that men and women can never be equal.” Ria’s speech was met with rapturous applause. The other two teammates delivered their speeches in a blur. At last, Marcus stepped up to podium to deliver his summary, and the whole world seemed to distort in front of him, looming large. His knees felt weak. He opened his mouth, “I uh –” “I –” But flustered, he couldn’t find the words to speak.


I want to preface that, this is my first post and I am not sure how reddit really works but I just want to be able to get my work out there. It's nothing fancy just a single parent who enjoys writing. Thank you for taking the time to read my work. Thomas had been single and not looking for about 2 years. His divorce was messy due to the simple fact that his ex-wife had been sleeping with his boss. As sad as it may seem, it was a blessing. He and Jessica had been married and together for 15 years. High school sweethearts, fell in love in Algebra shockingly. The last two years were really rough, Jessica lost her parents in a freak accident back in the summer of 1988. They were headed home from a little get together with their closest friends when a drunk driver hit them head on. Since then she was never the same considering she was the only child and that was her only family left here in America. They came from a small village in China called Heshun Town. Enough of the back story on this witch, but since Jessica was sleeping with his boss, he actually received a pay raise and a new higher position. Mr. Flint had felt bad that he took his wife from underneath but knew he also deserved the raise. Thomas is an honest hardworking man who would have done anything for his ex but this was the time that he moved on and worked toward his own goals and found his true self since he lost his identity because of her. He could get back to his video games and he had this fascination with trains. He would ride them any chance he got. He really loves the first high speed train that was built in 1964 in Japan. It’s known as the bullet train. They have been known to reach speeds of 350 km/h. Thomas was thrilled about the idea of riding it one day. Since Thomas’s boss had been sucking up to him for a year now, Mr. Flint gave Thomas a 2 week paid vacation trip to Japan as a Christmas present. “ You are such a great asset to this company Thomas, I don’t know where we would be without our best journalist here at Flint Stone Magazine.” Said Mr, Flint to Thomas. They thanked each other and went about their day. Thomas was excited. He was about to go from station to station riding all the bullet trains he could within the two weeks allotted for him and everyone knew he needed this vacation. He landed in Kagoshima, Japan, 24 hours later. Thomas had his itinerary already to go, but unbeknown to him it was all going to change. Thomas got to his hotel and passed out for a good 10 hours. Those 24 hour flights are hard on the body as you get older. He needed the rest. He woke up about 9 am feeling refreshed and ready to start his vacation. Thomas handed the stewardess his ticket as he boreded and went to find his seat. He was like a child in a candy store. Taking all the pictures, walking around where he could before the train took off. He touched everything he could until he came to an empty seat that had this old pigskin journal. He looked around to see if anyone was going to sit there but the train was pretty empty considering the time and day it was. It was Sunday 10:30 am. The stewardess made an announcement that they were getting ready to take off and that it wasn’t going to be a long ride. Thomas went to his seat and opened the journal. Unfortunately he couldn’t read it because it was in Japanese. But he has a translation book that would hopefully help him. The train started to move and so Thomas sat back and enjoyed the ride. He was so excited since he was living his best life, even if he had lost the love of his life to his balding suck up of a boss. That wasn’t going to stop him. Thomas finally got back to his room after the train ride and he had been smiling ear to ear once he walked into the room. He had plans to go to the nearest restaurant to grab some grub since he hadn’t eaten since the plan, but he wanted to figure out what the journal said. So he ordered in and got to work. He ordered a plethora of sushi from the hotel because how could you not? Thomas got the first page translated and what he first noticed was the date. It said December 2023. He had to go over it multiple times because he didn’t believe what he read. He even went down to the front desk to ask them if it was correct and they looked up at him and said yes. He started reading knowing that the translation was right, the first sentence had said Earth is about to end. There was a weird sensation flowing through his body because at this point he didn’t think it was a real journal because it dates to the future not the present time. Was it a story book or was it a time travelers journal writing down their experiences? Thomas needed to figure it out. He waited for his sushi to arrive before he started reading. He tipped the bellboy, for bringing his food. Thomas started reading at 1 p.m. and the first sentence that he read was “ If you found this, it might be too late.” Thomas was never this scared to read something in his entire life, including his own divorce papers. But thankfully, Jessica left him everything because she moved in with Mr. Flint and since he owned the magazine, he was a billionaire. She didn’t need anything except some family photos and her ugly ankle biter of a dog, which Thomas hated anyway. But back to the journal, some things weren’t translating correctly so he had to make it out himself and one of the things that was concerning was it had mentioned a spy. Thomas got excited then, he thought, Does this belong to a spy? Are they still alive? Where are they now? What is going on? The second page starts off with “ Be prepared for war!” “ What does that even mean?” he said in a calm voice. He kept going, mentioning that Russia was about to send nukes to Ukraine while China was about to go to war with America. He wondered how bad it was going to get. One line had said “ China and North Korea were sending Nuclear weapons, and troops over to Russia.” How did this person know? They definitely must be a spy at this point, Thomas thought. As Thomas kept translating, it was written that aliens were actually all behind this. He chuckled loudly, “There’s no such thing as aliens! That is barbaric!” he said sternly. Thomas was starting to think this journal was just a fiction novel someone made up because they were high on PCP. He put the journal down and decided that he had enough for the day and he’d continue tomorrow at some point. He just wasn’t believing it. Thomas decided to go back to the train station to ride another train, he needed to get his mind off of everything. He brought his camera so he could take all the pictures. But first, he wanted a nap. Thomas laid his head on the softest pillow he’d ever lay his head on and passed out. There was a loud buzzing noise that woke Thomas right up. His eyes needed to adjust because the lights seemed to be on and way brighter than he thought. When Thomas’s eyes finally opened all the way, he realized he was NOT in his hotel room. He was in an all white room, bright lights and 2 large one way mirrors facing each other. There was no smell nor a door that he could see. Thomas started panicking until the door opened…he looked up and froze with his eyes as wide as they’ve ever been. There, at the door, was a standing reptilian dressed in a fancy red suit. It said, “ We’ve been waiting for your return Thomas.


The night still rang fresh in his mind. Three years and the smell of burning rubber still came to him. He could see it too playing out for him. He took another swig from the vodka bottle to his left. He twiddled the small ring around on his finger. He could still smell her lavender perfume. The keyring jingled in his hands as he fumbled through it looking for the one that fit the door of his car. Genavieve had looked so beautiful in her sparkling dress. Her makeup was a little smudged and it made him think of what she would look like after she'd been fucked. He had seen it many times before but tonight was special. The way they danced, the way she teased him, rubbing her hands in places she knew she shouldn't. He finally thrust the right key into the car door, swinging it open, and getting into the driver's seat. He debated it for a while, start the car and drive. He had remembered at this moment all he had learned. The videos in drivers Ed of the bloody faces and broken limbs, the words "this could be you" stuck bitterly onto his tongue. He continued despite it and shoved the key into the ignition. He sat up now and checked his surroundings, looked at the empty bottle of vodka in his hands. He wanted to blame it. Pin some sort of responsibility onto the bottle for what had happened. Voices in his head screamed otherwise. The voice of her mother when she told him it was his fault. The sight of her leaning into the casket (the same one he was too guilty to look into) tears streaming down her face. As her mother stared into the casket of her daughter. He stood from his spot on the couch and headed for the kitchen. He needed to see it. He had to go back. He grabbed the keys off the key hook. The car's engine roared to life as the key turned, the sound of it made him jump. Before he left the spot he looked at Genavieve, her soft features still visible even in the low light of the car. Everything hit him at once their wedding night, their first time, even the first time he had laid eyes upon her in chemistry. He loved her. The car's headlights turned on and he rolled out of his parking spot, he was headed to that place again. He needed to see it again. The Oregon roads were slick with ice and the roads seemed dead. If it weren't for the lit houses he would've thought the whole town up and left. the bottle of vodka still swam through his veins causing his head to dizzy and his vision to blur. he needed to go back, to prove to the cops, her mother, and most importantly himself that he wasn't wrong that it wasn't his fault. The car glided down the summer roads, Genevieve rolled down her window and waved her ginger hair in the wind, letting the cool air run past her. He started at her in bliss, this was the woman he was in love with, this was the woman he loved, this was the woman- He pulled the car to the side of the road, he knew this spot. He opened the car door and took a deep breathe the smell of pine filled his lungs, the cold air nipped at his face, causing his nipples to stand erect under his sweater. He stood there and waited, he closed his eyes. Slowly it began to come back to him. The smell of burning tires, the feeling of the warm summer air as it rushed in through the broken windshield. He could hear it too. He remembered it all. He and Genavieve had left her cousin's wedding in northern Oregon, they both left drunk and he drove as he had touched less but still, it was a lot. He had said this all before once in front of the first responders, then to a judge, then to her family. As they were driving they hit something. He opened his eyes and slowly let his vision focus, the car was busted and the smell of burning metal and charred tires was what he first noticed. Then he saw it, through the shattered windshield sat a tall dark figure its mouth wrapped around the midsection of vision, it raked out her organs with its large yellowed teeth. It was eating her. He tried to move but his legs were broken. He couldn't scream, all he could do was watch as it devoured her. It ate what it could then left. He began to cry, he thought about how he could've saved her. He sat there and watched it swallow her guts. He could've at least screamed. Tried to scare it away. He fell to his knees and began to cry harder. "I know you're out there you son of a bitch!" He screamed into the forest. The forest answered with a cold shoulder. He lay there in the road a slobbering mess. Slowly he picked himself off the ground and got back into his car. From the glove compartment, he pulled a 9mm pistol the same one he had bought with her years ago. He Placed it into his mouth the cold metal almost comforted him. It reminded him of the lollipops he would get on the corner as a kid. The windshield splattered with crimson. His car sat slowly being covered in snow. Later the patrolmen would find his car under the snow the windshield broken and his body found placed in a tree all his organs removed. The town searched for weeks for a killer, the policeman on duty said he found the body after following bloody deer tracks which led into the forest and ended under the tree where he found the body. Finally, it was ruled a suicide and left to gather dust...


"Your name?" “Margarete." “Last name as well ma’am." "Excuse me. Margarete Bjornson." “Mhm, Occupation?" “Birther." “Valiant occupation ma’am. Just valiant." “Yes, it was." “Date of birth." “01/12/2195." “Ok good. Then we will proceed." “Aren’t you going to ask for my consent?" “Oh Margarete, of course you know you gave us your consent when you signed your pledge. Everyone did. Myself included." Margarete's eyes went dim. Her mind delving through her memory to the moment, proud parents to either side, she signed her *Pledge to Community* form that was apart of her work assignment ceremony. “How certain I was the future was so far away. Don’t believe that deception for a second. You hear me?” Her eyes now focused on the second nurse with the IV in her hand. Without a reply and eyes darting down, the associate nurse slid the IV into Margarete’s left forearm. The lead nurse, recognizing doubt being introduced into the room quickly intercepted the moment. “Ok, are you ready Margarete?" Margarete nodded without lifting her head up again. The lead nurse shot a glance to his associate who in turn flipped a large red dial on the machine connected to Margarete’s IV. Two vials, one green, one blue flowed into the singular tube leading to her arm. “Thank you for your service, Margarete." “*Here to serve. For benefit of all.*" “*And this community forever.*” At once, her body became rigid, as if suddenly filled to capacity with air and just as quickly went limp, silent, still. “Hmm.” “That’s a new reaction.” “We may have to report that to the Board.” The lead nurse checked for a pulse on Margarete’s wrist. “Didn’t change the result, however. Another successful release Sam.” “Another mouth we don’t need to support you mean.” “You know that is not what this is about." “Tell that to the Principle." “You are going to get yourself released with statements like that.” “Pft, well let’s see. Would that qualify as a pro-social action?" Sam, now thinking back to her own *Pledge to Community* that she signed. “Enough, that is enough. Did you take your emotion suppressor today?" “As always." “Maybe you need to up your dose." “Maybe." “You know emotion leads to confusion, confusion to delusion, delusion to chaos, and what comes after chaos?” “Destruction. I know. I know. Just a weird day I guess.” “Mhmm. Best not have many more of those.” “What was her occupation again?” “Birther." “Valiant occupation." “Mhm." The two nurses opened the hatch that led to nowhere and pushed the bed where the now released laid. The front of the bed, clearing the hatch, gave way. The released slid and was gone. “Another successful release." Sam, muttered under her breath, “God help us.” “What was that?” “Another successful release, I agree. I agree.” “Mhm.” Hunter, opening the door to the room adjacent theirs, announced loudly. “NEXT.” The Principle, pausing the video and turning to the board announced somewhat hurriedly, “This is exactly why we need to introduce a sedative before release. Look how this birther introduced subversive thoughts into the mind of our Dear Sam. Chaos. CHAOS is what these ideas lead to. Get an action plan on my desk by the end of the week on how we will limit exposure to conversation between our nurses and the soon-to-be-released. End of life, it’s a makes people revert back to our… primitive ways.” “Yes ma’am. We will begin immed—“ “And release Sam. We do not need this doubt to spread. And find out for the love of community where she heard the word, God.” "Also, before I forget, let's all give Hunter a round of applause for bringing this to the attention of the board and myself." "*Here to serve. For benefit of all.*" Hunter recited proudly. "*And this community forever.*" All together they responded.


“Cordelia...”A ragged voice called out.

Around me was a dark alley. Dim lights bounced off of brick walls and rain puddles. A cat rushed by me out of the alley and away from the voice.

“Hello?” I called out.

Glancing behind me, I don’t see any part of the street. There was nothing but darkness and black. A swirling void of black smoke, sirens, and yells. My feet splashed against the puddles as I walked down the alley.

The smell of rotting trash and piss and gasoline filled my nostrils. Something was burning close by, plastics and paper, and maybe food burning.

I looked up at the sky. The full moon was hidden behind dark smoke.

Music softly came from the very end of the alley. Frank Sinatra flowed through the air and danced around me.

“Delia...” The voice transformed into a sing-song, sweet voice.

Sobbing weaved with the song as well. I got closer to the corner of the alley. Instead of smelling burning trash and feces, I smelled something worse. There was something rotting, something worse than trash. Flies buzzed around me, growing louder than the music around. I stopped at the corner for a moment. A glow from a fire was up on the wall, flickering delightfully.

There was a single shadow in the middle of the wall. The shadow was lanky and unmoving, except dancing with the fire.

I pivoted around the corner.

A trashcan was set ablaze, the flame going about three feet into the air. A figure stood in front of the trashcan. A tall figure with long dark hair and a white suit. Despite the dirty alley and the fire in front of them, the suit of the figure looked spotless.

Behind the trashcan was a pile of lumps on the alleyway ground. The rotting smell was overpowering. As the flame flickered, I could see hands and legs and bodies behind the trashcan and the figure.

“Cordelia.” The figure said calmly.

They turned around and all I could see where burning red eyes, matching the flames.

I gasped awake, my head hitting the window I was previously resting on. Lights from the subway tunnel flashed by me. My eyes focused on my reflection; dark eye circles, messed up brunette hair, eye liner smeared around my eyes and mascara on my cheeks.

“Cordelia.” A voice said from next to me.

“Shit!” I jumped and looked over.

There was Blair next to me, wearing a tight dress, jacket and holding a clutch. Her hair was curled and slightly disheveled as well. She laughed softly at my reaction.

“Damn girl, I didn’t mean to scare you.” Blair laughed at me and patted my knee, exposed from the holes in my jeans. “How’re you doing?”

My head pounded softly, and my throat was dry. I remembered what it was we were doing before sitting in this subway car. Blair’s friends from her work really knew how to party. I was so close to beating her boss at a drinking contest. That probably wasn’t the best idea.

“Feel like shit.”

Blair laughed outright, “We’re almost home. The next stop is ours.”

I nodded and sat up on the stiff subway seat under me. I looked the subway car over. It was empty except for a man sitting in the far corner. His eyes were closed, and his head was against the window behind him. Around him were bags full of different nick knacks and clothing.

The subway car rumbled, and the lights flickered. My eyes went to the window at the door that separate the subway cars and there was a figure in the window. It was dark and tall. The lights flickered again, and the figure was gone as the train slowed to a stop.

Blair stood and held out a hand to help me up. Together, we walked out of the subway car onto the platform. It was deserted except for us, the lights were dim and flickered softly.

“Okay so do we want to go get food?” Blair said to me, stopping on the platform and pulling out her phone. “I’m thinking Chinese. We have that place three blocks from here.”

My stomach turned slightly at the thought of food. Rotting trash suddenly filled my nostrils, “Eh, I'll probably just go to sleep when we-”

There was a ding for the doors of the subway car to closed. I looked over to the window that the sleeping guy was at. Standing in front of him was the dark figure. I could see a pristine white suit and glowing red eyes. There was a dark void, without any features. The red orbs stared at me as a hand lifted to quickly grab the top of the man’s hand and a knife ripped across the man’s neck. The subway train started to take off as thick blood sprayed across the car and the window.

“What the fuck!?” I yelled and ran after the car, trying to catch the window again. The train disappeared into the tunnel and I turned quickly to Blair.

She stared at me in confusion, holding her phone in her hands. “Are you okay-”

“That guy!” I exclaimed. “He was just killed. Did you not just see that?”

Blair’s eyes glanced at the tunnel, “No?”

I snatched her phone from her hand and started to dial the police.

“Are you serious?”

“Dead serious, dude.” I said to her and lifted the phone to my ear.

After one ring, a woman answered. “9-1-1, what’s your emergency?”

“Hi! Yes, Uhm, I just witnessed a murder on the G train.” I said, my hand shook slightly, making me hold the phone with both hands. “There was a man on the train asleep and we got off, but I turned around and there was this person in a white suit and he killed the guy.”

“Okay, ma’am, I will send something to that next station to check the subway. Are you hurt?”

“No. We’re okay.” I said. “I didn’t see what the man looked like, I couldn’t see his face. Just the suit. His face was really dark and maybe he was wearing a mask. I saw red eyes. I don’t know.”

Blair stared at me, watching as I spoke to the woman on the phone. She looked at me in complete disbelief. But I knew what I saw.

***

Blair and I were walking away from Dynasty, a box of to-go lo mien for each of us. Blair already had hers open and dug in with chopsticks. I kept mine in my hands, my eyes fixated on the box.

There was no murder. No one on that car accept to the asleep man, who was startled by a posse of police busting open into that subway car. No blood. No man in a white suit.

They questioned me. Asked me about what I saw and if I was sure. Blair told them we’d spent the night out drinking. Maybe that was it. Maybe it was my weird dream on the subway. But it felt so real. I saw it in front of me, but they didn’t see anything on the cameras either.

I was given a stern lecture about calling with an actual emergency and not something I saw in a drug induced stupor. Drugs was the only way they could make any sense of it, even with me admitted the only drug I took was alcohol that evening. They didn’t care. They didn’t believe me.

We came upon the stoop to our apartment building. Blair stood before them, turning to me.

“So, are we going to talk about this?” She asked me.

“I’ve already said everything I need to.” I shook my head. “I thought I saw it... I thought he was there.”

Blair sighed, “You’ve been having these dreams for a while. It’s getting worse.”

“I know what I saw.” I said firmly.

She nodded to me, “I know-”

“No, you don’t.” I told her, “I saw that man get his throat slit in the middle of the damn subway. Some person with glowing fucking eyes did it. I saw that plain as daylight.”

Blair nodded slowly, “You need to see a doctor.”

My hand threw my untouched to-go box in a trashcan. “I need to think about this.”

With that, I started to walk down the sidewalk. Blair called after me, but I just kept walking. She gave up eventually, knowing I would be back at some point. I would be back. I just needed to walk and think.

For months, I’ve had nightmares. They were similar to the one I had on the subway; rotting corpses in an alley, a fire, and some person standing over them. But they all stayed in my head. They never manifested themselves in front of me like that.

After walking for five minutes, I sat myself down on a bench. It squeaked under me and felt cold to the touch, but it was just what I needed. I gripped the seat of the bench and breathed deeply. I focused on the cold metal under me. The distant sirens in the background, echoing through the city. That’s where I was: the city. I was here. I was safe. Well, as safe as a person can be in New York City.

I closed my eyes. My heart slowed down a bit.

I knew I wasn’t dreaming. But I started to hear Frank Sinatra play from the alley behind me.


It was May 2019 at a dive bar named Rocky's off Main St in Bowling Green, KY. I was six Orange Gose drinks deep and a week removed from slashing my own finger open while filleting a steak in my apartment at 2 AM while many more drinks deep than six. It was 3:30 AM by the time I went to the hospital. I'd spent the previous hour and a half with a beach towel on my finger while I ate the steak. It was May 2019 and that's where I was at. I digress; a week later, I was at Rocky's and sitting outside on the bench, shaking off the Orange Gose. That's when a girl in her early 20s plopped down next to me and, as if we were old friends, started telling me about her boyfriend. He was inside the bar, apparently as hammered as I was when I was spewing blood and methodically eating a sirloin a week prior. She told me about how tired she was of having to babysit her boyfriend while he swung between being the man she wanted to be with and the man she was waiting on outside of Rocky's off Main St. I had been that Jekyll and Hyde boyfriend, more than once. I knew the story even through a drunken haze where my ability to retain the details was, at best, as questionable as my decision making. After all, I still had stitches in my finger as evidence of both of those failings. It was at this point she pulled out her phone and asked to show me something. Let me preface this by saying, yes, this girl was insanely adorable. Well, here's what she showed me: a photo spread, taken somewhere in the woods, of herself seemingly themed on the Garden of Eden. Through the aforementioned haze, I remember a picture of her nude save a leaf covering her genital region. It was probably the hottest thing I'd ever seen, to be frank. She didn't ask if I liked it. She didn't say anything. She just kept showing me photos, apropos of very little. At this moment, I asked if she was drunk like me. She shook her head. Stone cold sober, she claimed. She wasn't slurring words. She looked as clear of mind as she claimed. She was just waiting on the man she loved, unsure if she was mistaken in possessing that love. And, for some reason, showing a drunk hippy a pictorial of herself. The conservation shifted back to her uncertainty about her boyfriend. She was asking the right guy. I had no clue if her boyfriend was worth keeping but I knew that I understood what it meant to be the man you should simply leave at the bar...and run far, far away. So I shook off the preoccupation I had on the hottest picture I'd ever seen and told her, best I could through slurred words and deep confusion, my idea of what the warning signs were. Part of me wanted to see if this girl wanted to go home with me. Most of me, thankfully, wanted to let her know the signs of what a bad home looked like. I have a working dick and a working soul and I've been swinging the pendulum of my instincts and actions from the former to the latter as best I can. Such is the nature of being an increasingly aged man. I was in the middle of my attempts at giving her answers when a guy approached us. It was him. He looked at her. He looked at me. I wondered if I was in for a fight. Instead, a smile came across her face. She jumped up and all but leapt into his arms, but the uncertainty was still evident in her tone and posture. Even six beers deep, I could see that. And even six beers deep, I could see how much she loved him. I excused myself. I walked toward Main St. and hoped that this young guy was not at all like I used to be and was still so terrified that I still might be. I looked back at them. He was facing away and she facing toward me. She waved at me over his shoulder and I could still see her smiling and exuding the same dual presence of warmth and conflict. I began to round the corner and walk down Main Street. I'm not sure if it was due to rounding the corner or the increasingly fish-eyed nature of my reddening eyes. But at that point, I couldn't see her anymore.


Emma Robbins was sitting on her sofa in her living room in her little flat. All these things were hers and only hers. But exactly the fact that this all thing belong to her was her biggest pride and biggest problem at once. She was able to pay rent and food and buy herself a little present from time to time. She was independent and free. But she was also single and very lonely. Being single wasn't a bad thing unless you don't wanna be single anymore. She had a date tonight. But she wasn't sure if she wanna go. Those few last dates were a total disaster. There were three options for tonight. She could go to her friend's party. She could go on the date or she could stay home and have a comfortable film and chips evening. And this is the point when things are getting interesting because now the Universe splits into three more universes. The universe was already used to this kind of situation because it was doing it quite often. Every time someone made a big decision, there was a part of him or her who made a different decision, went a different way, and live a different life. The universe was calling it trousers of the time and was very disappointed that it can't share this name with some other existences. *** From now on it's a bit difficult for me to make clear which Emma Robbins am I writing about because all of them are the same person who is however on her way becoming very different from the original Emma Robbins. So let's call them numbers, you sure know it if your parents named you Tom or Emma, that feeling when a teacher from lack of creativity calls you Tom the second one Or Emma number two. But I will use it as well because it's much easier than calling her The Emma who decided to stay home and in the conclusion of this one decision she started staying home much more often. Because all the lights in the city suddenly turned off and she spends a very long and stressful hour imagining the worst scenarios. It made her feel truly safe just in her flat and gave her quality anxiety. It went so far she almost lost her job because of it. She also got really fat. But one day her old lady neighbor came to her and the look on her face was so pitting that Emma decided to start working out, going out more and she found her love for a sport especially running. She never got married but she won a lot of prizes because she started to run professionally and she lived a happy life until the bus hit her one day. Yes. Calling her Emma number one is definitely shorter. And because there isn't much more to say about Emma number one except describing her funeral, we can start the story of Emma number Two. Emma number two decided to go to her friend's house. She took a sip of wine to go though she never really was a party type she finally decided to have a bit of fun. The wine gave her the confidence to wear a slightly slutty outfit. None of her dress was actually slutty but she did her best. Her friend doesn't live so far so she was there quite soon. There were about thirty people which was much more than Emma expected. She was looking around nervously for her friend Lydia. Then she saw Josh's back. Finally someone familiar face... She thought heading to him. "Hey." she said and hugged him. "Hello" said the man. It wasn't Josh. "Omg, I'm so sorry. I thought you are Josh." Sophie apologized. "It's fine, I'm not but would John be enough?" he asked. Emma was silent for a while not sure how to react and then both started laughing. "I'm Emma by the way." she said. "Nice to meet you." smiled John and they both smile at each other. They were chatting and they also had a few drinks so after a while nature started to call. "Do you know where the toilets are?" asked John. Lydia's house was actually quite big and not even Emma was sure about the location of the restroom. "I think so. Let's find it." said Emma, the alcohol giving her the needed courage. They went upstairs randomly opening few doors. There was nothing except one room where were two people called by nature too just a bit different kind of calling. "What is this? High school party?" asked John rhetorical question so Emma didn't reply just smiled. They continued with searching, entered few doors which lead them to a new corridor. Then suddenly the lights went off. "What happened?" asked John. If they would know each other longer and if Emma would be just a bit more sarcastic she would probably answer. "I think the light went off but I'm not sure about it." or maybe "Oh this is the blackout I planned for so long." there were a few more answers she could use but she, unfortunately, went with just "I don't know." They were standing there in the dark waiting if something happens. And something did happen. Underground was happening very hot and nasty romance between two rats. But the dark was still the same underground as it was in the whole city now. "Maybe we should try to find others?" he asked. "I'm not sure we have a chance, maybe we can just sit here and wait." answered Emma. After some time the lights turned on again. Emma and John became very close lifetime friends. I don't have personal experiences but I date to say that small talk during a blackout could make you good friends. *** And there is just one story to tell now. The third Emma Robbins went on her date. She took more of the wine than second Emma Robbins and stepped out from the door. She got to a rather good mood by the time she reached the restaurant where they were supposed to meet. It wasn't much of a fancy restaurant but it looked good. It was the kind of place you meet every Friday with friends and the barman already know you by name. Emma was looking around for Oliver's face. Well, to be precise she was looking for his tie, she actually didn't know how does he look like. He was Lydia's old friend who was just in the town and Lydia thought there was perfect math. She told Emma how does he looks and that he is gonna have a tie with purple stripes. She described him as spontaneous and "something you really need right now". Emma's thoughts cut off the sight of a very handsome man around 20 years old with a tie fasten on his neck. He clearly didn't know how to wear a tie. The tie was pink with a Purple Stripes Tie written on it. The lettering surely wasn't there when the tie was bought. She couldn't help and laugh out loud. The man turned in her direction and smiled at her. He got up from his chair heading to Emma. "I'm sorry." she said but still smiling. "And you must be Emma." Oliver ignored her apologizing. "And I'm pretty sure you're Oliver." she bit her lip because she just couldn't stop smiling. "I'm fine with The Guy Who Can't Tie A Tie." he answered with a smile. Emma laughed again. It wasn't just the alcohol he was really funny. He looked like a combination of the hot guy and funny guy in every group of friends. "Could you?" he asked looking at the unfortunate tie. "I hoped you'll ask." she sighed and tied the tie though it would probably be better if she just took it off and threw it into the garbage. "Well I have a tie and we're at a restaurant, this sounds cliche." he sighed and looked around for something interesting, and then his eyes stopped at Emma. "Your tie says Purple Stripes Tie though." answered Emma. "That's the only thing that saves us from too cliche." he smirked. Emma smiled and looked at the bar. "Let's have a drink then." she said. "What a wonderful idea. You know with just a bit of alcohol everything is more interesting." he sounded like a child which finds out that the yellow snow actually doesn't taste so bad. Emma just smiled. "So you're a director right?" asked Emma to start a conversation. "That's right and you look like an actress. And I'm not saying this just because we are on a date." he said. "Don't you really?" asked Emma with a playful smile and raised eyebrow. "No, seriously because when I tell a girl she looks like an actress, she better really became one and, you know, when she is on the set shooting an important film she will remember this moment and then she maybe give me a call. Which could lead to one less lonely night for me." he smirked."And then when she is famous they will maybe make a whole film about her. And then there is gonna be some actor playing me, obviously not as handsome as me, and he will tell her what I just told you and then there is gonna be cut and the scene with her on the set." his eyes shined as he was describing the situation and leaned against the bar. "I can see it." he added. *** Emma Robbins was on the set, shooting a very important film. It was all over newspapers. She wasn't in front of cameras yet. She was in her dressing room with her new assistant doing her hair. She suddenly remembered the night when she was on a date with the now famous director that introduced her to a different director and that was basically how she became a famous actress. It was one of the best dates she ever been on. Maybe the best one. The night all the lights in the city turned suddenly off and he was holding her close and whispering to her ear. He was telling her story about her future. She thought he does it always and maybe he did but since the night her life was completely different. And she intended to enjoy every second of it and don't think too much about the future but... "Alison?" she said to her assistant. "...Oh! You meant me. It's Anna actually." said the girl. "Sorry, Anna. Make a note and you really can't lose it. Ok?" Emma assured. "Yes, of course." answered the girl. "Fine. Write: If-" Emma's words interrupted a voice from outside. "We need you on the set honey!" the voice said. "I'm there in 5 seconds!" she called back. "Give me a pen I will write it by myself, just don't lose it, you own it to future generations." grinned Emma, quickly wrote a short note, and run from the dressing room. The assistant looked after her and then she read the note. It said: If they will ever make a movie about me, make sure there will be Oliver Stone saying I'm gonna be a famous actress. He was right after all. ps: get me the strawberry shake.


You would never imagine that every drop of rain is perfectly orchestrated and directed and yet that fact remains undisputed. Thankfully this body of mine can’t feel any of the elements. I can only sense the intangible of the tangible, the sound of the unheard if you will. The fact that I also can acutely sense the effects of things I suppose somewhat dulls the boredom of this immortal life.

There is something strangely precious about each individual drop of water slipping down a windowpane. They're almost human in the uniqueness of their existence. I guess that’s why I don’t usually change their path because they, like so many other things, are children of time. Ten seconds remain

I have no idea why humans call time slow or fast. She's nothing if not perfectly steady. For me though she’s always slow. That may just be because I'm always in the future or the past waiting for her. Despite knowing what's coming the wait is often an unnecessary bore.

I'm not usually early to appointments for soul retrieval but this is the last one slated for tonight so I don't mind. I’m suspended somewhere between sky and earth as though standing on the moonbeams filtering down to the lakeside cabin in front of me. I wish I knew what rain on my skin would feel like- I wonder what skin feels like. Can this body made by the combination of shadow and light held together by the red thread of immortality even be called a body?

Descending slowly I pass through the walls and come to stand on the wooden floor directly opposite of a young lady in a rocking chair. She’s staring out the rain soaked window towards the mountains in the distance. Times moves on her pace never slowing, seven seconds remain.

The burled cedar floor is warm, heated slowly by small fire in the brick fireplace against the wall. There’s dust on the mantelpiece and wood chips scattered around the grate surrounding the fireplace. The rug on the floor is old, almost worn through on the fringed edges. There’s a small stain towards the corner that the rocking chair resides on. The lady in the rocking chair is still facing south towards the mountains. Her gaze steady as time itself, almost. Her hair still glows with the vitality of her youth, its golden tresses framing her face gently. For me her seventeen years are just as fair as the 93 year old man I picked up earlier this morning. Despite all human tears and sadness that accompany their departure time is nothing if not fair. When she gives, she gives just enough. Five seconds.

   A log in the fire snaps sending a shower of sparks upwards. The young girl seems to start at the sound as though returning from a place much farther away than the distant snow covered slopes. She reaches down to the side table beside her and brings the china tea cup there to her lips softly. There's little wisps of golden steam sailing skyward from the cup carrying the gentle fragrance throughout the room. Soft scents of orange and hibiscus mix with the deep woody smell of the rest of the room. From somewhere else in the house a piano starts playing, warming the air more than the flames at the fireplace.

      Over in the corner there’s a small wooden desk with a vase of flowers tucked into the corner. They’re the last marigolds before winter comes to steal some beauty from the world. I suppose there’s fairness in the balance of that too. Balance in the repetition of life even when time moves on steady, balance in the unfinished letter on the desk its ink not even completely dry. I could tell you every word written there, every thought the girl has ever had even the ones she doesn’t remember but there’s no reason. There’s no magic in knowing everything. I swear immortality is just a curse for those of us too lazy to do anything.

  Three seconds.   She breathes out softly probably without even thinking of it. I know she only has four breaths left. Time runs slowly for me. I was here when it was created and i'll probably be the one to stop its hands when it’s time has run. Outside the window leaves fall to the ground plucked from the trees in a burst of wind. It’s just another day. The piano slowly fades to a stop as two more seconds disappear forever, to wherever the finite go.

Everythings in place, nothing creating any current of color or sound. It’s all so… ordinary yet she’s smiling. A smile not even big enough to pull up the corners of her mouth. My watch makes a distant click at the same time as the grandfather clock beside the fireplace continues its smooth pendulum swing. Its not on time of course, nothing in this world of humans is ever accurate. Not their creations or their decisions or even their breaths. It’s 11:57 and I can see that soul slipping loose from the body resting in the rocking chair. It's a vibrant ball of light small enough to hold in your hands but yet it seems bigger. Not much just a little bigger. Souls might be the only perfect child of time.

I never move when souls are loosed from their bodies. They always find me. I suppose they’re looking for some sort of anchor in the world between their mortality and utter boredom that is my prison. I cradle the ball of light softly wondering at the color and warmth. It’s always a wonder to see a full life compacted into such a different form. Every time I go collecting for each soul the feeling is completely the same, a little wonder at the end, a little interest in the colors, a little jealousy of the finality. No matter the circumstances every soul collected is full in its own way, even the two second old ones. I’ve never forgotten a single soul. They’re a myriad of stories inside me, a collection of endless paintings filling me and yet always leaving space. I should be used to these flowing feelings but everytime there always just as new. I overstay my visit slightly just looking at the empty room. I can see everything from the dust on the bookshelves to the sparks in the fire and yet, just like every other time, I feel like there's something that I just can’t see.

I know everything about her and everything about every single thing in that room. I know when the ink was made, how old the tree that the floor is made out of was, the exact temperature of the flames in the fire and yet… Every soul always seems to be made up of more than what I know. Is that time’s gift to mortal life?

Why was that girl smiling? I guess immortality isn’t long enough to understand 17 years. Times fairness to her children is beyond my understanding. Someones crying somewhere… there is rain falling after all.

I wonder if time remembers her little one's as much as I do... Entry 4,758,465,215

Thought Diary of

Shinigami Azreal III


She knew it was a mistake.

She watched as the detective chewed the end cap of his pen, brow furrowed in concentration at the file on the table.

The detective lifted his piercing eyes towards hers for just a moment; her breath caught in her throat. A small sound escaped much like an inflated balloon when you pinch off the end. She fiddled with her locket. She shifted her focus towards the outside world. A distraction. She thought about her beautiful, talented, poised Stacy. She was an incredible performer. She could almost hear Stacy’s playing, could see her sitting at the baby grand in the sitting room, windows open so the entire neighborhood could listen. She closed her eyes to absorb it. The last time she saw Stacy was when she was getting into the car with Evelyn to head to her next piano lesson. She was really going to miss her.

She couldn’t read what his look meant. Maybe he was trying to figure out how a middle-aged, middle-class, white, yoga-loving, American archetype would be sitting across from him accompanied with a folder that told the sadistic story of how she murdered those random people.

Or maybe he was impressed.

It was a mistake.

Detective Caulder leaned back in his chair--the buttons on his suit dangerously close to popping. Caulder sighed for what felt like hours, then finally, he spoke for the first time since she had walked into the room.

“This doesn’t add up.” This is not what she had been expecting. “I---I’m sorry?” Caulder glowered. “I’m not a man that likes to repeat myself. Especially when I know you heard me.” She stared unblinking.

Another mistake. She finally broke the silence. “I don’t know what you want me to say.” She shifted nervously in her seat. The detective noticed and smirked.

“What I don’t understand,” continued Caulder, “is the motive. How does someone snap like without any feasible connection between them, nor a connection to you? Explain that, and I’ll put this to rest right now.” She knew this was a mistake.

“Look, detective. Why do I have to answer these questions? It’s not like I’m trying to hide the fact that I did it. I did the crimes. All of them.” She seemed certain; she seemed sure of herself. She spun the ring on her finger. She smiled.

“I’m not buying it.” The detective’s blunt words shattered her confidence like glass. “You aren’t going anywhere until you tell me, with total honesty, everything I need to know..”

She stammered, “Wh---why?!” “Exactly” the detective stood up and leaned over the table. “Why?” Officer Samantha Montgomery paced back and forth in front of the glass. She had watched the entire exchange between her and Detective Caulder.

Easy, Caulder , she thought to herself as he continued to berate this fragile woman.

Samantha stared at her empty notepad. She had nothing left. Another fucking dead end. She slumped into the chair.

At that exact moment, Caulder rose from his chair to hiss his acidic breath into the poor woman’s face. Jesus, Caulder.

She knew Caulder would want to talk to her, to hear the latest updates, but she had nothing for him. To avoid all of it if only for a little while, Samantha hastened quickly out of the room, out of the side door, and deep into the alley. There, she lit a cigarette and tried not to think at all.

But what is she hiding? Who is she protecting?

Samantha just couldn’t find the trail. None of it was adding up. Even Dickenson was scratching his head, and he had the most solves (including cold cases) for the entire precinct.

Samantha lit another cigarette.

At some point, something would change. Someone forgot something somewhere--a small, inconsequential step--and we’ll catch it.

But until then, Samantha enjoyed the last drags before the inevitable shit storm hit.

This was a mistake.

She was left alone in the room. Her mind felt blank. Her body, numb. She closed her eyes and tried to picture the moment this would all be over.

But it’s definitely a mistake.

She wondered about her troubled boy, Evan. His grades were pretty low in Chemistry and Calculus. He needed to attend tutoring or he’d have to take summer school or even repeat the classes next year. Another worry was soccer. It was his passion--his obsession. But with his failing grades, he was benched. Watching him at the last game was heartbreaking. He just sat there. She lamented that she wouldn’t be able to make it better for him. Not now.

She shifted in her seat at the thought, bent down and pulled her loose sock back up her leg. This is a mistake.

Andrew met Samantha on her way back inside. “Caulder wants to see us.” Samantha rolled her eyes. Sam knocked on Caulder’s door. “Come in,” was the gruff reply. Andrew grabbed a peppermint from the bowl that was probably older than he was, but he hadn’t eaten in well over 24-hours and needed something. Samantha’s eyes followed his hand from the bowl to his mouth. Her expression conveyed nothing.

“She didn’t do this; that much is obvious. What isn’t obvious,” Caulder continued, “is what in the hell she is covering up. Tell me you got something.” Silence.

Andrew coughed, “Well, sir, to be quite frank…” Andrew glanced at his partner to help him out. She stared at her hands. “Nothing, sir. We’ve got nothing. Everything is clear. The house, the car, the office, her tox screen, even her character witnesses...Not a speck out of place.” Caulder was silent for a couple of seconds. It was deafening. “Well, no shit you found nothing on her, ” Caulder boomed. “She’s not the one that did it. Do I have to do your job for you? Look for connections between the victims. Even the simplest of commonalities could have a connection here. This is basic-level detective work. She’s hiding something for someone. I want to know who that someone is and why. Got it?” Samantha nodded. Andrew nodded.

“Dismissed.” Samantha and Andrew both left in a hurry. This was going to be a really long night.

“Let me talk to her again. I think I can get through to her.” Samantha’s knuckles turned white as her grip tightened on the back of the chair. “Why? Because it’s a ‘woman-thing’?” Caulder scoffed. “Enlighten me, what exactly are you expecting to do in order to get an answer?”

Samantha’s grip relaxed. “Sir, with all due respect. I think we’re making a lot of assumptions about this case that we shouldn’t be.” She knew she was taking a risk.

Caulder’s eyes bore into hers. She couldn’t back down now. “Young lady, I’ve been on this force for thirty nine years. You’ve been here a minute. She doesn’t fit the profile. The evidence doesn’t add up. Are you honestly going to stand there and say that I’m the one who’s wrong here?” Samantha went on without pause, “Yes.” Caulder didn’t move. Didn’t even breathe. Just waited for her to continue. “Not all cases fit the profile. I think we may be wrong here to completely dismiss this woman’s involvement with these murders. She’s too clean. Sometimes, that screams ‘guilty’ louder than the man in the corner holding the gun.” Caulder chewed the inside of his lip. “You have five minutes with her to get her to talk and to change my mind. Clear?” Samantha gave one curt nod, and B-lined through the door.

She watched as the new officer came in. She remembered her before. She was too angry; too sharp. She wouldn’t be able to stick to the plan. She shifted in her seat and began playing spinning her ring.

“Good afternoon, ma’am. You may remember me, Samantha.If you work with me and talk to me, I can help you. If you don’t…” She left that idea hanging for effect.

She stared at Samantha. Where would she even begin?

A minute and a half passed incomplete silence. She thought of MaryJo and her carefree, always optimistic attitude. Yoga every Monday without fail. Always the liveliest and sprightliest dancer. She lived for the follow up dinners at Taco Town with half-priced Margarita Monday specials. MaryJo really knew how to bring the party wherever she went. God, she would miss Mondays with her.

Finally, Samantha spoke. “ I’m trying to figure you out. Do you even want to be helped?” Samantha looked at her as if she was trying to look at a painting from a different angle. “The way I figure it, you either are being blackmailed to keep your mouth shut for what you witnessed or conspired with, or,” Samantha smirked, “you have something to gain from taking the blame for the murders. Am I getting warm here?” Don’t react. Just don’t react. Mistake. Mistake. Mistake.

“I’m going to assume your silence as an affirmation. Just for argument’s sake, of course,” Samantha crossed her legs, leaned back, and open the file. “So for me, this doesn’t really seem like you are covering for someone else. There’s not a pattern to the murders. There’s not even a connection. So how would you even become involved? There are just too many gaps.” Samantha turned a page. Licked her lips. “But, given the way you live your life, your character witnesses...it all seems so bland, typical, comfortable, normal. Too normal? My real rub with this whole situation is the murders themselves. The victims. No connections to each other that we can find, no connection to you that we can find...so why then do you waltz in and confess to all five of these seemingly unrelated murders that didn’t happen in the same town, at same time, in the same way, or even on the same date?” Samantha blows air through her lips. “This leaves me with the only possible conclusion that you have something to gain by suddenly being labeled a ‘murderer’” Samantha’s exaggerated the air quotes on the last word and lingered her fingers there a few seconds longer before slowly bringing her arms to rest calmly on the table before her. “Do you want to die?” She studied her intently. “Why are you wanting to go down for five--FIVE--murders? TELL ME!” Samantha slammed her hand on the table. The file went flying.

She flinched, and with it, her steely resolve cracked. She felt herself crumbling. She knew she was going to start talking.

Just a few more minutes and she’ll leave.

Her mind shifted to Mark. Wonderful, hard-working Mark. Such a great man. At least once a month, she’d see him walking up the driveway with a dozen roses. Pink--her favorite. With a smile on his face, he set the dinner table every night. He’d spend time with the kids. He’d clean up the house, do the laundry. The sex was frequent, and it was passionate. That, she remembered , was the true definition of love-making. She really couldn’t imagine not seeing him everyday. “Listen, whatever your reasons,” sighed Samantha in a resigned tone, “if you don’t start talking, you’re going to be let go.” Her eyes widened as the weight of Samantha’s words resonated.

Mistake.

Two hours later, Samantha, Andrew, and Caulder watched dejectedly as she collected her belongings and exited the precinct.

“It just doesn’t make any sense,” Samantha’s voice was a whisper. “She needs help. I can only imagine what she’s going to do to herself or what someone might do to her.”

“Keep your radios on. There’s a chance we get another call tonight,” Caulder lamented. Samantha had never seem him show this much emotion before. Was it sympathy? Was it compassion? It confused her more than his usual stolid exterior. Caulder walked towards his office.

Samantha let out the breath she didn’t know she had been holding. She turned to Andrew. Andrew’s brow was furrowed deeply. He hadn’t said a word ever since they left Caulder’s office.

“What?” Samantha asked trying to see what he was looking at.

“I can’t help feeling that we’re missing something,” Andrew’s voice was thin. He was deep in thought.

“What else can we do? She gave us nothing.” Samantha didn’t have the patience to placate Andrew’s “winning streak” ego right now. She turned to start heading back towards the lounge.

“But did you hear what she said under her breath as we were walking her out?” Samantha spun around with a curious look on her face. “She said,” Andrew paused. “She said ‘it’s a mistake’.” It’s a mistake. All a giant mistake.

I stuck to the plan, they didn’t follow what they were supposed to do. But of course, who could ever rely on law enforcement to do their actual fucking job.

They made a mistake.

Too bad they won’t live to regret it.

I don’t know that any of this would have played out this way had it not been for witnesses. They really piled up one after another. When that last one got away...I knew I had to do something.

I didn’t really think that they’d believe me. Nor did I want them to. They made so many mistakes.

I really loved watching Stacy. She was so elegant and beautiful. She lost herself in the music. When she became enraptured in her songs, I became even more enraptured in her. But when she shunned me when I tried to compliment her--when she brushed me off like I was three week old milk--that was unforgivable. It would’ve just been Stacy, had not Evelyn, the uber driver, gotten out of her car.

Witness number one.

Then when I was ditching the car, I picked up Evelyn’s ping for an uber request. Evan needed a ride home from soccer. Evan was very quick to tell me all about his life. But he was bratty. Dismissive. When I showed up at his house two weeks later offering to tutor him, he had the nerve to try to call the police. Didn’t he see that I just wanted to help? This, too would’ve been a one-off had it not been for the busybody MaryJo walking neighborhoods trying to shove “Jesus Loves You” pamphlets down everybody’s throats. She noticed the door cracked and tried to peek inside. She saw Evan’s body, came inside and called 911. I hid in the dumbwaiter. Pretty sure she saw me through the window. She didn’t say so to the police on the phone that she saw anyone, but I felt her tension. She knew she wasn’t alone.

For two months I followed her. Lived her life. Decided that I might actually be better off befriending her. She had wide social circles. She seemed to have it all. She really screwed herself when she had the audacity to laugh when I fell over during yoga. Not even a “just laughing with you” sort of sympathy giggle. Full on merriment for my embarrassment.

Bitch had to go.

As I was tossing her bloodied yoga mat into the dumpster the next day a few towns over, Mark happened to be dumping his trash away, too. He saw the mat. He briefly made eye contact with me. Definitely a hesitant, observant fellow. I tittered and batted my eyelashes and told him it was paint, not blood! A can fell off a shelf in the garage.

But I knew he didn’t buy it.

For weeks I watched Mark. He had such a good life, a good family. I truly thought about sparing him. Maybe I could have him. Maybe the bloody yoga mat would be a funny story we’d recall when we were in our 80s--”remember when I thought you were a murderer?”

But the next time Mark went to take his trash out, I met him out there (with normal trash this time) and tried to turn on the charm. He looked at me like he looked at his garbage---something terrible to be rid of as soon as possible.

That took care of that.

But someone saw me. In his driveway. Struggling to shut the trunk of his car. With his body inside. It was too dark to see who they were, and they took off in a hurry.

They knew. I couldn’t abandon the car and chase after them, not when his wife and kids would be home any minute. I had to handle this situation presently.

That’s when I decided to turn myself in.

Lay on the charm. Show them my non-threatening, nervous house-wife qualities. They’d be too absorbed in the stereotypical profile to notice my flaws. They’d be blinded by their own, self-made prejudices and biases.

You can’t even see what I’m capable of even when I’m right in front of you literally telling you the truth.

I made it so easy.

I was wearing Stacy’s music note locket with a picture of her parents on the inside.

I had Evelyn’s phone in my purse, which sat underneath me the entire time. They didn’t even search it.

I was wearing Evan’s soccer socks that still had his blood on them. They are white. The quarter-sized spot of blood is visible at the ankle which I crossed just so they could see it.

I was wearing MaryJo’s signature yoga top that she wore at least three times a month with an embroidered MJ on the front. And finally, I was wearing Mark’s wedding ring engraved with his and his wife’s anniversary and initials.

Seriously?

It was all right there. It was screaming in their face. The truth they didn’t want to see--didn’t want to believe because it would shatter the ideas they had built up about what certain people who check certain boxes will do.

As I wait in shadows of the house of Samantha Montgomery, I see her car turn into the driveway. As she closes her car door, I quickly approach from behind. She sees me. Recognition sets in. She could run.

But that would be a mistake.


"O Dark Lord, we present to you this man as an offering!" The hooded figure's voice echoed in the darkness, bouncing off the cave walls before fading into an eerie, ambient drone. A heavy silence followed. The cultists exchanged nervous glances, holding their breath in anticipation, yet the man bound to the alter lay still and expressionless. The hiss of a faint whisper resonated briefly from the back of the crowd before a deafening crack split the silence. Hooded men and women toppled to the ground and uttered helpless cries as the cave trembled violently, causing rubble to rain down from every angle. A rift tore through the solid rock floor of the cave amid the chaos, and from it a jet of red steam burst skyward, emanating intense heat and the stench of burning flesh. A massive, imposing figure began to materialize through the steam. Now grinning, eyes wide and bulging with a mix of pure awe and terror, the cult leader scrambled to his feet with arms outstretched. At last, The Dark Lord appeared in all his horrendous glory, his eyes glowing red, with menacing horns wreathed in flames. Through the pointed teeth of his mighty jaws came a mildly irritated voice. "What do you want?" When the stunned cultists offered no immediate response, the demon continued. "Listen, you just woke me from my thousand-year slumber, so this better be good. Speak up now." "Your great and omnipotent majesty!" The cult leader exclaimed before gesturing to the prisoner bound to the alter. "We offer you this man as a sacrifice to symbolize our worship, so that you might favour us and accept us into your service as disciples!" "*F a v o u r u s !*" The enraptured gathering of cultists echoed his words. The Dark Lord turned his head, aiming his fiery gaze at the prisoner. For the first time since he was captured and bound to the stone alter, the man spoke, his voice firm and unwavering: "O Dark Lord, I present to you these cultists as an offering." A second silence befell the cave. "Well..." The Dark Lord spoke with a hint of amusement, fixing his gaze on the cult leader. "...What do you say to that?" The hooded man's eyes were wide with disbelief. "M-my lord Balthegor—" "*B a l t h e g o r !*" Droned the crowd. "Please, enough with the formalities," Balthegor waved a clawed hand dismissively and rolled his glowing eyes. "It's Jeff Balthegor. Call me Jeff." "Forgive me... Jeff..." the cult leader apologized incredulously. "*J e f f !*" He cleared his throat, attempting to gather his racing thoughts. "...But the prisoner's claim is preposterous! He has not recited the Infernal Creed, and accepted your will as his omnipotent overlord!" He raised an ancient, unsavoury-looking tome, bound in the skin of some unidentifiable creature. "*I n f e r n a l C r e e d !*" Jeff approached the prisoner, rattling the cave walls with each thunderous step. He leaned over, until his gaunt, dead face hovered inches above that of the man. "So, prisoner... do you accept my will?" "Sure," he deadpanned. The cult leader huffed in frustration as Jeff glanced back at him, raising his scaled brow matter-of-factly. "But Jeff, he doesn't even bear The Mark!" "*T h e M a r k !*" With a yank at the sleeve of his robe, the leader revealed the charred mark of a brand on his forearm, which depicted a crude likeness of the demons visage. The crowd of cultists did the same. "No, that looks stupid," said the prisoner. "Yeah what the *hell* guys?!" Jeff hissed indignantly, his anger causing his flaming horns to flare with greater intensity. "Is that supposed to be *me*? I'll have you know, my horns are *not* that comically small! And brands are overdone anyway... jeez, disciples this millennium are *so* unoriginal." "You can't be serious!" Now visibly angered, the cult leader's wide eyes darted about the crowd of hooded men and women, desperate for support. "This man has no say in the matter! He is a prisoner of the cult!" "*P r i s o n—*" "Oh shut *up*, will you?!" The leader shouted in exasperation. The demon let out a low, growling sigh. Pinching his eyes shut, he rested the tips of his claws on his furrowed brow in vexation. "Look guys, I run a tight ship here. All *you've* done so far is wake me up a few hundred years early to summon me here—for what? *One* measly sacrifice? But *this* guy," he pointed a long, tapered claw at the prisoner, "he's got initiative. I like that. I mean, you have no idea how many souls I need to devour before returning to my slumber! This guy delivers results, and that's exactly the kind of strength I need in a disciple. Not any of this '*Infernal Creed*' baloney. I mean, how long did it take you guys to set all this up? Honestly." "About three weeks or so," a voice called out from the back of the cultist gathering. "Maybe four," another chimed. "*ENOUGH!*" The leader shrieked, and gestured wildly at his following. "Take the lot of them then, I don't care! They're worthless to me. Just leave me to teach others of your power and glory, O mighty Jeff!" "Hey, that's not right!" One cultist objected, sparking a chorus of mumbling protest from the crowd. Jeff clicked his forked tongue scornfully, shaking his fiery head. "What a shame. Well, I can't be bothered to listen to your whining anymore, so I think it's about time you learned your lesson." With the snap of his finger, Jeff set the leader up in flames. Screams of agony echoed through the cave, soon morphing into a horrific, inhuman wail of torment. In a matter of seconds, the man was reduced to a sizzling pile of bone. A cheer erupted from the crowd in celebration of Jeff's demonstration of power. "Ah, you like that do you?" He grinned. "You're in luck, I've got plenty more where that came from!" Hoots of joy turned to howls of pain as the hooded figures burst into flames, running into each other and rolling on the damp cave floor to no avail, before swiftly disintegrating. Finally, the chaos subsided and Jeff let out a weary sigh. He ambled over to a puddle on the cave floor, only to notice his flaming horns. "Wha—? You're telling me these things have been on fire this *whole time*? And no one thought to let me know?" He swatted at his head, distinguishing the flames. "Ugh so *embarrassing*!" And with that, Jeff snapped his clawed fingers once more and evaporated into the darkness.


(WP) I Will Survive They’d thought they’d killed her. They’d thought they’d eradicated the rest of her kind, and they would be right about that. She was the only one left. In space, it was impossible to track the passage of time. It had been years since Laika had even seen another life form, let alone someone like her. She hadn’t known how much time had passed, and her memories were foggy. All she remembered was her lover’s face, and the way that she had looked when she let Laika go. A fierce, almost predatory grin lit up her lovely face, and her laugh, sounding to Laika like birdsong, or what she remembered of it. But the betrayal had faded, leaving behind only her rage. It had grown inside of what was left of her heart, watered by her desperate need for vengeance. How odd, that the face she’d loved so dearly had been nearly erased by time. She might have been a cyborg, but even her memory was not infallible. The ruins of the ship around her had been the only thing to shield her from being blown to bits, once she’d hit the atmosphere. For a while, this dazzling new planet had dulled the agony of almost dying. It was like the earth she remembered in some ways, and in others it was totally different. The sky was a dark, rich purple, no matter what time of day or night it was. Laika couldn’t look at the sky anymore; she had a job to do. She would return to the colony and make certain that the people who betrayed her would pay. \*\* By the time Laika was through with the rest of her repairs, her entire body was aching, even the robot parts, and the sky turned from purple to a bright neon teal. She would allow herself a few hours of rest, a small meal, and then she would set out for Volterra, to the planet where her life had begun and ended. Laika didn’t like thinking about the past, about what came before. Even if she could remember it all, she didn’t want to. In those days, Callie had been all she had. Even when she’d lived on the streets, Callie always found her, usually with a sandwich, water. But she’d come back, again and again, no matter where Laika went. Somehow, she was always able to find her. And then one rainy night, Callie had stayed with her, and they’d kissed for the first time. From that point out, it hadn’t just been Laika, not anymore. It had been Laika and Callie, badass queer women who would take Earth, and the galaxies beyond it, by storm. What killed her most about Callie’s betrayal was that Laika had seen it coming. Callie’s father, a scientist, always had a scowl on his face whenever he saw Laika, making no attempt to hide his displeasure. She’d only learned of Callie’s true motives right before she’d abandoned ship: she and the rest of her kind were mistakes, results of a failed experiment, and they’d been taken into space not for a new life on a different planet, but to be erased, forgotten. Reborn. But she’d survived, and she was coming home to get even.