The letter had been delivered in the evening by a desperate courier with a cart full of casualty notifications and return mail which no longer had a viable address. Here, letters were rarely filled with happy news, and I watched with a heavy heart as my wife’s shaking hands tore open the envelope, which was dusted with ash and dirt.

She skimmed the first sentences -- looking for “regret” or “apology”, the words which dotted the letter framed on our mantle next to my eldest’s school photographs. She breathed out heavily. “Eileen --” I started, but she cut me off. “It’s Harry. He’s fine, Jacob. He’s fine. But he’s worried about the old Fuller property.” “If he’s alive, nothing else matters,” I replied with a gruff headshake. If this war had taught me anything, it was that anything in life could be regained but a beating heart. “No, there’s more -- he says Sherman isn’t finished with Georgia. The battalion has been asked to accompany the General south, with orders to destroy and redistribute land as they like, permission of the president.” “Eileen, they ain’t giving away loyal land.” “That’s what my brother’s worried about. How will they know it's ours if there’s no-one there to prove it? His lieutenant won’t grant him leave -- says it’ll be considered treason if he goes south without the rest of the men. They’re splitting the troops and not telling anyone which way they’re headed, for fear the rebels will get wind.” I looked my wife in the eye. “Eileen. Ain’t nothing we can do about it.” I could see the wrinkles around her eyes crinkle, the brown irises still the same ones I had fallen in love with decades ago. Suddenly, I was sick of seeing that constant look of hopelessness on her face. I stood up straight from where I had been peering over her shoulder at the letter. “I’ll go.”

“You can’t, Jacob. I’d rather have you than that place.” “No, I know what that old farm means to you. It means something to me too. And this war has taken too much from the both of us. Not this too, not if I can help it. I’ll come back safe, I promise.” I could see a tiny seed of hope take root in Eileen’s eyes. “I’ll go too,” she said. I smiled, reminded of the ferocity with which she had verbally defended the few livestock we had left from the army. “What about Jennifer? Or Ruby Belle?” My wife frowned and I thought for a second she was going to nag me for placing both our teen daughter and prize hen on the same level of concern. Instead, she said, “You’ll have to go now.” In the matter of an hour, I had layered every piece of clothing I owned, donned a backpack which Eileen had packed to the brim with food and a small home-made Union Jack, and set out into the November night. I chose to take the quickest road which carried south from the Carolinas all the way to Jacksonville. It was the merchant route, paralleled by the railroad bringing industrial products in exchange for sugar and cotton. I had taken this same path every summer in my youth, walking quickly among the traffic of people and listening for the train’s whistle. As a kid, my mother would put me on the Greenboro rail with a letter in case I forgot to transfer, and I would arrive at the Savannah station to a relieved pair of grandparents. But as I got older and wiser, she’d save the train fare and I would go by foot. The journey would take me over a week of constant walking until I arrived in Georgia -- this time I hitched a ride with the first wagon I met, carrying me past Atlanta in only a couple days' time.

The driver refused to carry me any further south, instead heading west to Alabama because his deliveries were no longer needed in the remaining remnants of Atlanta. I grimly understood and continued by foot, deciding to walk overnight instead. Walking in the dark, I couldn’t tell anything was wrong. So much had changed in the few decades since I’d taken this path in the summers -- the plentiful oak trees which I had used to rest from the sweltering sun were far and in between now, waylaid to build new tracks or make room for new plantations. The path was even less familiar with the layer of ice and frost layering the ground. As the sun rose late in the morning, I stopped with a shudder. The earth I was walking on was soft, which I had blamed on the light snow which had accompanied me through the night. But in the dim light, I could see that the road was instead marked by ash. The pasture fences had an unnatural smudge which transferred to my gloves with a touch. I kept moving, my joints not as content as they might have been years ago. As the sun rose higher, I could see people moving en masse down the road. In a different time, I would have met them -- but not now. I walked to the side, keeping my fur hat down over my face. As I got closer, I realized these were not soldiers or merchants but families, mostly women. Their faces were solemn, gripping small cases and wearing lighter coats than recommended in cold weather. They did not afford me any attention -- but I looked at the ragged hems of their skirts and the dark ash coating their shoes and was morbidly reminded of the prints depicting sinners marching into hell which were often included in our church bulletin. This picture of an icy hell struck me with a sense of despair. These people were desperate enough to be leaving their homes at dawn. I took a deep breath and quickened my step. If the army took my wife’s land, we could petition for it back. But if they were burning everything they set eyes on, there would be nothing worth salvaging. I trudged through the ice and snow, thinking of how broken my wife would be if that happened. The land itself wasn’t much to speak of, a crop field centered around a small farmhouse and a grain mill. Eileen’s parents had raised both her and her younger brother Harry there. For over a decade of summers, every morning I would come running over from my grandparents’ house across the road, ducking past my grandmother's magnolia to jump the fence. If the magnolia was still there, it would be many times my height. To the passerby, Eileen’s family and my own were simply neighboring farmers who had chosen to be far from the nearest town for their own peace. It’s true that the Fullers grew wheat and barley, some of which they would hand off to larger farms with silos. But the rest the Fullers would bind up and sell to my grandparents. I remember dragging grain from the Fullers back to my grandparents’ cellar, where it would be packed into barrels. My mother’s parents, lovingly called Pa and Ma Alder, had picked up the trade from a neighboring German immigrant family who had stayed with them for a few months before heading north. Unsurprisingly, beer proved a far more precious commodity than bread and drew customers from around the county. Unfortunately, beer-making was far from welcome in the public eye, mainly due to the church and anti-German sentiment. Anyone looking for beer from my folks would knock at the door and need to give both the name of a reference and a certain phrase before the Alders would even discuss selling. Mostly it was local inns who would send carriages to haul back a couple barrels to increase local business. But there was another reason the beer was kept so secret -- it was funneled through certain people throughout the town to the surrounding plantations. The landowners would never have bought our alcohol, but their servants and slaves, the same social status in their shared poverty, did and were sworn to secrecy if they were ever caught with their purchases.

And that’s how I was raised each summer, lying to any questions asked of me by strangers and not asking any of the visitors. I was too young to realize the gravity of our situation but I knew I needed to let Pa and Ma Alder do all the talking. Whenever some client would knock on the door, I’d shake Pa awake and then run out the back door to play with Eileen and Harry for the evening until Ma or Pa came to take me back. It was always too hot to want to do anything other than sit in the cool of the Fullers’ grain mill, even in the evening. My first summer I had been shy, sitting quietly next to the Fullers and waiting to be summoned home. But one day Eileen jumped up and offered me a small wooden spinning top, showing me how it could spin all the way to the other side of the room with a twist of her fingers. Looking back, I guess that was the moment I was bewitched. I was convinced Eileen’s one extra year of life experience meant I owed her undying friendship, even when she tried to climb to the top of the grain mill during my second summer. She fell off the first story and her parents reprimanded both of us -- Eileen for the consequentially sprained ankle and myself for not stopping her. As we got older, our meetings became less frequent. I could finally be of some use at the brewery and Harry and Eileen were always wanted for some farm chore or another. I no longer thought of Harry as the annoying kid who would spoil all of Eileen and I’s adventures with his tattletaling or whining. During the rare mutual break in the day, we would talk about our ambitions. Harry wanted to become a doctor and attend medical school in Montgomery, where he could stay with family. I had a smaller dream, one where myself and Eileen continued the brewery business when Ma and Pa Alder retired. By fourteen, I understood how profitable the bootlegging business could be. I kept trying to ask Eileen what she wanted, but she was determined to avoid the question. I spent the time in between summers constantly wondering if she had gone off and found some other sweetheart besides me. Neither of Harry or I’s dreams came true. Although Harry worked hard at a local school during the falls and winters, he didn’t get a place in medicine. At 22, he finally left the Fuller farm to go to Alabama anyway and apprenticed under his uncle as a shopkeep. When I was 25, Pa Alder passed away in a scuffle with a desperate alcoholic who misfired his gun in a drunken stupor. The man gave Ma Alder every last dime he had and disappeared. Instead of giving me the business, Ma Alder decided to sell the brewery and join my newly remarried mother in the Carolinas. One part of my dream did manifest. The summer I was 18, I bought myself a suit en route to Savannah and proposed to Eileen the moment I arrived. To my relief she accepted and we were married in a tiny church in the nearby town. I helped with the Fuller farm when Harry left and then Eileen and I followed Ma Alder up to the North Carolina border. The twenty-five years following our marriage were good and we were blessed with a son and a daughter. My new stepfather had his own farm, one which we slowly took over throughout the years and, while small, kept us happy and sustained. We felt like we were in a hurricane, whirling through life and being hit with bad luck or poor mistakes. But those times seem so golden now compared to the last few years, in which so much had been taken from us. At the start of the war, Harry enlisted into the 1st Alabama Cavalry Regiment along with a thousand other southerners loyal to the Union. His regiment, at the cost of over half of the men, would be almost too successful. Eileen and I felt the constant shadow of his involvement at every major battle and dreaded the knock of the courier. We were still grieving for our son, who had reached adulthood only to give his life to the army. Now still walking through the slush and mud, I felt the fabric tied around my wrist -- the piece of his uniform which had accompanied the casualty notification. Even a year later it sent a pang through my heart. The Fuller farm, unoccupied for the last few years while Harry was away, signaled a happier, sunnier time in our lives. Its loss would erase further ties to our roots. Remembering the summers I had spent in Georgia pushed me to move my middle-aged joints faster. I would reach the farm before Sherman or his men did, for the sake of Eileen, Harry, and myself -- or at least return to my wife knowing what had become of it.


“Hello little bunny rabbit,” I whisper as I inch toward a little bunny sitting in a grassy clearing. It’s fur is the color of hot chocolate, it’s tail is the pure white whipped cream that sits on top.

I am going hiking with my parents in a beautiful redwood forest where the trees are alive with movement.

I love to see all the animals of the forest. I could sit in one spot for hours on end just watching them. The bunny’s ears and nose twitch as it tries to figure out whether I am a friend or foe. I am just about to be close enough to stroke the bunny’s fur when -

“Lita! Are you coming or what?” Momma’s aggravated voice slices through the forest noises like an arrow. I shoot an angry look in the direction of the voice, but don’t bother responding. When I turn back to the bunny, all I see is the little white puff of whipped cream disappearing into the tall redwoods.  	“Noooooo! Don’t go bunny rabbit! I won’t hurt you! I promise!” I cry dashing after the bunny as fast as my four-year-old

legs can carry me. I get poked by branches and bushes, but I don’t care. At the moment my main priority is that light brown bunny.

“Lita? Lita, where did you run off to!” Momma calls her voice getting fainter the further I run. “Lita! Lita!” Her voice is getting more and more frantic, but her voice is only a whisper now. I almost lose track of the bunny, but then I see the little white tail that marks it. I trip over a twisted tree root, and land face first in a patch of green grass. I fight off tears, and sit up. My thoughts dissipate instantly as I take a look around me. I am at the edge of a breathtaking lush green meadow. Anemones, poppies, daffodils, cornflowers, asters, and many more flowers cover the field.

Morning dew sparkles magically in the sun. Throughout the field there are lots of houses. Each of the houses are unique in size, shape, and material. Some of the houses are giant, some are tiny, some are round, some are square, some are made of grass, and some are made in tree stumps. It’s not just the houses that catch my attention though. Roaming around the field are all sorts of different forest creatures. There are bunnies, bears, wolves, mice, squirrels, foxes, raccoons, bobcats, deer, ladybugs, spiders, bees, butterflies, herons, woodpeckers, and many more. So many more in fact that I could spend a whole day just listing them all. I realize then that I must be dreaming because I can hear the animals talking to one another! I try to see if I can spot the bunny I’d been chasing, but soon give up. I resolve to watch a group of

bobcat kittens playing jump rope instead.

After a little while of watching different animals do things like cartwheeling, playing

board games, and chasing each other, I decide that I want to join the fun. I push myself to my feet using the help of a sapling.

“Hello!” I announce cheerfully. All commotion stops. This is definitely not the reaction I’d hoped for. Everything is silent except for the occasional whisper from one animal to another, and the sound of leaves rustling in the wind. Slowly, a lizard, a squirrel, and a bear make their way through the crowd.

“What is your business here in Litariana Meadow?” the bear growls suspiciously. I notice how tense he is, and I start to get the feeling maybe I’m not supposed to be her. “Well, that’s a funny coincidence! My name is Litariana! I like to be called Lita though,“ I say nervously, wiping my sweaty palms on my overalls. The bear’s eyes widen before quickly resuming their usual grumpy state, but it doesn’t go unnoticed by me. Some of the other animals in the crowd start murmuring in surprise. The squirrel and lizard scurry up the bear and each start whispering in each ear. I can only hear three words; wait, 12, and prophecy. Curiosity bubbles up inside me, and threatens to overflow, but I sense this is not time for questions. The lizard and the squirrel return to the ground.

“We have come to a decision,” the bear announces. “You will leave with no memory of this happening. That is, until you are 12. Then all of your memories will return, and you must come back. However, you can’t tell anyone about this. Ever. Understood?” I nod paralyzed, my eyes wide. The bear motions with her paw, and a little bunny comes hopping forward. “This is Charlan, he will guide you back to the trail.”

I can’t help but wonder if he’s the same bunny that I followed before. He’s got the same colored fur and whipped cream tail, but then again, there are lots of bunnies that look like that. Then, before I can even say goodbye, Charlan is hopping along with me at his heels. I emerge from the trees just as Mama comes running over. I feel dazed, and there is an odd tingly sensation in my head.

“Lita! There you are! I was so worried when you didn’t respond! Where were you?” She gives me a big hug. “I was . . .” I falter. Where was I? There’s something itching at the back of my head. Something that should be there, but isn’t. I don’t want Mama to worry, so I just make something up. “I was just picking some nice flowers along the path, but then I dropped them. I went to see if I could find them, but they’re gone!” “Oh, it’s alright Lita. We’ll collect some new ones. And don’t go running off like that again, okay?” she says looking me straight in the eye.

“Okay. I’m sorry Mama,” I reply. And I’m truly sorry, even if I don’t know where I was. As we walk away I take one last look back, trying to find any clues as to where I was. All I see is a little white bunny tail that looks to me like a puff of whipped cream.


The twinkling lights strung from the trees made the patio a magical experience. Light music from the acoustic trio filtered up to them. Mark and Sandy’s favorite restaurant, they always came for their anniversary and often throughout the year. While waiting for the hostess to escort them, Mark discreetly placed his hand on Sandy’s bottom. She swatted it away with a laugh. “Mark!” “I couldn’t help it. It begged me.” She flashed her smile. “Did I tell you how great you look in that dress?” “Yes. Thank you, again. Your hand confirmed it… Thought of you when shopping.” Arriving at the podium, the hostess did a double take. “Hello! Glad to see you back. You look well this evening.” “Yes. Reservation for two. Mark Stella.” “I’m Zelda, but you know that.” She looked on the computer screen and nodded. “One moment…” Sandy smiled. “Our anniversary.” “Glad to see you again. Must have liked our food to return again so soon.” “So soon?” “Well, yes. Since you were here last night.” Mark and Sandy looked at each other and laughed. “No, we weren’t.” The hostess shrugged. “Okay… I remember you.” Mark blinked. “We weren't here.” “No matter. That was another time. I hope you’re feeling better tonight?” Mark said, “No, really. We were out of town last night. Not here.” “No problem… I remember you very well... How long have you been married?” Sandy said, “Seventeen years. Why do you think we were here last night?” “I remember you. Not that I could forget… Seventeen! You look happy.” She sounded surprised. Mark couldn’t let go. “It wasn’t us.” “It was. But no worries. It’s a new day.” Mark and Sandy exchanged looks. He said, “This couple from last night… Were they well behaved?” Zelda suppressed a chuckle. “Oh, how should I…? Well, not in the best of moods. You’re in much better spirits tonight.” Sandy said, “But we weren't here.” “Don’t be embarrassed. It can happen to anyone. Hunger can get the best of us. You made quite a scene.” She smiled without warmth or humor. “We have an alibi. We have witnesses.” “Fine. Whatever… No one’s going to sue… I must say, if it wasn't you, you have a couple of dead ringers going to the same restaurants.” Mark gaped at her. She said, “Follow me please.” Zelda led them to a table and offered them menus. “Here we are.” Sandy leaned in. “Not too close to the music, please.” The hostess pointed. “There, see? I knew it was you…” Nonplussed, Sandy looked at Mark, who took the menus. “This will be fine.” “Have a better time tonight. And congratulations!” Mark held Sandy’s chair for her. “Did she skip as she walked away?” “I saw that too.” “Who eats at the same place two nights running? 'Hey Babe, let's eat some place different. You know, where we ate last night.'” Sandy relaxed into her chair. “Ahh, here we are... Our favorite place, with my favorite husband.” They laughed. He said, “We’ll enjoy ourselves. But I won’t predict when we’ll return. Leave that to the ‘Psychic Hotline…’” “You need your aura fluffed?” He mimed trying to screw his head on tighter. Leaning in, he said, “This is because of you, you know. You’re the unforgettable one – the one of a kind. Central casting could plop anyone in my chair, unnoticed. But everyone looks at you.” She glanced around. “Are we being watched?” “Tell me where you went last night, when you excused yourself to the powder room.” “You think I came here? Miles away? With someone else? To make a scene?” “You were gone a long time. Even for you.” She rolled her eyes and they laughed.

Sandy said, “We couldn’t win… The more we protested, the more convinced she was.” “Let it go. Did you hear her? Each day, she’s a completely new person. How does she find her car keys? 'Couldn't be my phone bill. I just arrived.'” “It's so weird. I can imagine one person having a double. Like a twin, I guess. But what are the odds of an identical couple wandering around?” “It's insane. Forget it.” Sandy looked into the distance. “Remember that time we came for lunch? The creek was running and little kids wading… That was so fun…” Mark smiled at the memory. A man approached. “Excuse me, Mark? Sorry to interrupt. I was leaving when I saw you. I saw you here last night, but couldn’t get to you… Too busy with 'agent' stuff, I guess…” “Oh, hi. Tim, right?” They shook hands. “Jim. Hi. I've been trying to reach you.” “Yeah. Wasn't here last night, though.” “I could swear it was you.” “Have you met my wife, Sandy?” Sandy smiled up at him. Jim said, “Hi… Glad to meet you… Your hair was a little different though.” Mark said, “Call me… Wednesday morning. We'll have lunch.” “Of course. Wanted to touch base. I'll call.” Jim stepped back. Mark nodded and he left. “Sheesh. Can't enjoy dinner without someone glomming onto...” “Hello, he lied...” Sandy smiled. “What are you are talking about? The guy’s a minor idiot.” “That's harsh.” “A stunt double who thinks he can act. Jumping off a roof doesn't mean Shakespeare’s calling.” “That is a big leap.” “He's bounced off too many cars.” “Funny, he noticed my hair was different.” “…From your evil twin's?” “No. I get my hair done and you never notice. He noticed and he’s never seen me before.” “I love your hair.” “Thank you…” “No, really.” Sandy smiled. “I get it.” The waiter approached with a shallow bow. “Hello again, I'm Dwayne, your server tonight. Can I get you started with a beverage?” “Two mai tais please, on the double.” “Two double mai tais…” “No… quickly…” Mark waved him off. Dwayne bowed as he backed away. Mark said, “I don't get how actors do it, always changing roles. Today I'm this person, tomorrow that. Must be crazy making.” “Everyone wears masks, Mark. You did it with Jim.” “I guess... I told you about that time someone was watching me?” “That’s so eerie…” “I looked around this cavernous restaurant and this guy’s looking right at me. Most people would look away, but he kept staring. Very rude.” “What happened?” “Furious, I stood up to confront him.” “No…” “When he stood too, I thought, 'what’s this?' Then I realized he was me.” Sandy laughed. “I was eye-balling myself in this gigantic, wall sized mirror. The room looked twice its size… So I sat back down and ate.” “Should have given him a black eye. How dare he?” “Yeah… Should see the other guy… You've heard of celebrity look alike services? Actors who resemble famous people get hired to populate parties. Get the buzz going.” “What a way to make a living. Paid to pretend you’re someone else.” Mark looked around for the waiter. “I want to do a variation on that with look-alikes from the FBI’s ten most wanted list.” “Don't quit your day job, Mark.” “That would get people talking.  'Guess who Jennifer had at her party last night - Charlie Manson!' “Haven't seen him in years!” “People always claim I take after some actor or another. What do you think…? Tom Cruise? Cary Grant…?” Sandy pondered the question. “Mark, you are, unmistakably, my one-of-a-kind. Who cares what crazy Zelda says?” “People don't see each other. They have cartoon images in their heads.” “Stalked by Elmer Fudd.” Dwayne arrived, set their drinks down and readied his order pad. The place was filling up. “May I tell you our specials tonight?” Mark said, “No.” “We have some very good specials. They’re different from last night's…” Mark did a slow burn. Touching his hand, Sandy said, “Mark…” Dwayne picked up on the tension. “What's wrong?” Mark was direct. “Whatever you think you know about us, Dwayne, I don't care.” “I really just…” “We’re here for a nice meal. If you take care of us, we’ll take care of you. Deal?” Unsure of what had happened, Dwayne said, “Of course.” Sandy said, “I'll have the filet, medium rare, please.” “The same.” “Copycat.” “I always wish I'd ordered what you have.” “So daring. Try something new.” “You’re always right, Sandy. Why fight it?” They smiled. Dwayne said, “Anything else? An appetizer?” “That's it.” “Very well.” Dwayne took their menus and exited. Mark raised his glass. “A toast to you Sandy, my lovely wife. May we always be so happy.” She smiled. “Let's keep doing this another fifty years! Give or take...” They touched glasses and drank. Mark leaned in. “So, the truth, Sandy. It's time you confessed your secret twin.” “I cannot lie. I always wished for someone to blame. But alas, I’m an only child.” “That’s sad. Imagine all we could do with our siblings... Play Bridge. Pickle ball doubles…” “Or scandalize the restaurant staff. Pretend we don't know each other...” Mark sipped. “I actually do have a twin. Separated at birth, I never knew him.” Sandy laughed. “You’re so silly.” “I hope he's okay. I only remember… he was short.” They laughed. Sandy stole the cherry from Mark’s drink and played with it seductively. Adopting a Russian accent, she hissed, “Your secret has been exposed Mr. Stella. Though, by day, a powerful talent agent, by night, you’re a secret agent!” “Oh my God! My cover is blown!” “Hah! I too am a double agent. I locked your wife in the ladies room and am now here, in perfect disguise, to kidnap you back to my lair.” “I’m such a fool! Your disguise is perfect… but for one telling, detail.” She looked doubtful. “Impossible!” “Sandy has a very cute mole on her right breast. Only I would know.” “Silly boy. I thought of everything.” “Prove it.” Exposing her cleavage, Sandy leaned across the table. Mark stared. When he reached out she playfully hit his hand with her napkin. “Look! Don't touch! You cad!” “Insatiable curiosity, my dear.” Sandy dropped her spy persona. In mock outrage, she scolded. “I can't believe you’d brazenly stare at another woman's cleavage!” “Gotta love that mole.” They laughed. She said, “Isn't ‘mole’ a code word for a spy?” Breathless, a woman approached the table. “I'm sorry, I can't help myself. I am such a fan! I loved you in ‘Yes to Me Yesterday.’  This had happened before. Sandy smiled. “I wasn't in that.” “But you were. I can see you...” “I wish, but no, I wasn't.” The woman thought Sandy was lying but hated missing an opportunity. “Okay. Whatever. Could I take your picture? Is it too much of a bother?” Sandy stood and said, “How about if I take yours?” A little disappointed, the woman handed Sandy her phone. She snapped a shot and passed it back. “Sorry to be so foolish. Can't tell you how much this means...” “Don't worry about it.” The woman left. Sandy sat down. “For years, she'll be telling friends she met ‘whatsername.’” Mark looked at his wife with love. “Do you miss it? “What? Acting? Of course. But what can I do? Not too many options.” “You took a break. Could always dive back in. Especially with Timothy getting more independent.” Sandy sipped her drink. “I'm afraid that ship has sailed.” “You have the talent. You look great. Why not?” “Oh... you know...” “You're the one who doesn't believe in age, San. Knock it off.” “Oh, thanks for reminding me. Tim has his driver's license test coming up. Can you be there for him?” “My God. Already? He can barely tie his shoes and he's getting behind the wheel? When?” “A week, Tuesday, I think. I'll let you know.” Dwayne arrived with their dinner. “Careful, hot plates. Anything else?” “It looks perfect.” Sandy smiled. “Thank you.” Dwayne nodded and left. Sandy noticed Mark looking at her food. “I know. You think my steak is bigger.” “Of course it is. Look at it. Your point?” “Want to trade?” “I'm not that hungry tonight. Go for it.” Zelda passed their table and Sandy called to her. “Oh, hi. Can I show you something?” “Hi. Oh, the filet looks great. What's up?” “I know you don't care, but I wanted to share pictures of where we were last night, on Facebook. See the date and location?” “Oh, that's not necessary. I have that app for changing the time stamp too. No big deal. Already forgot about it.” Zelda turned away. The trio announced a brief intermission. Sandy set her fork down. “You know, Mark, if you found something good for me... But I don't want to embarrass myself...” “Sandy… Of course. I'm always looking… thinking of you. Of what would be good for you.” “Hate to look desperate.” “A little secret? Actors love acting. Not desperation… More a state of being.” She smiled in recognition. He said, “But you won't believe what's out there. Zombies and vampires and super-hero sequels. It's embarrassing.” “I guess.” He rubbed his thumb against his fingers. “Don't know who goes to this stuff but it's an avalanche.” Mark signaled Dwayne for another mai tai. He continued, “There’s a few things I’m looking at for you.” “Like what?” “An honest drama. Something light. The comedies are dreck. You’re hilarious, but now it's all sex comedies with adolescents. Embarrassing…” “But...” “…Cartoon crap and CGI. Or slasher flicks. Some good TV with genuine feeling.” “Thanks Mark. That means a lot.” “The best dramas have identity at their core. Now, it's Zombies staggering around with goat guts hanging from their mouths. Disgusting and stupid.” “I'm eating Mark.” “Right. Sorry. You've heard me go on about this.” “I have.” Dwayne arrived with Mark’s second mai tai. Sandy plucked the cherry from it before he could drink. “I can always count on that sexy vision of you with that olive in your mouth seared into my brain. I'll never forget you.” Sandy held it up. “This is a cherry, Mark.” “I know... What did I say? A cherry! Of course it's a cherry! Who would put an olive into a mai tai? The barbarian!” “I don't like olives.” “Of course. It's darker than a Maraschino so I mistook it. Is it good?” “Best I've ever had.” He took her hand. “You’re so gorgeous. Couldn't live without you.” “Thanks, Mark. How I feel about you.” “But I'm not gorgeous.” “You are to me.” They grinned. The musical trio returned to their places and began to play. “You know your last show? That was a tough role.” “Very.” “Hard on everyone. Your hair was dark. Felt I didn’t know you. You weren't yourself. It took a toll.” “I didn't know. It was so draining. It was like three different parts at once. Incredible pressure.” “Wasn’t the character mentally ill?” “Schizophrenic.” He nodded. “Yeah… Wow. I missed you.” “Missed you too.” “Missed me? Where was I?” “Here. But I was in New Orleans, on location. Remember?” “Right!” “It was called 'Two Rivers.’” “And... There was only one river.” “Yes.” “Yeah, I'm talking about when you were prepping. I couldn't get close to you.” “I was working, Mark.” “I know Babe. But it was hard…” Zelda approached, “Hi guys. You won’t believe this, but remember that couple I thought was you?” Sandy sighed. “Yeah?” “They just showed up. Sorry I was such a dope. You’re right. You aren't them.” “Of course.” “I knew it.” Mark and Sandy high-fived. Zelda said, “I want to apologize, and give you the heads up… I swear they look - exactly - like - you. Oh my God! It's like a fun house mirror. Can you believe it?” Sandy tapped the table. “No.” Mark looked around. “Where are they?” “I’ll seat them in a minute. But don't freak out when you see yourselves walk onto the patio, okay? I don't need four lunatics here, on the loose.” “Scout's honor…” Mark whispered, “And that’s just the staff…” Sandy waved her hand to shush him. “I'll get them now, so sit tight. Okay?” She exited, and returned moments later, leading a well-dressed couple to a nearby table. They looked nothing like Mark and Sandy. Zelda turned to Mark and Sandy and mugged. They looked at their ‘doubles,’ and back to each other, in wonder. He said, “In what universe could anyone mistake us for Arnold Swarzenegger and Hillary Clinton?” Sandy said, “I almost feel like I know them. Should we introduce ourselves? Wish them a calm, relaxed evening?” “I’ll pass. Don’t want to chance mingling pixie dust and disrupt the time/space continuum.” Sandy laughed. “Right. What you said. Me too.” “Happy Anniversary…” They clinked glasses and drank.


You’ve done it. After weeks’ worth of late nights, unbridled fury, carpal tunnel, game restarts, and ragequits, you’ve…you’ve *done it.* You’ve beaten Matt from Wii Sports. His cartoonishly geometric form lies crumpled before you in the ring, as the announcer, with his crisp, cheerful voice that has become all too familiar to you, initiates the countdown. “DOWN! One! Two! Three!...” He stays down. He’s not coming back for a second wind. You don’t know for sure, but you just *know* somehow. This *has* to be it. “…Four! Five! Six!...” Ten seconds have never felt so long to you. Each ticking pulse in your temple as you stare at the television screen, daring the motherfucker to stand up again, feels like a drum concerto of eternity. “Seven!...” You think back to the furious round in the few minutes before. Spraining your wrist pumping the Wii Remote and Nunchuk. The rising pressure in that one spot in the side of your head. The muted, high-pitched curses uttered under your breath. Did you break a sweat? If so, that’s quite pathetic. But you don’t care. Matt is *down.* “Eight!...” You think about your skill level, and the prodigious boost it must receive after this fight. You’ve beaten the champ. It’s taken you weeks. Never in your life will the sight of a line graph fill you with such satisfaction. “Nine!...” And there’s a sudden stab of guilt – all the times you had to restart to avoid losing skill points, and getting demoted to squaring with lesser fighters. It was only necessary, you tell yourself. Restarting all those games was *necessary.* It was the only way you could stick with Matt, keep him in your sights, lock him in your dance. Now, there is no need to restart. The game is up. A winner is you. “…Ten! KNOCKOUT!” the announcer declares. The bell dings a double chime. The crowd of Miis cheers. Your heart balloons in your chest. Your limbs soften with relief. It’s official. It’s inscribed in data and code, sealed in a save file. The Wii Message Board might even receive a letter of congratulations. It’s all too much. As your face breaks into a smile, something changes. A sound effect plays from the television. The scene darkens and freezes. You must have accidentally paused the game. You make to click “Continue.” But something’s not right. Your pointer doesn’t register on the screen. The words are flipped, as if reflected off a mirror. How are you supposed to read them? What are you supposed to do? Then it hits you. It hits you like a flying virtual boxing glove. Another pointer appears, ghostlike and hazy. Slowly, almost mockingly, it drifts toward the center button. He’s been staring at you this whole time. “Start over.” The screen fades to black. You emit a scream. The match starts over. You vs. Matt. The latter of whom is fully recovered and ready to go at it again. And again. And again.


I'd taken that route a thousand times. Maybe even more. Every bend and curve became muscle memory to me. Every tree and every rock became recognizable. The view of the valley below, as you cling to the edge of the mountain peak, became as common a sight to me as my own home. Every day on my way back home, my bike and I would cling to the tarmac of that winding road, the cool mountain air and the hum of the engine below me becoming part of my routine. Brake here, swing hard there. Accelerate until there. Maybe I wasn't being as careful as I should have been. Maybe the darkness caused the irregularity, causing the all-recognizable treeline to become strange and menacing to me. Maybe the shadows stretched the road an extra inch that I wasn't used to. All I know is, I didn't brake in time. I could see it coming, but it was just too late. I slammed the brakes as hard as I could, my tires locking below me as they squealed and smoked in protest. But it wasn't enough. I slammed into the safety barrier, the impact jarring my bones as it traveled through my body. My bike came to a dead stop as the barrier crunched around it. I didn't stop. There was a moment of weightlessness. I felt calm as I rose in the air, my thoughts collecting themselves into a resounding 'oh fuck', as my situation sunk in. Then I fell, my stomach sinking into my gut as I realized what it meant. My moment of weightlessness was over as gravity swiftly re-affirmed its hold on me, reminding me sharply of what happens to those who defy it. I smashed into the first tree, the impact crashing through my frail body as I heard my own bones *crunch*. Momentum carried me onward, flipping me over as I flew through the trees at breakneck speed. After what felt like an eternity, I hit the bottom hard, the unrelenting ground coming up and forcing the air out of my lungs. I laid there for a moment, as my brain frantically assessed the damage. That was when I first screamed. My body burned, the skin over my leg stretching taut where bones lay broken under its surface. I pushed myself up, leaning myself against a fallen log, my vision going white as fresh pain seared through me. I took a few deep breaths in an attempt to force back the darkness of unconsciousness as I assessed the damage. My leg was bent at the wrong angle, in two places where it shouldn't be. It hurt to breathe. My arm felt like it had been smashed by a sledgehammer and my head felt cloudy, unfocused. My stomach felt warm, though. Wet. I lifted up my shirt, letting out a small cry as I saw the branch sticking through it. It was the width of my thumb, and there was no telling how deep it had gotten. I started to panic as blood slowly seeped out the wound, painting my stomach a violet color in the moonlight and drenching the soil beneath me in an endless stream. I needed help. I needed help badly. I pawed at my jacket pocket, forcing my shaking fingers to rip open the velcro holding it closed and fishing out my phone. I tapped the fingerprint scanner and it came to life, bathing me in its blissful LED light. It still worked. It survived the crash. Thank God. I clumsily opened its dialer, then typed those three numbers that were seared into my head since I was a kid. I put it on speaker and forcefully flipped up my helmets visor, as the call connected on the first ring. "Hello! Nine-triple-one here, how may I help you?" said a light, cheery voice through the speaker. "Gah, fuck, I need an ambulance!" I managed to croak out through clenched teeth. "Please, it's urgent! I fell off the side of I-40, and now I'm… I'm bleeding everywhere, and… And… Oh God, think I broke a few bones." Silence hung in the air for a moment, as the lady on the other line stayed silent. I took a few shallow breaths, trying not to agitate my chest any more than it already was. Suddenly, she laughed. It was sincere, almost apologetic, but with every passing moment I became more and more infuriated by it. "What the fuck? I need help!" I started screaming into the microphone, in an attempt to shut her up. "Why the fuck are you laughing?!" "Oh my, I'm sorry! It's just… Heh… Hoo boy… You must be looking for nine-one-one right?" she replied. "Yes! Fuck! I need serious help!" I shouted, as I watched my life drain from the hole in my stomach. "Oh my, I'm sorry, but it seems you called the wrong number!" she said, her voice straining as she tried to hold back further laughter. "A common mistake, but a mistake nonetheless! Sorry about that!" For a moment it didn't sink in. My mind, in its haze, just couldn't process this new information. I stared at the screen of my phone for a few moments, "**9111**" displaying in bold on its screen. My vision started to go dark, as the cold crept through my body. My head started to feel light. "Fuck, I'm gonna die. I'm gonna die here." I started to cry, my eyes burning as the first tear fell and I realized just what I had done to myself. It was stupid of me. Stupid to think that I was better at driving than I was. Stupid to think I could judge the distance the same at night as in day. Stupid to drive so fast in the first place. It was a stupid thing to do, and I'm going to die a stupid death because of it. "Alright. Sorry about that. Bye." I managed to say to the speaker, as I attempted to lift my hand and hang up. "Woah, hold your horses there Michael deary. If you hang up now you won't be able to contact anyone else." the lady said, her voice becoming serious for the first time. "You've lost a lot of blood, right? Try moving your fingers." For a moment I sat there, confused. I didn't remember giving her my name, but my head was so fuzzy, I couldn't be sure if that's true. I stared at my hands, I couldn't feel my fingers anymore, but I could still see them hanging there, limp. I tried wiggling them. I could barely get them to wiggle the way I wanted them to. I couldn't feel them. She was right. If I somehow managed to hang up, I wouldn't be able to manipulate my fingers into dialing the right number anyways. As it got even colder, I realized that this stranger will be the last person I'll ever speak to. "Fuck. I'm going to die." "Not necessarily, Michael my dear. See, we can still help you. It'll just cost a bit… More than usual." she replied, her voice washing over me as I struggled to keep my eyes open. "How much?" I slurred, as I barely kept my consciousness. "Don't worry about it for now. All I need is for you to say yes, and we'll work out the fine details another time. How about it?" she cooed, her voice dripping with honey. I didnt wanna die. I really didn't. If she could help, I wanted her to. "Yes." I managed to spit out, before I lost consciousness. My body was floating, the sound of the ocean waves washing over me and becoming louder and louder, roaring in my ears and drowning out all other sounds as I floated upwards, out of my broken body to somewhere better. Somewhere where it wasn't so cold. Before I reached the top, I heard a ladies voice. It cut through the rumbling waves and whispered clearly into my ear. "Perfect, Michael! See you in twenty years." I woke up a few days later in a hospital bed, attached to countless wires and drips. At first I had no clue where I was, what day it was, or even who I was. I had a severe concussion, three breaks in my left leg, a hairline fracture in my left arm and three broken ribs. On top of all that, I had severe open wounds in my abdomen thanks to the branch that lodged itself in there. The doctors told me it was a miracle it missed anything vital, and that if it was a millimeter out to any side, it would have hit major arteries and I would have likely bled out before help arrived. A family was driving home when they found my wreck of a bike on the side of the hill, still smoking, and stopped to investigate. When they saw that the barrier was smashed through, and that there was no driver in sight, they called for help. The rescue team found me at the base of the mountain, about a hundred meters down, crumpled over myself and passed out. They found my phone next to me, it's screen still on, the words "call disconnected" flashing across it. The recovery took months, the first few weeks spent in a confused daze as the concussion caused short-term memory loss. I didn't know where I was, or how I got there. I couldn't remember my girlfriend's name, or that we moved into town two years ago. But slowly I regained my memories. It started bit by bit and in no particular order. I'd remember my old managers retirement party, or a date with my girlfriend a year ago. After a few weeks, though, it all came back to me. I remembered the crash. The whistling of the wind flying past my helmet. The crack of the branches breaking against me. The shock I felt when I finally landed. The pain searing through me as the adrenaline wore off. I also remember the lady. How she laughed and laughed at me. How she offered me a deal, and that I took it. But worst of all, I remember what she said as the world slipped away from me and went dark. Her voice as smooth as butter, dripping with honey and venom.


“You have to face facts, the system was put in place to cope with the current state of national healthcare. Let’s not put any more stress on your children, Mrs. Andrews. This is better for everyone.” The insurance specialist was practically whispering into her ear, not wanting the others to hear. Stephanie spoke louder so that they could all hear. “I can’t have that many visits to the hospital, can I? We can’t just fudge the numbers a little to give me a little more time? The last time I visited the doctors was because of stress. Should that even count as a doctor’s visit?” The insurance specialist’s nametag, “Mr. Martin,” almost hit her in the face as he took Stephanie’s temperature by scanning her forehead. “That would be fraud. A medical visit is still a medical visit. There’s no way around it. We have to get you ready for the euthanasia.“ Her family sighed at the word and moved in closer but likely knew that there was nothing they could do either. Little Abbey was too young to be seeing this but Stephanie asked that she be here, as this might be the last time she saw her alive. Russ stepped in and waited for Mr. Martin to move out of the way so he could lean down and probably say something like “this is how it’s supposed to be” or “we’ll have to endure without you.” They had their troubles in the past but she never imagined he could be so casual about this. Instead, he said, “It’ll be OK. It’ll be over soon.” Abbey and Joann had the sour taste of vinegar on their faces and held each other closely, offering pitiful moans and nothing more. But how could they speak? Seeing their mother in a hospital bed, ready to be sent to the slaughter and knowing that her mandated death would greatly improve the gene pool of future generations. She watched her daughters’ faces and could have ripped the face off of Mr. Martin as he made check marks on his tablet. He saw this subtle ire and responded. “I know this isn’t easy but you know what happens when you meet your allotted medical expenditure. This situation is no different from the others who are waiting in the euthanasia room right now. They’re waiting for you to arrive to initiate the process. Once the process starts—” She turned away and stopped listening when her son appeared in the doorway. He had a furled brow and what she had always described as “angry lips” but she could have kissed him and held him all the same. It wasn’t her fault she was in this dire situation, or at least not completely. “Adam,” she said, her voice cracking. “Hi, mom.” he pushed in through his father and Mr. Martin and grabbed the hand railing of the medical bed. “You said you’d never leave us.” “There’s nothing I can do. I should have done more for my health. I should have…” “They’re going to kill you!” Adam started shouting. “You didn’t do anything wrong! You’re getting out of here. I won’t let anyone hurt you. I’ll stop anyone who tries.” Mr. Martin grabbed him by the arm. She saw the anger rooted deep within his eyes. “Don’t be like that. Don’t be like them. You believe they’re killers. Adam, I don’t want you to have any part of this. I don’t want you to end up like they are.” He wrenched his arm away, “Like them? Like killers? Fine, I won’t have any part of this.” and stormed out. Stephanie had her hands out, attempting to calm her fleeing son, but she couldn’t and she wept for it. Mr. Martin looked at his watch and tablet, making several more check motions. “It’s time to go. Say goodbye. You will be read your last will and rights in the sleeping room.” Everything became a blur in her last few moments. The lights that were overhead and the paintings on the walls were smudged with tears. She hasn’t even been given any drugs yet. In a few seconds, or it might have been minutes, she was led into a room, a room she never thought she’d see. Muffled patients lined the wall in columns but they weren’t gagged. They were muffled from sedation and their faces appeared numb and drooping. She wondered what they were trying to say, looking into the rows of subdued patients. She didn’t care to count them. Everything seemed so pointless. The nurse had a similarly placid face. Stephanie leaned forward and whispered, “You don’t have to do this. These people…will be on your conscience.” The nurse was preparing a syringe and appeared to contemplate her words but didn’t show any other reaction. “These people will help power this facility. Without your biofuel we would have to rely on public money and that would be wasteful spending.” Stephanie nodded. Of course, their bodies, once converted to simple biomass, would provide electricity but when she saw the chutes at the end of the room, she felt her throat tighten. She barely was given time to say goodbye to her family and even less time to cope with the end of her life. The sedation fluid entered her IV, along with several other chemicals that would help break down her body once the gas was pumped into the room. She found it odd that they had medical equipment at the ready, as if they would save anyone’s life today. She rested her head on the pillow and listened to the moaning. A man next to her was writhing, his mind not yet ready to lose his body. He turned to her, and with a glistening, empathetic stare told her that this was how it had to be. That this was the right thing to do. It was either this or die of medical bills and debt. She told herself this was a blessing. But as the insurance specialist entered the room all of the patients started moaning louder. She wanted to join in the chorus of groans but she didn’t know what for. It was a symphony of final pleas and pathetic whimpers. She fought against the sedative like the others were doing but it was too strong. Her vision became a milky haze as she leaned towards the specialist as he made his way around the patients, checking their state and swiping on a tablet. He was making the final preparations. The toxin that would dissolve her internal organs was slowly creeping down the IV tube. It was like watching a clock ticking down to midnight. A clock seeping with poisonous seconds. The specialist was behind them, making his way towards the chutes. He started unlocking them and opening their doors. She could no longer feel the nausea in her stomach and she was thankful for it because it eased her into a state of emptiness and coldness. He walked past her stretcher and turned only slightly before continuing towards the door. She was too numb to reach out. The chorus of moans continued, until the door was closed and they were shut in. The lights dimmed. They no longer needed it. But the patients didn’t stop. They were screaming in agony behind paralyzed throats. She imagined what it was like to be dead. She looked at the IV tube one more time before closing her eyes. And when she did, she was rocked alert by an explosion directly beneath her. The IV bag tipped over and pulled itself from her vein. Nurses and specialists were running by the window as the ceiling lights flickered. The door swung open and a figure came rushing in. When he came to her, he was panting, kneeling on shaky knees. “Mom. I came back…I came back for you.” “Adam.” She moaned. Her son’s hands tried to nudge her awake. “We have to get you out of here. I did what I had to do.” “Did you…?” She was energized by adrenaline, and a fear for her son’s mental state. The explosion likely had injured the workers, possibly even killing them. She had lost him. Even though he was dragging her stretcher out of the room and he was beside her he felt so far away. He was speaking frantically but she couldn’t hear. She almost didn’t want to hear, or witness her own child, a boy who had so much innocence, fall from grace. His gray eyes were now filled with such hatred and retribution. He would spend the rest of his life harboring her, running and hiding from the authorities. She let out a moan, a desperate, guttural moan that peaked when he took her into the elevator. The doors closed as she became trapped in a box with her own son, a murderer and an anarchist. She couldn’t comprehend what was worse, the death of others for the sake of a better, healthier society or the death of a few to fight the system that wanted to murder thousands more. She didn’t care to know and cursed humanity for authoring this paradox in the first place.


The clearing was dark as the new day sun had only just began to rise. This was a holy place, known to very few for it was surrounded by miles of dense woodland. The only sounds were that of a near by stream trickling and of two pairs of boots as they entered the hollow. “Wow can you believe it? Finally here! You did it!” said the younger of the two men. “No Kurt”, said the the older man, “We did it.” As the two adventurers entered, they continued toward the middle of the clearing where they came upon a large stone sitting perfectly in the center. Jutting out of the top of the stone appeared to be the handle of an ancient stone. On the handle was an engraving of a language long forgotten. “So this is it?” asked Kurt. “This is what you’ve been looking for?” “Yes son” began the old man “this is what I have been looking for my entire life. The sword in the stone. It’s said that this very sword is what inspired Arthurian legend. And just like the legend, only the most good and pure of heart can free it from its stony prison.” As he finished his explanation, the old man knelt down next the stone and placed his weathered hands on the hilt of the sword and began to pull. The sword did not yield. The man smiled as he looked back up at a surprised Kurt. “This doesn’t make any sense!” exclaimed the young man. “Who could be more worthy than the man who has used his wealth and influence for philanthropy? The man who took me in after my parents accident? You have more than proved yourself to be good!” “Kurt, it’s true that I have tried my best to do good, but I have made terrible decisions that just can’t be undone”, explained the old man. “ But, taking you in was the best thing I could have done. Finding the sword was not my only life’s work. It was raising you to become a good and decent man. I never had kids of my own but you are my son Kurt and we are here today so that you can fulfill my work.” Kurt looked back at his surrogate father stunned. “I… I don’t know” “I do, son” Kurt took a step forward to hug the old man, and then he took another step toward the sword. He placed his strong, youthful hands over the hilt and began to pull. The sword started to release! In just a few seconds the sword was free and in Kurt’s hands. He could not believe it as he stared at the ancient weapon in disbelief. Suddenly a power started to flow through him. The old man had said nothing about this! “How does it feel son?” “Incredible! I feel like I could anything” “The legend says that the sword grants its wielder with immense power, this is the reason I have sought after it. I believe that it could help me rid this world of evil.” “Do you really think think it could do that?” “Of course I do, if I didn’t I wouldn’t have wasted this much time.” Holding the sword Kurt’s strength, speed and reflexes were heightened to the level of a superhuman. But love can be blinding, and he didn’t see the gun the old man had pulled from his belt, and he did not see him fire it. “D-Dad?” The old man caught the sword as Kurt fell to the ground with a new hole in his chest. The old man now felt the same awesome power his adopted son felt moments ago. “Son, I wasn’t entirely honest with you. I’ve been here before and the sword has denied me before. It was back before your parents accident. On that day I lost hope that my dream would ever come true but then you came into my life. And I saw you for what you were. A young soul ready for molding. So I raised you into the good-hearted man you are today. And you have delivered me my ultimate tool to fix this world. I’ve made many mistakes in this life, but you were not one of them.” The old man affixed the sword to his belt and began to walk away. As Kurt’s world was going dark, the clearing was filled with the light of the new day sun. The only sounds were of the near by stream trickling, and of a single pair of boots exiting the clearing.


Rahul was about 30, was handsome, tall, slim and fair with a clean shaven face. Not very far from his house lived dancer Malaika. She was about 27 and was quite good looking. She had shifted from dancing to run a dance school. Rahul had been introduced to Malaika by one of his cousins and he had started moving closely with her. People who knew Rahul and Malaika would say they were sure to get married. Rahul was a chartered accountant and worked for the family firm his father headed. The firm had an important client - a large overseas conglomerate. It had been levied a hefty sum as penalty for some infringements of law and sought to file an appeal against it in the Supreme Court of India in New Delhi. Rahul’s father had chosen Geet who was a leading lawyer after passing out of the premier National Law School of India to be the legal counsel. Geet who was also nearing 30 started coming to Rahul’s firm for discussions. Geet was nice looking with a perpetual smile on her face due to which she would charm people with whom she dealt. Rahul was initially immune to her charm but during the regular inter action, he found himself drawn towards her. When the date of hearing in the court drew near, Geet said “Rahul, I would like you also to go to Delhi with us: There could be some points on which the judges could raise queries. If you’re there you could clarify. Of course 2 lawyers who are assisting me will be coming with me. I don’t know how long we would’ve to stay there. It all depends. The judges could adjourn after only a day.” Rahul agreed and the team went to Delhi where they stayed in a 5 star hotel. The hearing lasted only two days and the case was adjourned. Geet said “Rahul your coming with us was very useful. I’m sure the judges were really impressed with our arguments. There will be further hearings when you could again join our team.” Malaika called Rahul and said “You seem to have suddenly turned away from me. I sent you the invitation and reminded you also, but you were not present when the Chief Minister presided over the maiden dance performance by a talented girl trained by me.” “No. No! I couldn’t be present as there was an important case in a critical stage in the Supreme Court and I had to provide facts. I’ll come possibly next time.” “I hear you’re in close touch with Geet. I suspect that’s the reason you’re avoiding me. Someone who knows Geet told me. You should be careful as the same source told me that despite her perpetual smile she is over-bearing and ditches people.” He said “She is a gifted lawyer and there’re people who want to besmear her reputation saying such things about her. She is aware of such opinions about her. She told me so herself. I’m convinced she has the ability to fight off such rumours and emerge triumphant.” Malaika now realised that Rahul preferred Geet to herself. She was convinced that he was in love with Geet and decided to forget him. She said “Rahul, I with my team will be leaving this week end for performances at places ranging from Singapore to New Zealand. We’ll be back after about 10 weeks.” “Have a good time.” After 60 days, a newspaper carried the following news: ‘Noted dance teacher Malaika returned yesterday after a long tour. Music director Oberon had joined the team. Everywhere they went, the team received kudos. The Thai king had requested for an extra show which was met. The team was showered with praise and gifts. Malaika said that the success of the team was due to the efforts of Oberon who was helping and guiding the performers. It is known that Oberon’s wife had passed away a few days ago and he had opted to go on the tour with Malaika to come to terms with his sorrow. It is said that a cine producer in Bangkok has signed up to produce a film on an Indian opera show to be jointly produced by Oberon and Malaika. The group had to perform two extra shows in New Zealand due to popular demand.’ The article had two shots of Malaika with Oberon who was young and handsome. Rahul who had been following the columns about Oberon and Malaika was strangely perturbed. He immediately called up Malaika and said “First my congratulations at the acclaim your team has received. I wonder if we could get together somewhere. I’ve many matters to discuss with you.” She said “I’ll call you later as I’m now busy with Oberon.” Rahul was very unhappy. Oberon was a handsome young man with a lot of money and above all was now a widower. He said to himself: “She appears to have become close to Oberon.” She didn’t call Rahul and so he again spoke to her. He said “I’ll go to any place you specify to talk to you. There’re a lot to talk about.” He called her 6 times when she finally said “I don’t want to meet you in any public venue. Come to my little theatre Saturday night at about 8. The place would be empty since all students and staff would’ve left. However should Oberon need me I’ll inform you, and you can treat our meeting as cancelled.” “I’ll be there as I’m desperate to talk to you.” On Saturday, Rahul reached Malaika’s little theatre well ahead of time. He was finally let in by security on Malaika’s orders. When they were face to face he saw she was shining possibly because of her recent successes. He said “I’m glad to see you.” She was surprised to see him with a beard and sunk eyes. She said “I hope you weren’t ill.” “I was mentally ill which is reflected in my appearance.” “Geet must not have lavished her attention on you.” He was silent a few moments and then said “I’m depressed and have come to seek your help.” She got a phone call and said “I understand, Oberon. I’ll organize it positively on Monday.” She turned to Rahul and said “Oberon has been highly impressed with me. He is producing an opera on a mythological theme and wants me to not only get dancers but singers as well. I’ll be fully busy the next two months.” He said “I’ll first apologize for my having neglected you recently.” She laughed and said “It doesn’t matter as you were steeped in your job.” “You’re being sarcastic! A man can make mistakes.” “So can a woman in estimating a man.” “I can guess that you’re laughing at me within yourself about my contact with Geet.” “You’re free to think whatever you like.” He sighed and said “I can see you hate me. Is it because of Oberon?” “You’re free to speculate.” After a pause he said “I was carried away by Geet’s charm and intellectual ability. In spite of it our client lost the case with costs. I now regret having moved closely with her. She is marrying a member of parliament.” “I’m sorry for you. “Can’t we get together again?” There was a long silence after which she said “I need time to think. You’ve proved fickle by hastily getting attracted to Geet. You lack good judgment.” “Say anything about me but allow me to restore my feelings towards you. I admit it was a mistake to have fallen for Geet.” “Give me time to think it over. In case I accept you again, would you invite Geet to the wedding?” “That is a very difficult question to answer. She is a business associate. It wouldn’t be right to cut her out of the wedding list of invitees but I’ll accept whatever you say. Just let us get together again.” There was an interruption in the talk while somebody walked in. Malaika said “I had ordered food for two to be delivered here. Let us eat.” “I’ve no appetite. I’ll skip dinner.” “You’re being childish. Come on, let us eat.” He ate without relish and she said “I can see you’re really worried. Grow up. I’ll forgive you.” He brightened and said “That means you accept to become my wife.” “You’re again showing immaturity. And you’re dense. You can’t understand what a woman says. I feel sorry for you.” He got up and clasping her said “I thought you would never forgive me. I’m looking forward to settling the wedding date. You decide about the invitees.” “Geet must be invited.” END


#Welcome to the Micro Monday Challenge! Hello writers! Welcome to Micro Monday! I am excited to present you all with a chance to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic? I’m glad you asked! Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I’ll give you a single constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. It might be an image, a theme word, a sentence, or a simple writing prompt. You’re free to interpret the prompt how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.** Remember, feedback matters! And don’t forget to upvote your favorites and nominate them via message here on reddit or a DM on discord!   *** #This week’s challenge: **Theme: Coming of Age** This week’s challenge is to use the theme of ‘Coming of Age’ in your story. It should appear in some way within the story. You may include the theme words if you wish, but it is not necessary. You may interpret the theme any way you like, as long as the connection is clear and you follow all sub and post rules.   ***   #Last Week ###Crowd Favorites We had a tie this week! Well done, both of you! - - Submitted by u/katpoker666 - - Submitted by u/Lynx_Elia ###Bay’s Spotlights - - Submitted by u/merbaum - - Submitted by u/jimiflan   ***   #How It Works: - **Submit one story between 100-300 words** in the comments below, by the following Sunday at midnight, EST. No poetry. One story per author. - **Use to check your word count.** The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words will be disqualified from being spotlit. - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post exclusively. - **I accept nominations for your favorites each week via a message on reddit or our discord.** You have until 1pm EST Monday to send them in. Each Monday, I will spotlight two deserving stories from the previous week that I think really stood out. I will take all nominations you make into consideration. But please remember, this is not a contest. - **Come back throughout the week, upvote your favorites and leave them a comment with some feedback.** While it’s not a requirement, I encourage everyone to read the other stories on the thread and leave feedback. I will take all of this into consideration when making my selections each week. **Do not downvote other stories on the thread.** Vote manipulation is against Reddit rules and you will be reported. - **Please be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here, as we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. - If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail. *Top-level comments are reserved for story submissions.* - And most of all, be creative and have fun!   ***   ###Subreddit News - We’ve recently updated our subreddit rules. Please take a moment to or take a look at our sidebar. - Try your hand at serial writing with - Have you ever wanted to write a story with another writer? Check out our brand new weekly feature on r/WritingPrompts - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


The Conduit of the Storm was expiring. That was always dangerous. It was one of the most destructive primordial forces of the planet. Within the soul of a wizened old lady, hid the might of all storms that ever raged. Once she was gone, the Cabal would have to wait. Wait for years, until the next Conduit was matured, it's powers unleashed. And in the ensuing chaos, they'd contain it. The very first Cabal was held to withhold the Storm of their age, after he had almost destroyed the city of London in 1703. Ever since then, the whole organization had a single goal: to contain Storm, or any other forces that threatened existence. This Storm, however, was fading. Helena Gregory had lived in cloyster since her teens. After a close brush with death-by-vampire, the fury of the storm she had conjured had almost leveled her remote little village in the Highlands. She was swiftly taken in by the Cabal, kept fed, clothed and content for almost 70 years, learning and writing. She fled a few times of course, and rode the Storm across land and sea, fleeing her captors, but the Cabal has resources that sheer power can't take out. Ignorant of the finesse of her gift, Helena was always recaptured, taken back to her gilded cage. She now was old. And the Conduit inside of her readied it's departure. Helena lied in her bed. Around her were the faces of the Cabal's top soultrackers, scaled here, bearded there, slenderly elvish somewhere. She knew that her end was nigh, and that these stooges were there to better calculate where that power inside of her would move after she was gone. They thought that storm over. They were almost right. From deep within her soul, where the Conduit thrummed with energy, breaking free of it's perch, Helena knew how she wanted to go. It wasn't laying down on this septic bed surrounded by goons in labcoats. For one last, joyful, glorious time, she called the storm. And, like always, but also like never before, awnser, it did. The room erupted in wind, rain and hail suddenly falling from the ceiling, and it was that wind that plucked Helena from her bed and lifted her up. She met the eyes of the terrified lizardman that just seconds earlier jeered at her visage, and let out a hearty laugh. "You creeps won't find it next time. He'll be a great one." Helena raised a flabby arm and pointed at the wall. From her roomy storm rose lightning, and it blasted the wall to bits, revealing a daunting drop. Daunting to many. But not to the Conduit of the Storm. Helena flew out, and ever upward, her storm carrying her higher, higher, higher, to the upper echelons of the wordly dome. In the ascent she let go, of the life that she didn't get to live. And the Conduit carried her to space, out of gratitude for that one glorious moment, before it found itself hurtling back to earth. Towards the wailing cries of a newly born Arthur Sunderland, son of scholars, heir to books, and carrier of a sense of justice that the Conduit, as it fused itself with the boy's soul, could not help to be giddy about.


I remember the last time I saw muh’ daddy.

He was ascared’ more ascared than ever i’d seed’.

That was one of the day’s that seemed like it’d never end it just kept on getting longer and darker and it wasn’t the dark of night that came granny’d said the darkness of the soul is the greatest darkness there is and she was right to say it cuz that day I saw muh’ daddy might have been the darkest day I ever lived. It started like a lot of days do, half the house was still asleep on a Wednesday mornin’.

That should tell you a little somethin’ about the Robert’s household.

We weren’t early risers.

Hell only one of us held down any kind of work and none of us were going to school, we couldn’t really.

Me, I had just turned 10, and my sis, Erin, she was only 6, we had to take turns with the baby. Frank was my oldest brother and he was the only one that had a job to speak of, he was the evening part time manager at our local hardware store, this gained him no status in our family however, in fact it made Pa’ just hate him somethin’ fierce.

Tammy my oldest sister she was 16 the last time I saw her, people round town said she had a job too but it wasn’t a very good job and they didn’t speak kindly of her, they called her all sorts of names that I wasn’t allowed to say.

Then there was the baby, Maggie, she was 2 and just all over the place, me and Erin pretty much raised that youngin’ They was 5 of us youngin’s livin’ under the roof of

that three room shack there was never a day I could say it was comfortable.

Ma’ and Pa’ didn’t seem to care too much.

Ma’ just barely ever moved out of her easy chair that was in the living room she didn’t say much neither, it was kind of like she was stuck someplace else, she would respond but it was always like she was someplace far away.

Pa’ kept to himself in his room most of the time, he’d come out of there smelling like he worked at a bar.

Neither one of em’ seemed too terribly bothered by the state of the house, it was filthy and Ma’ nor Pa’ was doin too much about it.

It was always too hot, too cold and there was always the faint smell of rot in the air. We didn’t know where that was coming from for the longest time but I reckon’ we’d eventually figure it out.

Frank was good to me, he was more my daddy than Pa’ was.

I about hated to see Pa’ comin’.

Frank, every now and then, when he had a little extra money from his job would slip me a pack of baseball cards.

I didn’t have the heart to tell him I straight hated baseball, it was the idea he was doing something nice fer me.

Under my bed was a shoe box full of unopened packages of baseball cards, I didn’t care about them but I’ll be dogoned if you could have ever took em’ from me, I’d have fought you for em for sure. I had Caleb and Caleb was all I really had, he cared about me and I cared about him.

I kept Caleb in the basement of the house down where the furnace was.

I don’t think anybody cept’ me even knew he was down there.

He didn’t need much, he only ever asked for food when there was meat in the house, that’s how dog’s think I reckon.

Caleb is a special kind of dog though, you know them dogs you see on television where the master had taught them how to speak a little, that was what Caleb is, he can kind of talk but he only ever says one or two things at a time mostly when he’s needin’ food.

He would look at me with his big deep eyes and say K’lb Hngrt, I believe what he was trying to say was that Caleb is hungry, that’s when I’d bring him a little plate of food and we got along well because I fed him and he kept me company, he was all I truly had, I love my brother’s and sisters but I have to tell you there was just something special and unspoken between me and Caleb. That Wednesday would turn out to be the last day I’d ever see my Pa’ and it didn’t start to awful good.

It was about 11:00 or so when we heard a knock at the door.

Pa’ was still sleepin’ and Ma’, well I told you about Ma’.

More often than not it was either me or Erin what got the door and deflected visitors.

Pa did not like visitors.

I went to the door and answered to a man who introduced himself to me as Mr. Bufford.

He’d been here before, he was with child services and he had took one or two of us to go to foster care when we hadn’t been in school that much or sometimes he said it was the house and the state of it that made us get took.

He said that he was there to do a follow up visit and I told him the lie that Pa told me to tell him about how they was out workin and wouldn’t be back until late.

Pa knew that Mr. Bufford couldn’t come in unless at least one adult family member was there… who was of sound mind.

Mr. Bufford after several previous visits had come to understand that my mother might well be catatonic.

I’m not oversellin’ this to you, she literally almost never moved.

Mr. Bufford leaned down and talked to me the same way that people talk to babies when they come out of the hospital, I don’t think he had kids of his own.

Mr. Bufford said “Lil man I ain’t buying that story again I’m here to help you youngins,

I’ll be back at 4:00pm and whether he here or not I’m comin in and this place better be up to snuff”.

Had I not heard this speech about a thousand times before I’d have been a little nervous, plus going to foster care was sort of a vacation for us children. Pa’ must have heard cuz’ he came shambling out of his room with nasty look on his face. “That pin head Bufford ain’t leavin’ us alone for a second, is he youngin?” rhetorically enquired Pa.

“No, sir” I replied while looking down at my feet.

“When was the last time you and Erin made it to school?” Pa asked.

“Hit was back before christmas I think pa.”

I replied.

Then without warning the back of Pa’s hand made a vicious impact across the left side of my jaw, I went to the ground hard.

This was nothing new, but you still never new when Pa was going to hit you, it was random, some days you could tell what to say and what not to say but more often then not you could not tell when the man was going to blow up all over you.

Today was one of those days.

“I told you little bastards that you needed to go once a week at least to keep the heat offen us… shit now I gotta try to clean this place, unless you want to do it you old whore.”

Pa replied as he looked at Ma’ with contempt.

She’ made eye contact for a moment, did not say a word and then went to sleep.

Didn’t say a word, didn’t try to defend us.

Nowadays you’d say she checked out.

Erin rushes into the room slapping Pa in the stomach and begging him to quit hitting me.

This never worked out well for Erin because she would get the backhand too.

She was a lot smaller than me, so Pa’s big rough, nasty hands would fall on her like a mountain, while the hit felt more like getting kicked by a horse.

“I’m going to have to go out and get some supplies to get this place straight before that pencil neck comes back later.”

Pa grumbled as he walked to the door.

He had been wearing the same clothes for the last several days and I’m sure that he had not washed them.

Pa was a man of about 50 years of age, he was balding in a very unattractive way.

He had a perpetual three day beard no matter what day of the week it was.

Pa was pretty much the idea you get in mind of what a slob must look like when you hear the word. Once Pa’ left to obtain “supplies” (by the way supplies was code for liquor, he might bring back a bottle of pine sol if he remembers to after he leaves the bar he would end up at moments after leaving) this was our directive to clean things up and try to conceal as much of the mess as possible.

I helped Erin up from the floor and gave her a hug, brushing away the tears taht were racing down her reddened freckled cheeks, framed by the chaotically curly hair that spun round her head.

She didn’t cry as much as she used to when this happened, there was still some sorrow in her heart for Pa’.

Like most children they expect their parents to love them and cherish them, to us, all of us this had become a distant fairy tale. “It’s all going to be ok.” I lied to her, I knew it wouldn’t be, this would never get better no matter how hard we prayed we just couldn’t escape this hell. Erin cleaned the kitchen and started supper.

We called supper anything you could stick in the microwave and eat pretty quick.

This time though Erin took a notion to cook up a chicken that had been given to us through a church outreach a couple of weeks ago.

A child’s idea of cooking is what they learn from cartoons, so what Erin did was take the chicken out of it’s plastic wrapping and netting and simply tossed it in a pot of water which was set to medium on the stove and just left it there.

Erin kept walking about the house picking up loose trash and stuffing clutter into closets and bed rooms when and wherever she could.

I was doing much the same, just trying to hide the mess that this family was both inside and out.

Frank had woke up, I could hear him getting ready in his room.

He was the bread winner for our family and it was a small piece of bread shared between seven people.

He wore a look of calm on his face that was a mask for outrage and despair.

“Hey squirt, you okay?” Frank inquired while rubbing my head a little harder than he should have been.

“It won’t be like this forever ya know, it can change.”

lamented Frank.

He didn’t believe the words coming out of his own mouth and neither did I.

Frank reached into his back pocket to retrieve the pack of baseball cards he had gotten me the night before.

“Listen kiddo, I may not be back for a while after tonight, I think I might have found us a way out, but I have to go away for a while.” Frank said.

This utterly terrified me to hear, sometimes Frank was the only person in the house that would get between me and Pa when things got bad.

“No you can’t leave Frank, what’ll I do if Pa comes home mad like he does sometimes, what then?”

I said in a fearful tone.

“Keep your head down, don’t give him a reason to deck you, hide if you have to.

I will come back for you and the others”, replied Frank.

Frank never came back, it was the last time I saw him right before he went into work.

Last I had heard Frank was living with a group of college students and was working 3 jobs to keep the bills paid.

I hated Frank for that but I understood it, everyone in the house understood what Frank done and at the end of the day no one could blame him for wanting to get out. The day dripped by.

Soon the door to the kitchen would slam open and Pa’ would make his grand, despicable, drunken entrance.

Erin had actually managed to cook that chicken and it had actually made the house smell somewhat like it might be a home.

Pa gestured with his nose inhaling deeply the smell of real food being brought to life in the kitchen, “Looks like you little bastards might be good for something after all.” slurred Pa.

He had been definitely drinking and he didn’t even bring the obligatory bottle of pine sol to make the place smell cleaner.

Erin anxiously grabbed a plate from the dishwasher and dried it off as best she could on her shirt, she then took two forks and lifted the chicken out of the water she had placed it in hours ago.

Erin had to grow up far faster than any child should have to.

About the time the plate hit the table the baby started to cry in the next room.

Without a moments hesitation Erin left the room to tend to our sister (she would never turn down a reason to be out of the presence of our Pa’). “Can’t even cut it yourself you worthless little shit. Fine, it’s not like I don’t do everything round this place by myself” bellowed Pa.

“Where the hell is Tammy? She should be helping clean this damn place, that pencil neck will be here any minute now.” grumbled Pa.

“She had a date last night Pa’, she probably be home later.” I said.

“Who asked you, you little shit, I just want to know where my daughter is, she should be here.”, growled Pa.

He spent a lot of time with Tammy, too much really, about a year ago Tammy started looking for any reason at all to stay out of the house and she was basically invisible in the Roberts family.

All I knew back then is that Pa was hurting Tammy a lot more than he hurt the rest of us. I started to make a plate for Caleb, I wasn’t hungry, I’d just go ahead and give caleb my supper.

Once I had my plate together I started for the basement door.

“Where you goin’ boy?” Pa asked. “I’m taking Caleb somethin’ to eat, he’s muh dog and I love him.” I responded.

I’m not totally sure why I said it like that it just came out, I had to declare that something or someone in that house gave a damn about me.

“You have a fucking dog in this house? In my house, where is the little shit, you tell me now boy.” bellowed Pa.

“He’s in the basement, please don’t hurt him pa please he’s all I got.” I begged.

Pa then snatched the plate from my hand and made for the basement door, “I’ll feed your fuckin dog and then you can watch me throw him in the river with a bag of rocks.” Pa exclaimed.

“You, son of a bitch I won’t let you!” those words vomited from my mouth I had no cognition of having even said them.

Less than a moment would pass when I would feel the cold hard hand take the form of a fist and hit me, it was the first time I can remember almost being knocked out.

Pa continued to the door as I try to regain my footing to get back up and pursue him he was not going to kill muh dog. Pa made it to the base of the stairs leading to the furnace area and saw Caleb for the first time.

Caleb was a small dog, a mut no doubt but about the size of a mail box.

“This Caleb?

I think I might eat him after I take care of him and make you watch me do it you little shit.” Pa bellowed.

Then he spoke I could hear him from the top of the stairs “K’lb Hngrt”, when he said it this time it was deeper like a person was saying it instead of a dog.

When I made it down to the base of the stairs… what I saw is hard to describe.

Caleb’s fur was melting away shedding from his skin to reveal a mix of fishlike and reptile scales, all the while his barking deepened and became less prominent as this change took place.

A mass of tendrils spilled from what used to be Caleb’s mouth and he had grown to the size of a large man….. Much larger than Pa.

I could feel the tingle of what I believe to be the flames of hell licking at my feet, I didn’t want to see what came next.

Caleb told me so in my head, I turned and left yet before I did I saw the terrified look on my Pa’s face as I left and screaming that I never heard from a living soul before today and I haven’t heard since. Returning up the stairs, Erin was eating some of her chicken, she was very proud.

You could hear muffled screams coming from down stairs but those eventually faded.

I went to check on the baby to find Ma’ had gotten out of her chair and was talking to Mr. Bufford.

He had asked where Mr. Roberts was to which Ma could only reply,”Caleb’s hungry.”


Raylyre - pronounced - Ray-Ly-Re Onyxixs - pronounced - Onyx-sis ----- The city was alive with the hustle and bustle of thousands of people and cars, going about their daily business. The shadow of the tree danced across the grass, the wind blowing softly, carrying the sound of the park. Chains rattled as wings stretched, the pristine white feathers glittering in the light drifting through the leaves. "It's far too bright out here for my liking," a deep voice grumbled, crouching back further into the tree trunk for shade. "I want to go back home." "Pipe down, Onyxixs," angel muttered, spinning his halo around his finger. "Just enjoy the moment." "Listen up, featherbrain," Onyxix growled, fangs reviled with a angry snarl. "You may have come from a bright and cheerful world, but where I came from was dark and, contrary to popular belief, rather quiet. So I hope your "Dear Lord" can forgive my annoyance of such matters I deem my own personal opinion." "Raylyre. Onyxixs. Stop fighting will you?" The human man muttered, the arm covering his eyes moved down so he could glare at the beings. "I have a headache enough as it is, and I don't need the two of you arguing to top it off." Raphael huffed, but complied. His long blonde hair was left loose to blow in the wind and caress his tanned skin, his red eyes staring off into space. The halo that hovered over his head glowing and faintly crackling with power. The large white wings that grew from his back fluttered in annoyance, the chains that were locked around their bases clinking against each other. His white dress slacks were paired with a tight black button up, silk ribbons laced up the bottom of the back his shirt allowing for easy changing. Onyxixs was less then cooperative. Shiny black hair styled with an undercut, cold gold eyes bled black blood down his pale cheeks. The two sets to sharp black horns were decorated with silver jewellery, some of which were studded with ruby's. His giant black feathered bat-like wings were equipped with deadly talons at the wrist, chain cuffs locked so tightly they crushed a few feather. Simple ripped black jeans and iron studded boots covered his lower half, a white muscle shirt was covered in a loose leather jacket with a hole ripped in the back to allow him to take if off over his wings. "Adam," Onyxixs growled, running his hand through his hair. "We have been bound to your immortal ass for over 5 thousand years! Unless your headache is from trying to find a way to set us free, I don't want to hear about it." "Be nice, Onyxixs." Raylyre sighed. "As much as what you say is true, I would advise you to use your words in a kinder manner." "Suck my horns, Raylyre," the demon spat, flicking his clawed middle finger at the angel. "I just say things in a way you are too afraid to." "Girls, girls." Adam said, his blind eye looking to hold a galaxy within. "You're both pretty. Now stop comparing bra sizes and let me rest." "Watch it, pretty boy." Onyxixs said, baring his fangs. "You may be immortal, but you still feel pain like everyone else." "And you are both my guardians," Adam said, a small smirk playing on his lips. "Meaning you are not aloud to hurt me." "This is why guardian angels and demons are no longer assigned to humanity." Raylyre muttered softly. "Not only do they no long believe in us truly anymore, but they either pass on to young or live forever." Sighing, Adam sat up and crossed his arms over his knees. His curly brown hair was tucked into a cap, the dark green t-shirt had small blades of grass stuck to itself from Adam's attempted nap. "How many times do I have to apologise?" Adam asked. "I never meant to become immortal. I never meant to keep you away from your homes. And I never meant to bind you to me for eternity." Looking at each other, the two guardians shared a silent conversation. 'Dear Satan, he is so pitiful.' 'Be nice, Onyxixs. He's truely sorry about what has happened.' 'Does he need to act so mopey though? It's really getting on my nerves.' 'He's trying his best. Just think about how you would feel in he place.' 'Thank your god that demons are nearly incapable of feeling human emotions then.' 'You are seriously missing out.' 'You angels suffer the same condition as us, don't act so high and mighty!' 'We're getting off topic! We need to help our friend.' 'Can we even call him a friend? He's more life a sulky kid.' 'He's our friend, Onyxixs. We've been stuck together for centuries now, that's the least we can call him.' 'Fine! But you're doing the talking.' 'Deal.' "Adam, listen." Raylyre said, sitting down next to the man. "We understand all that and you have apologised more then enough. We're all stuck under this curse, so you should not be the only one to try and find a way to break it." "Thank you, Raylyre." Adam said, the corner of his lips twitching into a smile. "But I still feel guilty." "Kid. You're our friend." Onyxixs said gruffly. "It's the least we can do to make us all happy." "We're friends?" "Obviously," the demon snorted, a cigarette in his mouth. "We have to be after all this time," the angel said, placing an arm around Adam's shoulders; the chains connecting his wings to the immortal human clattering. "We just need to see it as a part of a bigger plan." Looking up into the sky, the angel had a sad smile on his face; as he thought about his home in the silver city. The demon blew out a smoke ring, his boot absentmindedly scuffing into the ground as if trying to dig himself home. Adam clenched his fist tightly, determination filling him; as he dreamed of setting all of them free.