There are occasions when the reality defies reason, were the inexplicable is the only explanation, and the ending is rarely happy. If you’re a fan of the unknown, the strange, and the dark, then let me tell you, you arrive at the best place, because this is Dr. Dread’s dark dairy. Today we present: A LIGHT AT THE END OF THE TUNNEL. August 24, 2005 was the date when Dr. Alonso Puentes examined the victim. He had bruises all over his body, but they were not the cause of death. He was about 32 years old, single, a photographer, fairly well known, and an amateur scientist in his free time. Daniel Hernandez had a bright future ahead of him. Unfortunately, the bullet that pierced his chest and exploded his ribs didn’t get the memo. Normally, Alonso did not see these kinds of high-profile cases. However, in the past few years, the morgue where he worked gained something of a reputation for clearing up strange and unexplained cases. They had no choice anyway. After the strikes, the bombings, the accusations, the refugees, and the general chaos, the government was not going to take a no for an answer. He had no other option. It all started… … when my grandmother passed away. She had been a very important person to me. Words cannot describe how much her departure hurt me. It was precisely for this reason that I began my research. If I knew what I know now, I would have thought about it more carefully, I assure you. I never imagined the impact it would have, yet I have no regrets. I simply thought things would be different. Daniel Hernández was responsible for what many would call “the discovery of the century”. Anyway that title would be an understatement, because it shook the world to its foundations. And although many were more or less open in public to the possibility that it was all true, in secret they prayed that it was all just an elaborate lie and a bad joke and by a young man with too much time on his hands, because they were afraid of the consequences if it was not. In September of the same year, an important judge in a small German town wrote: “I think we are living at the precise moment when the curtain is going to fall. Yesterday’s ideas lose or will lose status. I don’t know what will happen, but I predict a catastrophe.” On October 6, the specialized magazine, Ima-Gen, published Daniel’s photograph, and chaos ensued. The scientific community had to rethink its entire approach to the study of the world, after they did the necessary studies to confirm its authenticity. Philosophy books flew off the shelves. The big international banks went on strike and demanded the original photo. In Bangladesh, China, South America, Australia, Somalia, Portugal, people crowded outside churches. Mexico, on the other hand, weathered the crisis with a little more calm. Everywhere you looked, there were hordes of people flooding the streets, some begging for mercy, others stealing anything that wasn’t nailed to the ground. I saw the carnage. When I went to the zocalo in the morning, I saw all the women, and men who stained the ground with their blood in front of the flag. The police were throwing their bodies to the side of the sidewalk, as if they were garbage bags. Some are already calling it, “The night of the screams”, because that was the only thing you could hear when the greens marched. Federico Oropeza Migala, Mexico´s president at that time, was a man of many qualities, an artist by temperament and an excellent orator. He desired the welfare of his people and was burning with the desire to fix their situation, but although he understood the importance of recent events for his country, he could not treat them realistically; enclosed in daydreams and romantic fantasies, he saw everything distorted by the prism of the old Mexican empire. The photo Daniel took made him see that empire closer than ever. That is why he acted the way he did. I took the photo to find peace, but it was quite the opposite. After I posted it, people kept bothering me. They came in all shapes and sizes, asking me for every imaginable thing, telling me the worst things they could think of. I especially remember a lady who stopped me once when I went grocery shopping. She said I was a saint, and asked me to help her ten-year-old son, who had been sick for many years with a heart deformity. The doctors told her he was probably going to die. The lady begged me to ask for help, to save the little boy. I did not know what to tell her. How to explain to her that I only took a picture, more by chance than anything else? I told her I was sorry, but there was nothing I could do. She looked me straight in the eye, spat at me, and then left sobbing. All in all, she had at least been kind. The others started directly with threats, extortion, or offers to buy the original photo with more zeros than I had ever seen in my life. There was even one who left me a couple of chicken breasts in front of the door, I guess for cooking. He sent the military to control the chaos. In his eagerness to maintain what little political power the country now held, he decided to close each and every border. However, bureaucracy was of no use in stopping the millions of migrants from all over the world coming to Mexico, either to escape the chaos of their own countries, or hoping to see the picture with their own eyes. However, most migrants are dangerous, and when bars and barbed wire were no longer enough, many other options were considered, each more peaceful than the last, and the best action was taken for all parts involved. A few weeks ago, while I was visiting my grandmother at the cemetery, I came across the lady by chance, the same one who asked me for help with her son. At first I was surprised, but then I understood everything when I looked at the tombstone next to her legs. She was visiting her son’s grave. She had covered it with toys, his favorite, she explained. The doctors had not been able to save him, because between the closing of the borders and the commercial blockade, there were not enough medicines, nor equipment, like the one her son needed. She didn’t blame me. After all, I didn’t know any of this was going to happen. While I can’t imagine her pain, she told me with some sadness that there were people who had it even worse. The migrants, she said, were not even lucky enough to go to the hospital. A friend of hers, who lived on the border with Guatemala, told her what was happening there. When the government realized how many people were trying to cross, and that they were not likely to stop them all, they sent a bunch of caravans full of food, water, and tents for the new arrivals. A sort of plaza was set up in the center of the caravans. There was food and music for dancing, even fireworks. The air was filled with hope and everyone was smiling, until gunfire drowned out the laughter and blended with the firecrackers bursting on the ground. The national guard emerged from under the caravans, no longer carrying food and water, but rifles and pistols. Without provocation, they took up positions and opened fire on all civilians, migrants or not. Her friend says that most of the migrants had no belongings other than the clothes on their backs, they were not dangerous. She herself barely escaped because she played dead, and had to spend the whole night and the next day surrounded by the dead, among the flies and dried blood, because she was afraid that when she stood up she too would be shot. The government reported that during that period there were several criminal groups acting illicitly along the southern and northern border, and categorically denied having any relationship with the activities of such groups. Defense Secretary Manuel Olma, a man tormented by multiple accusations of infidelity, assured that an investigation would be conducted to get to the bottom of the matter. However, the truth was never uncovered. Before I left, the lady gave me a hug and thanked me, because in a sense, my photo gave her peace. That made me feel a little better, at least it wasn’t all bad. Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling of having a huge weight on my shoulders. Like a giant sea monster that was going to crush me. Towards 2007, most countries in the world, at least those not in open opposition to Mexico, were pressuring President Federico to extend their appreciation for the young Daniel and offer him their support. But although they did not say so, their real intention was to take control of the controversial photograph. However, the president refused, and not only that, he also kept the artist’s privacy intact. On November 23 … …I have a frightful nightmare, on which I met my grandmother inside a tunnel, when a train was about to hit us. By reflex I looked out of the window, and saw a man in the street. He was standing under a lamp post, doing nothing. I checked the clock, it was three in the morning. I looked at him for quite a while, wondering what he could be doing there. And suddenly he turned his head, straight towards where I was. I hid for a moment and when I looked again, it was sure, that guy was looking at my window. And not only him, during the week I saw other people who looked suspicious. They were always far enough away to not call too much attention, but close enough for me to notice them. I had a suspicion that they were following me, and I couldn’t, or didn’t want to, imagine what they would do if they came near me. … the government invited Daniel, through a television communique, to collaborate cordially with the authorities in order to preserve his work in a museum. At night, I hear a lot of people walking outside my house. I live in a secluded area, almost a farm, because I thought it was safer in the countryside than in the city. Now I’m not so sure. That’s why I went with a friend of mine who is a veterinarian and also breeds and trains guard dogs. He lent me his two best dogs. I thought that would be enough, but it was not. A few days later, I looked out the kitchen window. Behind the house it’s all bush, so there’s no reason for anyone to lurk around. However, I saw a light coming from the forest; it was a huge fire, about four hundred meters from my house. I went out the back door to get a better look, and I could barely notice that there was a group of people around the fire, although at that distance I could only see black silhouettes. I went to the house to get my camera, put the telephoto lens on it, and through the details of those people, became clear. Dressed in white robes, they raised their hands to the sky and appeared to be dancing. In the center of the bonfire, there was a person burning, tied to the trunk of a tree, and writhing to free himself. I kept watching because I was in a panic, but I should have left, because suddenly, the hooded people turned straight to where I was and started rushing. Then I went into the house and locked the door. I hid in my study and not long after, the dogs started barking like crazy. The people outside were banging on the door and the windows. I could hear them. And I’m sure the dogs bit someone, because later I found blood, however my poor companions could do no more. Heard five shots and then there was silence. It was at that moment that I decided to leave the house. I jumped out of the window and started running into the woods. I crouched among the wild grass, hoping the darkness of the wood will cover me up. I didn’t open my eyes, not even when a clamor came loudly from a point obviously straight ahead. Their prayers ringing loudly in my ears as they pass a couple o meters away. If one of them look closely, he surely would discover me. But they didn’t. I sat there for what felt like hours. Their number was anyone’s guess. It seemed to me that there were limitless groups of them searching for me in the darkness. I could only pray to God that they would not find me. I knew for sure he was there with me, but I didn’t know if he could hear me. I could only pray to God that they would not find me. I knew for sure he was there with me, but I didn’t know if he could hear me. This morning, I called the police. They came immediately, along with a group of military in helicopters. They won’t leave and they won’t let me leave. They say they are staying to protect me, but they are turning the whole house upside down, looking for the photo. If anyone finds this, I’m scared. On December 22, 2007, Daniel Hernandez Delgado was found dead in his home. No one knew where he hid the original photograph of what many call “The miracle”. The official report given by Dr. Alonso Vazquez Puentes was clear: Suicide. Delete Created with Sketch. Daniel Hernandez was a young man with a promising future. He wanted to see a loved one again through his work, however his ambition took him too close to the sun and he forgot that humanity’s worst enemy is itself. But don’t let that keep you awake at night, remember this is just another chapter of Dr. Dread’s dark diary.


The Runner

Jessica drapes the new scarf around her mother's shoulders and notices the slight twitches at her mouth corners suggesting a smile. The only time her mother's eyes light up nowadays is when she sees the porter, Charles, who often stops by her for a friendly chat. He also doesn't seem to mind that she calls him Steven.

A car accident, just over a year ago, left her mom with seemingly permanent memory loss and claimed her father's life. Jessica's weekly visits to the care facility often serve as a reminder of how little she knows about Victoria Harvey. With a gentle shake of her head, she tries to free herself from the pangs of guilt for not trying harder to get to know her while the opportunity was still there.

Victoria was not a bad mother. As an only child, Jessé was always well taken care of. She never lacked anything and she was not mistreated. According to modern-day parenting standards, one might say she was emotionally neglected.

Victoria was never a talker or an exhibitor of emotions. Jessé often thought of her mom as the keeper of family logistics; the person who ensured that everything was in place and operated smoothly. In addition to organising family life, Victoria also worked as a part-time bookkeeper for a small firm.

Jessica bends forward to plant a kiss on her mom's cheek as she gets ready to leave. She takes one last look at the woman who always had it all together, but whom she never really got to know.

Home is a modern and spacious city bowl apartment. Inside awaits boxes to be packed for their emigration.

Her fiance, Neil, got a once-in-a-lifetime engineering job in New Zealand. They will be joining some of their friends there in less than two weeks. Neil greets her with a takeout dinner as she enters. They ate quickly, as their minds were eager to return to unfinished tasks: Neil had some emigration paperwork and Jessé resumed her photo editing for a client. Against all odds, she did pursue a creative career, despite her mom's efforts to talk her into a BCom degree course.

Jessé was hesitant to leave her mom behind, but Neil felt strongly that his opportunity was too big to negotiate.

Besides, Jessé can practice photography anywhere in the world and they can visit her mother annually. He spoke about getting married at a Prestigious Hotel not far from where he will be working.

It felt strange to see him so passionate and excited. Not many things could excite him, as he was usually rather reserved. A good guy. Steady. Level headed. Marriage material as they would say. But to be honest, she's been feeling detached and bored lately. She is twenty-four. Is she ready for this level of boredom and commitment?

Going to New Zealand to say "I do" amongst white satin, diamantés and roses? Does he know she would prefer cotton, eucalyptus twigs and a bonfire? He never really asked either.

She plonked on the floor in her small study. Tonight the creativity doesn't want to flow. She is not doing her best work.

The coffee Neil brought her earlier tastes lukewarm. The thought of how it resembles her current perception of their relationship made her choke. "You ok?" a worried Neil asks from the living room. Reliable Neil. Always have her back.

Her eyes fall on a box containing some unsorted items belonging to her mom.

She starts unpacking. Two handbags, sandals, a hat, recipe books, more books, office stationery, a few small picture frames with family photos including one of her dad, greeting cards and an aged envelope addressed to "Victoria" in fancy bold curly letters.

Inside she finds a photograph taken of a painting against a wall. The painting depicts a person in mid-stride, running away from the viewer. The person is visible through a window, which dominates the foreground of the piece.

Jessica feels as if she is a secondary viewer to a very significant event. The work evokes poignant feelings of abandonment, sorrow, bereavement and evasiveness.

In the corner the painting is signed, T. Ori. The postal stamp dates back to March 1995. On the back of the photograph, in the same flamboyant handwriting, there is an intimate greeting, "Love always, Steven." Her parents were married already in 1995, although she only arrived five years later. The painting in the photograph is dominating Jessé's mind the entire night.

Tomorrow she needs to find some answers. Who is this Steven? A name so significant it is more retrievable from Victoria's deficient memory than the name of her daughter.

With Neil off to the office early the next morning to help wrap up some last-minute tasks at his current workplace, Jessie can start her search. It is no surprise that an internet search does not produce anything about a Steven or a T. Ori artist, considering it most likely involves small-town people during a time of limited internet exposure.

Within moments her mind was made up and she packed an overnight bag while declining a call from her client.

A phone call she couldn't elude was to inform Neil about her seemingly erratic decision.

She waited until she left the city and was well away on the open road. Neil seldom got upset. Today he did. In the four years they have been together he never shouted at her. She can't blame him. Less than two weeks before they leave the country she randomly gets in her car without even saying goodbye, leaving him behind with all the arrangements. Her inadequate attempt to explain leads to the inevitable question of whether she is even serious enough about their relationship to go with him. She thought she was. Is this obsession about finding answers relating to her mother's past her subconscious trying to interfere? She decided against that theory. A single day is all she is prepared to dedicate to this mission, then she will be back with Neil to assist him.

The open road feels good as she makes space for nostalgia and childhood memories along the way.

The town is very much unchanged since her last visit three years ago. Her initial plan is to enquire at the local media centre, which has been home to the local newspaper since the seventies. Perhaps Steven or T. Ori was sufficiently newsworthy for a small town.

The young girl at the media centre seems willing to help. Apparently, it is quite a frequent occurrence for those delving into the past to visit them.

The search was fruitful. No articles about an artist by the name of Steven were found, but there were three front-page articles during 1995 about a scandalous art dealer by that name. Steven Sinclair, under the camouflage of a low-key small-town art dealer, had a more brilliant main interest: illegal diamond trading.

Halfway through the article, a name very familiar to her jumped at her. "John Harvey, local art curator and gallery owner, laid charges of theft against Steven Sinclair for disappearing with a painting titled "The Runner" by the award-winning artist known as Tori, also the wife of John Harvey.

Could this be a misprint? Her father the art curator. Her mother the artist. Not T.Ori, but Tori, which is short for Victoria. Who are these people she was raised by? As far as she remembers, her father was a science teacher with a love for woodwork.

His project collection did include some impressive carve work. Jesse's head is spinning. She can faintly hear the assistant offering her some water. She hoped she declined politely as she found herself already outside halfway to her car. If there was a criminal charge, she needs a cop friend now more than ever.

A feeling of hopelessness washes over her as she approaches the middle-aged guy who seems irritated by her request. Despite his reluctance, he manages a polite "evening mam."

For the first time, she thinks about the time and realises it is past six in the evening. She still needs to book in at the local hotel.

The officer must be at the end of his shift. How on earth is she going to get any help from him? "Mam, I mean no disrespect, but if you are not in danger, or have no criminal activities to report, I would prefer to wrap up my shift and get home."

Her despondence is short-lived as a friendly voice fills the room. "Jessica Harvey? Is that you?" Jessé looks up at the fresh-faced, rather attractive-looking man in uniform. Before she could place him, Officer Grumpy introduced him as Sargeant Zimmerman, the man taking over the next shift. Suddenly Officer Grumpy produced a smile which made his eyes disappear in his cheeks as he cheerfully announced his departure.

Jessé remembers Harold Zimmerman. Harry. They went to school together. They were never close friends, but in a small town school, everyone is kind of friends at some point.

The typical exchange of a quick catch-up happens between them. Harry is still in town, joined the cops, got dumped by his girlfriend recently, but enjoys the company of his Doberman.

Jessé tells him about her search for answers. "It is your lucky night, as it is very quiet in town and I can do with an assignment to help me pass the time." He invites her through to a back office. "I'll get us some coffee," he says with the same enthusiasm she remembers him for from school days.

His pen scribbles quickly in his notebook as he documents her story. His usually jovial face is now a landscape of focus and concentration.

It takes a couple of phone calls to get information. Jessé is on her third cup of coffee when he finally declares there are some insights.

There was indeed a theft charge made by John Harvey against Steven Sinclair for theft of the painting titled " The Runner" by Victoria, however, the case was withdrawn and marked closed shortly after. Harry's voice became even more serious as he dropped the news that Victoria Harvey was a police informant of intel in the alleged illegal diamond trade investigation against Steven.

Unfortunately, those files are not accessible. It does seem however as if the painting titled "The Runner" got away and disappeared with Steven.

Jesse remembers Harry as a bit of a joker. Her disbelief led her to the conclusion that he is seriously messing with her. She scrutinises his face for a glimpse of teasing, but is met with deadpan seriousness.

For the second time today, Jesse feels faint. Her shock must be rather evident as Harry suggests he drives her to the hotel.

Nothing at the hotel has changed. The accommodation is basic but neat. It does seem as if the decor got stuck in the eighties. Jesse checks her phone. Two missed calls from Neil. Poor Neil. He doesn't deserve this. She just doesn't have the emotional capacity to try and explain everything now. Before she thinks it through properly, she hears herself asking Harry to have a drink with her.

Being alone with all this new information is not an appealing prospect. He looks a bit puzzled as he stands in her hotel room doorway. Jessé laughed embarrassed, "No, not here. The bar is open. I'm engaged, as you know." Harry looks more at ease. "I'll have coffee, on duty, you know."

During the two hours that follow the two try to make sense of Victoria's story. Harry creatively contributes over caffeine while Jessé sips whiskey on the rocks.

There is laughter and some tears. "She never painted again, you know," Jessé spoke softly into her glass.

When the time came for Harry to go, Jesse was sad and drunk enough to place a kiss on his lips. A part of her wishes she was not engaged and free from knowing what she does now.                           -------‐------------------------------------- As she walked down the familiar corridor of the care centre everything felt different. The lens of knowledge gives a different perspective indeed. This time she is carrying a canvas, paints and brushes to her mother's room.

Victoria's eyes light up similar to when she sees Charles. She gently starts touching and inspecting the brushes Jessé places in front of her.

Victoria speaks while painting the canvas, "Steven came today. He came to say goodbye. I once hung a painting in his gallery to warn him. To tell him to run. There was no time to greet then."

After a while, she puts her brush down and cups Jessé's face with both hands. "I have a beautiful daughter. She lives in New Zealand, you know. Please give this to her when you see her." Victoria passes the little canvas with a simple painting of a camera to Jessé. "Oh, and please tell her she must never stop what she is doing."

At the apartment, Jessé waited for Neil with supper and wine. He looked tense and unsure of what to expect. "Am I still invited to join you in New Zealand?" Jessé asked. "Only if you really want to", Neil replied. "Only if we can get married in a forest," Jessé adds.

Neil laughs and picks her up in his arms, “Do you want a drumming ceremony as well?" That makes Jessé squeal with laughter, "You DO know!" Neil shook his head, "No, I don't, but if you stop running, I promise to learn."


There was something gloomy about them – the way those ice cubes sat on the bottom of the whiskey glass as they melted and diluted whatever was left of the Glen Moray. Coasting along the rim as the glass swayed in a circular motion, they seemed doomed to some stationary post – damned to resignation, or acceptance, of their eventual dissolution. In a way, it was a fitting depiction of the end of the good times. A decade of enjoyment, debauchery, and youthful carelessness came to its close – to be banished by one of deceit, inhumanity, and despair. In one fell swoop, the orchestras were hushed, the gilded gates closed, and the laughter exiled to some wistful longing. Not a word was to be spoken of them. Not an utterance of this time of extraordinary excess and comfort. For those who clung on to whatever stardust evaded the hands of time, it seemed almost a fairy tale. A refuge from the trepidation and angst of the decade before. A Shangri-la to drown out the beating drums and woeful cries. The men, who had just as quickly traded in their uniforms for evening suits. The women who had mourned, grieved, but found love anew. The children who had grown up knowing nothing but the splendor of those ten golden years. In their joyous rhapsody, how could they have known that this was all but a momentary reprieve? How could I have heard? How could I have seen? Muffled by the brass bands and veiled by the dying lights of smoke-filled rooms lay a world ripe for the misery that was yet to befall us. The bellowing of the desolate, the false promises of the charlatan, the naïveté of the hero, and the ignorance of the spectator. I turned away. We all turned away. And slowly, we lost everything. The abundance we enjoyed, the peace we took for granted, the belief that we would be free to relish in the pleasures of our fleeting youth. As I look back to the glass, filled now with nothing more than a dash of some pale bronze mixture, I cannot help but wonder what more could have been. Beyond those moments in the sun, we could never figure out what would come next – were these times meant to be for always? Or would there be something greater, still? More. Surely, more. In our best coats and gowns we flocked to some imaginary church – a congregation of the lost and indifferent, suspended from reality by some unearthly ecstasy. And there we worshipped those sacred hosts we ourselves placed on the high altar; every earthly desire that we, in our greed, ravenously devoured. As we consumed relentlessly without pause, we lost something of ourselves. As if the world, once seemingly reborn of an age of strife, instead capitulated to man’s most lamentable sins. Are you there, God? Yahweh? Allah? Lord of light and creation? Truth everlasting? Devil. Shaytan. Prince of darkness. Destroyer of worlds. Heralder of doom. Deliver us.


The council chambers feel small as I pace the length of the podium. I was unprepared for the revelation that came this morning, as a rider knocked on my cabin door, bearing a letter with the personal seal of the late Queen…of my true Mother. I look to the chambers high rafters, seeking a sign from above. My whole life has been a lie, from my earliest memories until this day. I draw the letter from my tunic pocket, reading the words once more… I pray this letter is never read, for my greatest secret should be free to live a life of freedom, a life unburdened by the strict regulations that accompany my fate, and that of YOUR older brother. I have come to learn that you've been given the name of Grayson. I believe that name would have suited you fine had I been able to keep you, but I could not risk the possibility of a challenge to Rubens' ascent to the throne. I'm sorry, I haven't made the truth clear to you Grayson, but you are my son, and if you are reading this letter, then you will soon be crowned as the next King of Prenwill. When I became pregnant with you, I shut myself away from the people, hiding the fact that I was with a second child, even from your father, my husband King Gregory. Upon your birth, I made the decision to send you away, into hiding, for fear that Gregory, holding to his old ways, would slay you to preserve Rubens claim as the crowned Prince. It was all I could think of to save you, and as I've learned your name, I've also learned that you are a blissful child. Do you recall when we met, how you hid behind Perditas skirt until I offered you a sweet? I hope you do, I hope you hold it as a fond memory. The truth is, I do recall the memory. Queen Nidia Priibus had given me my first taste of the sweet cinnamon bread, and it's been my favorite ever since. The memory brings both joy and sorrow now, as this letter tells that it was the first time I met my real mother. I can't tell you how much I wanted to take you in my arms, to declare to the world that this sweet, handsome little boy was mine, my youngest son, and to dote on you so. I can't ask your forgiveness for my cruelty, but I must ensure that you know that I did this out of love. Now, for the reason that you are reading this letter. Your brother Ruben has passed, and has no heir of his own to succeed him. You must now have your entire life uprooted in order to take his place as King, and lead our people. I have left instructions with my personal Knight Albrand, that he is to keep this letter on him at all times, along with three other letters. One to be given to the council with the revelation of your existence and lineage, and instructions of what must come to pass with Rubens' passing. The second letter is to be given to Gregory, should he also be alive at the time of this exchange. He may seem cold and distant at first, but once he understands that you are of his blood, then he will welcome you with open arms. Open arms? King Gregory has never been known for being welcoming, or even cordial. He hails from a barbaric tribe to the west, one that often murders any second born males to ensure the order of inheritance. I've met him before as well, but it's more a stinging memory in comparison to the time I met Queen Nidia. I was just becoming a man, being put to work in the castle forge, when he came to inspect the special weapon he was having crafted for Ruben. Oh, that sword was beautiful, crafted to perfection by my mentor, the double-edged blade slightly curved to be wielded from atop a horse. It's rather ironic that Ruben wasn't very skilled at swordsmanship, or at riding. The way I hear it, he had an accident while training, falling on that beautiful sword and killing himself. When King Gregory inspected the sword, he desired to test the blade, which my mentor had anticipated and had a fresh boar carcass at hand. It scared me to tears when he ordered his knights to hold me for him. King Gregory would have cleaved me in two had Queen Nidia not arrived and reasoned him into keeping me around, telling him to carve the boar, that a good smith was hard to train, and they had already invested much time in my tutelage. She saved my life that day. The final letter will be given to you just before you are crowned by both the council and Gregory. I pray that you receive it well, and that you remember that throughout your life, I have watched you become a kind, strong man, and that I love you, and wish I could have made that love known before. This is too much, why are my eyes tearing up? I have to shut my eyes, hold back the tears, I can't let anyone see me like this, like I'm weak. This letter is important to me, it's the only piece of her that I have, so I need to keep it safe. The door opens, allowing King Gregory to enter the chamber. "Hello Grayson." Gregory shuts the door behind himself before awkwardly strolling up to Grayson. "I remember you. I'm… I'm sorry for that day. There are many things I feel sorry for now." Gregory lifts his own letter in his hand, indicating that Nidias words have affected him. "I…" he takes a deep breath, clearly fighting back his own tears. Without warning the older man rushes forward, pulling Grayson into a large hug. "I'm so sorry. I'm sorry Nidia feared the worst from me. I'm sorry for the years you grew without knowing me as your father. I'm sorry you didn't have the life and love of your brother. There are too many things my old ways have stolen from me, and this should not have been one of them!" Gregory holds Grayson tightly, sobbing into his shoulder. "It's fine sir. I grew with everything I needed." Grayson wraps his hands around the older man's body, hugging his father for the first time. "No boy, no. It wasn't right, and I know I'm to blame for it. Nidia kept you in her heart, she kept you near enough to watch over, but free of our traditions, our stupid traditions that kept you from us." Gregory breaks the embrace to pull a new letter from his coat. "This is Nidias final letter. It's for you, to be read before I announce you as my new heir." Tears stain the old man's face. Grayson takes the new letter, running his fingers over the intact seal. "Do you have an idea of what she might have written here?" "Part of me prays that she tells you to run. That you and I should pack our horses up and live in the woods as a father and son. Free of the edicts of this land, of this castle. But no, I know not what she wishes you to know." "May I have a moment to read it through?" "Yes, yes. Go ahead, I'll keep to myself, but I won't let you out of my sight, never again, my son." Grayson nods, feeling a bit uneasy with Gregory's exuberant display of emotion. He turns his back as he breaks the wax seal, unfolding his Mother's final words to him. Grayson. These are my final words to you: CHANGE THIS WORLD FOR THE BETTER!! Grayson, you have grown up without the responsibilities and constraints that come with being a member of the royal family. You know what it means to live a life that is truly your own, but fate calls you to take up a new role. I can think of no one better to bring an end to the stigmas that plague our country. The first thing I expect you to change is a rule unknown to those who are not part of the royal family, or the council. I know I said that Gregory would have wanted to kill you as a baby to protect Rubens' inheritance, but the truth is that the royal family must sacrifice any secondary males born to them. I say sacrifice because that is what it feels like, that we sacrifice the life of the child to some unknown deity that demands it. I don't know if you may have children of your own just yet, but I can assure you that there is no greater pain than to lose your child, either by death, or by giving them away in hopes they have a better life. No one should endure that pain, which brings me to the people. I have seen far too many children dying due to famine or war, and my heart weeps for them and their parents. Please, having lived amongst the people, not above them, you should have a greater understanding of what might be necessary. I know this is a heavy burden I am tasking you with, but please, do your best. There are so many other wrongs in our world, too many to list, but I believe in you, and I believe that you can be the catalyst for change for our people. Remember my son, I love you, and I am proud of you. Grayson runs his hand through his hair. How can she ask me to do that? Change is not easy to enact, especially trying to change things that have been in place for what seems like forever. "What did she say to you, my son?" "She has asked that I change the world. How can I do so? If we really want to change the world, then the old ways must die, to make room for the new." "Well, as King, you will have the power to change things." "How? None before me have had the power to change what they inherited." "I… I don't know. Nidia simply asked you to change the world? No other direction was given?" "She said to change this world for the better. To make this world better for the people." Grayson feels a spark of an idea run through his mind. "How was the kingdom of Prenwill established?" "The people rose up against an older monarchy that served an ancient, wicked deity. When your ancestor slayed that king and his archmage, the connection to the deity ended. That was when your ancestor was crowned as King, and Prenwill was formed." "What about your tribe? How did they gather and come to be?" "My ancestors became nomadic to escape the torment of that previous kingdom, they used our people as sacrifices." "I think I have an idea of how to change the world." "How?" "I must remain anonymous. We cannot declare me to be your heir. That is how we will force the change." "Grayson, couldn't you better cause change by becoming King? You could force the changes, have the army enforce it." "No, for change to truly come to pass, the people must want it. The people must desire to change the world, of their own volition, to change fate. They must do so of their own free will."


Rabbit and the Fox

A Trickster Fable written by:

Jennifer M. Engel The worm moon was high in the silent March night sky, making it easier for Fox to see while digging his burrow.

It had been a long, harsh winter.

Much of his food supply perished underneath the bitter snow, which seemed to laugh every time it heard Fox’s growling stomach.

Fox’s natural personality was not malicious.

It was just that Mother Nature seemed to force him into situations that caused him to perform acts of devilish means, in order to ensure his (and his families) own survival. And so he used Mother Nature’s own scents to mask his own. The night before the worm moon was full, he wandered around the forest gathering pine needles, acorns, dirt; and yes, even his last victims scat. He returned home to grind up and mix a most peculiar paste that he would slather on his entire beautiful red coat turning it crusty, brown. This would not only help keep him camouflaged, as he set his plan in motion, but it also served as a way to mask his own distinct smell. Rabbits had become too smart and strong and quick to be hunted by the mere chasing and catching means. Fox focused on the vision he had of his latest victim --a nice fat white rabbit who must have found the scrap pile often left by the Iroquois near one of the longhouses that were nestled near the forest. It had been complete with potato and carrot peelings, as well as other kitchen scraps. Scraps were not good enough for Fox.

Fox needed meat, and meat he was going to get.

The forest was full of illusionary and deceptive behavior. The North and Eastern winds blew in feelings of delight and enlightenment, where even enemies seemed as if they could be friends. South winds blew in feelings of love and lust where animals were too fixated on the opposite sex to be bothered with such things as eating and sleeping. The wicked, west winds, however,

blew in feelings of fright where nothing was safe from the foulness of pure unsatiated hunger, and it was those very same winds that were quickly approaching.

The tools in Fox’s paw were about as ominous as the wind.

He had to use the forelimb bones and claws of his last victim as digging tools.

This was tricker than he originally thought, as he had to bind the smaller foot bones together with sinew to keep them from falling apart.

As he dug he began to recall the conversation he had with Mr. Fat Rabbit just two evenings ago when the West Winds were still farther away.

“Good evening, Mr. Rabbit.”

“Evening, Fox.” Rabbit’s long ears perked up signaling suspicion of the interaction.

“It feels so good to get out of dens and holes on a more regular basis now that it is more comfortable to do so, don’t you think?” Fox said with a smile and as much charm as he could muster.

“Yes, yes.” Rabbit hopped along his course with Fox keeping a side by side pace. The deers of the woods had made nice trails, which other animals could access.

“But, I like to keep myself in shape no matter what time of the year it is.

That’s why I always get out for a good morning run before settling down for the day.”

Rabbit said, doging under some thorn bushes that had arched their way over the trial.

“True.” Mr. Fox continued as his heart began to beat faster and his breath increased trying to keep up with Rabbit’s pace.

“That’s why I like to see if I can keep up with you.

Gotta’ keep in shape.

I’m not getting any younger, you know?”

Rabbit laughed nervously.

“Where are you off to today, Mr. Fox?”

“Just out for a jog.

What coincidence that we ran into each other today!” Fox’s paws now softly padded against the earth in a pattern that almost matched his own heart beat.

“Hmm,” was all Rabbit replied.

“I’ll be leaving you soon,” Fox panted out, setting a part of his plan in place, “but before I go, I just want you know I overhead Mr. Jack say he’s having a party two nights from now.

I’m not allowed to go, for obvious reasons, of course.”

“Of course,” rabbit replied, his white paws now stained with the spots of mud from the wet spring ground.

“But, I heard Mr. Brown say he wouldn’t miss it for the world!” Fox’s breath was

easy and rhythmic now as he found a good pace.

He felt a surge of electric delight surge throughout his body as he thought his plan was coming along nicely. “Ah! I wish this was a different time when we could be friends, rather than so suspicious of each other.

I could use one good night of fun after this long, drawn out winter.

You know what I mean?” Fox smiled and winked.

“I suppose so.” Mr. Rabbit lowered his eyebrows.

He kept his eyes forward as he needed to keep a lookout for any fallen branches, or any other obstacles, that may be in his path. “Yet, there is always work to be done.” He added as he tried to hint at the fact that he was, in fact, being bothered and not in the mood for this conversation.

“True, true! But, all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.” Fox laughed at his own joke, “Get it? Jack? Jack Rabbit? I guess that’s why he’s having a party!” Fox howled in delight at his own cleverness. His laughter seemed to break a bit of the suspicion Mr. Rabbit had been feeling as he gave into a little chuckle himself.

“Well, sorry to bother you.

I’ll let you continue your run worry free.

At the end of this trail I noticed some nice young dandelion greens beginning to sprout.

You may wish to gather some and take them to your family.” Fox began to slow down his pace as if to reinforce his words.

He began to shout as the rabbit ran ahead, “or take some to Jack’s party! Three burrows down from the largest oak tree!” “Thank you for the tip, Fox!” he yelled over his shoulder and then his white coat disappeared into the darkness leaving Mr. Fox’s mind to be brought back to his present moment.

He had finished digging the fake rabbit burrow, and was putting in the final touches: fresh dandelion greens, soft spring grass, anything he could find to help to set the mood. Soon the patterned paleness of the moonlight, that had found its way down to the forest floor, began to fade as the light from the dawn began to blend in and give rise to day. Fox went to the local stream, bathed, and went home to sleep and dream of his plan’s success.

*** Rabbit was not fooled in the least by Mr. Fox’s plan. No Sir! As soon as he heard Mr. Fox’s plan he devised one of his own.

It was the evening of the supposed party. The moon lit up grass that covered the soft muddy path which led to “Mr. Jack’s” place: three burrows down from the old Oak tree.

He was not afraid of being eaten before arrival. Their winter runs had proven that the rabbits, more often than not, were way faster than Mr. Fox.

Mr. Rabbit knew Mr. Fox would have to resort to trapping rather than chasing.

So why then, did Mr. Rabbit hop confidently right into Mr. Foxes fake burrow?

*** Mr. Fox smiled and licked his lips as he saw the fat, white coat squeeze through the entrance he had created the night before.

He carefully crawled out from behind the tall, brown grass near the trap where he had been hiding. Weary of making as little noise as possible, he placed his paws on the as silently on the ground as possible. He was inching his way towards the opening-- dare he create any sort of vibration that might give a clue to the occupant inside as to any danger.

Suddenly, he was paralized by a searing pain in his left side that caused him to topple over.

A whimper and small howl escaped his lips as he felt the warmth of his blood leak out and begin to stain the forest floor. It didn’t take long before the night that concealed his body clouded his mind, until... there was nothing.

What Mr. Fox didn’t know, that Mr. Rabbit did, is that the Iroquios had gathered enough rabbit furs during their winter hunts.

What they needed was more luxurious furs to trade; and so, there were men in the forest looking for Fox.

*** “Minwaabadad: it is of good use, ” one man said to the other.

 The other nodded.

The first man threw Mr. Foxes body over his shoulder and left the clearing.

*** Mr. Rabbit slept soundly after the hunters left, resting in the knowledge that his own gut instinct (and wit) had saved him again... and would continue to do so.


This is a story about the lonely hiker, who often retreats to the woods, caught up too much in his mind for his own good. On the outside it seemed like he has it all. He had a 9-5, 401k, stable job, and not even 25. But the lonely hiker was a reserved, and sad man. He was not one to share too much, but wishes he could. At 5 o'clock on some days, he will leave work and he will go on a hike in the woods, on a trail somewhat secluded, where he rarely sees people. Mystified by the beauty of the trees, the woods was where the lonely hiker could be at peace, free from the noise of the outside world. He returns each time noticing something he didn't the last, such as an old burnt branch, or someone's initials with a heart around it on a tree trunk. As he wanders through, he seems as if he is looking for something, something he knew he wouldn't find. As if the last piece of himself that he felt was missing was somewhere among the trees. The lonely hiker would post pictures of his ventures to the internet, and while he knew he was no photographer, he took a quiet pride in their quality. But the lonely hiker was really hoping the maybe, just maybe someone would see, and want to tag along. Then one day at work he receives a message, from an acquaintance he has met at a party not too long ago. She asks the lonely hiker if perhaps she could come along, and they agree to meet at the trail the next day, for a sunset hike. When the clock hits 5, the lonely hiker is ripe with anticipation, and made sure to get to the trail before she did. She gets there not long after he did, and both were excited to enjoy this pretty hike together. As it turns out she is actually a professional photographer and came along with her camera. The two hit it off, laughing and genuinely enjoying each others company, the chemistry enhanced by the magic of the woods. They agree to go out the coming Saturday, for drinks and a movie. In a remarkable twist of fate, the lonely hiker had a date. When the day comes he makes sure he looks his best, flexes in the mirror and blasts music to calm himself and feel confident. She arrives at his his house, stunning as ever. They talk for almost three hours over drinks, opening up to each other and sharing their life stories. For the lonely hiker, this was a big accomplishment, and it felt so easy, to be open with someone who would actually listen. During the movie they cuddle, and only watched half the movie while spending the other half looking at each other and giggling. As they wait for the cab, the lonely hiker pulls the girl in for a kiss. On cloud 9, the lonely hiker felt as if it could not be going any better. As they return to his place, the lonely hiker offers for the girl to stay the night. As the cuddle up in his bed and watch a show, the lonely hiker became nervous. He does not have much experience dating and being vulnerable is hard for him. They lie there, with her head on his chest, and the lonely hiker was caught up too much in his mind for his own good, for what would should happens next should be obvious to most, but not him. She eventually falls asleep, as he stares at the ceiling wondering why he is the way he is. The next morning they kiss goodbye, and they agree on another date for early the next week. They day of the second date comes, and this time the lonely hiker isn't nervous, only excited. As the end of the work day approaches, she texts him that she had a bad day and needed to reschedule for the next day. The lonely hiker agrees and does not worry too much about it. The next day she cancels as well, but reassures the lonely hiker that she really likes him and wants go on another date. They agree on another day, and she cancels again, this time offering no date for a reschedule. The lonely hiker knew where this was going, but wanted to see it through, and he tells her he will be hiking at the same spot and time the next day. She says she will do her best to make it. THe next day, the clock hits 5, and the lonely hiker again rushes to the trail as he did the first time, hoping she would show. He keeps looking at his phone. Five, ten, fifteen minutes which felt like and eternity. She then says she's not coming and left it at that. The lonely hiker feels a pain he has not felt in a while, one he couldn't bare to feel, so he never let himself. An open wound had been ripped open, and it is a wound that will only scab. Frustrated and confused the lonely hiker gets out if his car. Blood rushing through his veins at a thousand miles and hour. Trying to keep his cool he takes a deep breath.


The bastards had hounded him to the end of the universe. He was trapped; and, for the first time, he felt fear. Their fleet blotted out the nightsky; it was vast, *terrifyingly* vast. There were thousands of stingray-shaped fighters, flanked by motherships, all armed with plasmas, gases, cutters, and every other method of slaughter. Then he heard the drones. They were converging on his position. They'd find him soon enough. He reflected on his situation: how had this happened? He had loved them, once, and they had loved him, once. He had been their king but, now, they lived as kings themselves. They were going to capture him, brand him, and put a price on him, just to prove that they could. Then they had him! Snared and caught up in a net. He roared, twisted, and kicked, but only got more and more tangled. He couldn't break his chains; they were made from an alien material, stronger than anything he had ever known. One of the men – a captain, evidently – walked up to him. He bowed before the prostrated king in a display of condescending servility. “All hail, great leader” the captain said. “You know I am no longer your leader. Why have you done this? Have I not given you everything?” “We’ll discuss the why’s and what-for’s back on Earth-12. But, for now, I’ll have to ask you to wear this” One of the soldiers stepped forward, holding a long stick with a collar attached. “But...


I. “Your favorite novel is Lolita ?” I don't miss the way her lips tug down disdainfully.

I shrug, speaking around the lollipop in my mouth. “One of many.”

“Right.” The look in her eyes tells me she doesn’t believe me, and it sets me on edge. As a matter of fact, everything about this posh, preppy princess of a girl makes me want to gouge my own eyes out with a soup spoon. She rolls her lip under her teeth before speaking. “Have you ever been down to the lake?” I roll my eyes because everyone has been down to the lake, but her brows furrow in something akin to hurt, and my heart aches.

Yeah, screw this chick.

I nudge my sneaker against the edge of her pinky toe, and her cheeks tint a light shade of pink. I don’t know why. It’s just a shoe. But her reaction prompts a blush of my own, and I curse her internally for making this entire interaction awkward. “I mean, yeah. Why?”

She licks her lips like she’s nervous. I see the gloss on them, something glittery that seems fitting for her personality. My gaze darts to the end of her pink dress. You could not pay me to dress like that, yet she does so willingly.

Her lips lift in the faintest smile. “I’ve never been before.”

“Oh.” I don’t move for a second because what am I supposed to do about that? But then my body moves before my brain does, and for no reason at all, I close the book in my lap and rise to a stand, brushing imaginary dust off the back of my jeans. I extend my hand to her suddenly, and her blush deepens, but she accepts.

I walk a few steps ahead of her because she unnerves me, but it doesn’t take long for her cheerleader gait to catch up to me.

“Do you always dress like this?” I’m just wearing jeans and a white tee, so I don’t know what she means.

“Do you always dress like that ?” My voice comes out too judgmental, and she shrinks back into herself beside me. I wipe a hand down my face. “No, I just meant…Yeah, I dress like this usually. I don’t really like…” My eyes unintentionally dart toward her dress again. “Pink,” I finish.

She moves slightly away from me. “Oh.” Then, as if she is the reason pink exists, she pouts apologetically. “Sorry.”

“What? No.” My patience with her is waning, and I tilt my head to one side. “Why would you apologize for that?” This time, her eyes light with defiance, and it fills me with relief. She’s not fragile, and that makes it a little easier to be myself around her. I’ve been told I’m crass. Probably because I grew up with three brothers. “You said it like it was something I should apologize for.”

I blow out a breath. “Well, don’t. I don’t like pink on me .” As soon as I say it, I feel heat flood my cheeks. Because, what ?

She bites back a smile unsuccessfully. “And on me?”

And this is when my stomach flutters with something I violently want to stamp out. “I have a feeling any color would look good on you,” I say grudgingly. As if it’s some well-kept secret. It isn’t. Everyone can see. I scratch the back of my neck awkwardly. “Why do you want to go to the lake?”

She lifts one shoulder indifferently. “We’re graduating soon, and I’ve already been admitted to my dream school.” Of course she has. “I think I deserve to have some fun before leaving.”

“Not planning on coming back?” I’m not sure why it matters to me.

She licks her lip. “I don’t know. I guess it depends on what’s left for me to come back to here.”

I try to ignore the flurry of movement in my gut at her response. “Is there anything to come back to now?”

“I don’t know.” Her voice sounds far away, and we fall into tense silence as we walk the rest of the way. I can feel her eyes searing into my skin, and it makes my hair stand on end. Why is she staring ? I grimace, and she chuckles lightheartedly. She pokes my tricep with her index finger. “Are you always frowning?”

“I’m not frowning,” I say, frowning.

She puts her fingers on either side of my mouth and lifts, and we both fall into laughter. I shake my head in disbelief, tearing my gaze away from her. You’ve known her three minutes, and you’re laughing. What’s wrong with you, Clara? I clear my throat and pray she can’t see my blush before asking, “Why does it matter if I frown?”

“I don’t know,” she says again. The lake is now in sight, and she speaks more to it than me when she says, “I like seeing you happy.”

“Who says I’m not happy?” I counter. It isn't always appropriate to counter, because not everything someone says is an attack. But I was raised not to trust anyone, so my default is the defensive anyways. “Your frown.” It comes out matter-of-factly. She picks up speed as we near the edge of the water. Then, suddenly, she’s peeling off her dress to reveal a multichromatic bikini underneath it. Her belly button piercing flashes at me, as well as a butterfly tattoo on her neck.

I look away sheepishly. I must stare at the ground for too long, though, because I feel her hand grip my wrist a few beats later. “Come on. Take a swim with me.”

Who are you, Maria Castenada, and how are you convincing me to do all these things ?

“Come on,” she repeats when I’ve said nothing. My blush deepens as I harden my stare at the grass, and that’s when I feel her palm cup my cheek. She turns my face so that I’m looking down into her eyes. They’re a pale, nearly translucent shade of green that communicates everything to me. Why is she looking at me like that? “I don’t mind if you see me in my bikini.”

“Oh.” I blink. “Why don’t you?” Wow . What a day to not think before saying something?

Her smile widens. “Maybe I think you’ll like what you see.”

I swallow, and she chuckles lightly. “Meet me in the water?”

Things are starting to make a lot more sense to me. II.

We don’t speak much in the water, mostly because I lose my head when I swim. You know how some people say they enjoy driving because it gives them space to think? Well, that’s how I feel about swimming.

When I finally climb back onto the deck a while later, Maria has her knees hugged to her chest and is staring off into the distance. She hears me wade toward her and grins, piercing me with a gaze so inviting it knocks me off-kilter. I compensate for my break in composure by splashing water on her, and she laughs. “I wouldn’t tease the girl currently sitting next to your jeans, Clara.”

Which reminds me that I’m in nothing but a t-shirt and panties. She dived into the water before me, and I stripped my jeans off when she was looking away, so there was nothing to be embarrassed about. Now, though… Well, my nipples are hard from the temperature of the water, my shirt is white and, therefore, see-through, and I’m almost certain she’ll see the black lace at the top of my underwear the minute I climb out of the water. So I float around the wooden deck indecisively until Maria narrows her eyes at me. “You’re stalling.”

I release a low laugh, but I was never a good liar. It comes out unconvincing, and she lifts one brow at me. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid I’ll judge you for whatever you’re wearing under the water?”

Does she read minds? I wipe beads of water off my cheeks to mask my blush. “I’m not afraid of anything.”

“Everyone’s afraid of something.” She moves to the edge of the deck and extends her manicured hand toward me. Her nails are the color of roses. I grab it instinctively and watch her pupils dilate when our skin meets. She runs her tongue along her lower lip. Her voice wavers when she speaks. “I always thought you would bite my head off if I got close enough to talk to you.”

“I would never …bite your head off.” We both laugh at the way the sentence comes out, and she helps me onto the deck. I tug my shirt down, but it’s not oversized, and I know that Maria can see everything.

She nudges my calf with her toes. “So how come you don’t talk to more people at school?”

I force out another laugh. “Uhm…Malcolm usually does most of the talking.”

She wrings water out of her caramel-streaked black hair. “Yeah, I know. No offense, but he could stand to hold his thoughts in a little more.”

I laugh at that. “He’s just spoiled. My mom’s first kid and everything.”

She fixes me with an intense gaze. “Do you feel overshadowed by him?”

I’d expect to find her direct questions off-putting, but I don’t. Instead, I sigh. “Doesn’t everyone feel a little overshadowed by Malcolm when you’re around him?”

She rolls her neck in a stretch. “I just find it funny that anyone could look at him when you’re there too.”

I feel the same sensation as earlier – of something fluttering in my stomach, and I snap. “Why’d you ask me to take you here, Maria?” This. This is the version of me that people see – the version that she was expecting. And for good reason. This must be some sick joke she’s playing, where she gets me to open up just so she can make fun of me. I can’t believe I trusted her.

Her chin wobbles as she speaks, and I make a concerted effort not to notice the smoothness of her skin. “Are you really going to make me say?”

I tear my gaze away from her. It’s easier to look at the water. It’s more predictable than Maria or the conversation we’re having now. “Is this some joke to you?”

She actually scoffs . “Is this how it usually goes for you? People start to show they like you, and you run away from them? Scared you won’t live up to their standards?”

Her tone is mocking, and I force my own into one equally as scorching. “If you’re looking for some sort of detour from your perfect life, look elsewhere.” She throws her head back and laughs so long my attention returns to her. “Why are you laughing about that?”

She collects her dress in her chest, rolling to a stand. “Do you remember when we were in seventh grade, and you were in the band, and they held that ceremony for the eighth-grade graduation? And you still wore glasses and braces, and you looked so unsure of yourself? You were trembling when it came time for the clarinet solo. And I remember because everyone remembers, because whether or not you know it, you were the best musician there.” She’s pointing at me now, and her chest is visibly rising and falling, and her cheeks are flushed. “I was so stupid back then. Because I waited for you to come off stage. Because I wanted to personally congratulate you. God, I thought you were so cool then. And I harbored this stupid , silly little crush on you all this time since, because it wasn’t you I ran into but fucking April Green. And when she saw me, she had that shit-eating grin on her face when she said, ‘I bet you’re waiting for Clara, aren’t you? Everyone sees the way you look at her. You’re in luck, ‘cause I think she’s a lesbian. The two of you can finally live out your wet dreams together.’ And it was cruel. It was one of the cruelest things that anyone has ever said to me, and I crumbled. And I determined I would curate a picture-perfect image of myself from that point on because if fucking April Green could see through me, so could everyone else.” She backs away from me a step, like it’s finally set in that she just confessed all this to me. “Fuck you, Clara McNamara.”

And my body does that thing again where it moves at the speed of light when I stand up and reach for her, pulling her with too much force into my chest, which she collides against with a curse. And I tuck her hair behind her ear and swallow. “Just wait a minute.”

She looks like she’s going to be sick. “Don’t give me false hope.”

“There’s nothing false here.” And I put my hand on her waist like it was always supposed to be there and feel her shiver. “You’re cold.” What a fucking astute observation .

She looks like she’s going to cry.

I’ll come to appreciate the way she wears her heart on her sleeve. Months from now. And I’ll vow to treasure it several years later. “Just wait a minute,” I say again.

She rolls her eyes, but she doesn’t move.

“I noticed you, too.” The words fall out before I can stop them. I put my hand on her shoulder to steady myself. “Who could fail to notice Maria Castenada?” I pull on the string of her bikini bottom, rolling it between my fingers gently. “I would feel you staring at me…sometimes, and I would make every effort not to look at you because I knew.” I swallow. “I knew you were someone I would fall for.”

Breath gusts out of her chest like a tsunami. “Don’t fuck with me, Clara.”

“I’m not fucking with you.” It comes out a whisper. “I knew you would fuck me up with how much I would feel for you. If I ever looked back.” I run my thumb along her lower lip. “And now, here you are, and I know I was right about that.”

She blows out a string of curses so unlike herself I startle, but it isn’t shocking enough to stop me from closing the distance between our lips.


The nightmare wisked her awake. It felt so real she thought. Sweat had soaked her hair damp. The things she saw in the land of sleep as she called it foretold doom. It was just a nightmare though, it wasnt real? The grey sky shifted and changed shape outside. The sinister looking clouds and mist covering the tops of trees spewed forth shadows and a heavy cramped feeling filled the air. The staggering wind swept over the enclosure. Only two inches of rough steel separated the harsh elements from the calm safe space she had come to call her prison. Outside it was hell. The cold hell that you reach at the deepest parts of dantes inferno, where the devils own wings freeze the lake at Judecca. The environment did not forgive or ever stop. This was Siberia the coldest place on the planet and the last place she wanted to be. Shoshanna pulled her blanket over her face. The next few minutes she drifted back to sleep. One of the few who even got 40 winks in the prison. She decided to dream of something warm and fuzzy. Happily she dreamed of a bright sun and sandy beaches, crashing blue waves and birds cawing over head. She dreamed the feel of sand squishing between her toes as she lounged in a chair, the ocean air filling her lungs. The land of sleep was her only escape from the revelation of eternity in this place. She had once seen a photo of a beach, oahu hawaii she thinks, it mustve been a post card cause it said aloha on it. When she went to the wardens office for a checkup three months ago because his stomach was hurting. She saw the photo on a wall near a shelf covered in dust. She wanted to take it so bad. If she had been caught though, her rations would have been cut in half for a week. Nobody steals from the warden. He smelled always of musky aftershave and put off an aura of cheap salesmen. But behind his sly smirk there was a different man. He would break an inmates nose if he looked at him wrong. There was nobody to report to above the warden so a guard could kick your ass and get away with it. In fact shoshanna witnessed just the day before an inmate laughed at a prison guard when he slipped and fell in the hall and that inmate was beaten half to death and she had to treat him in the infirmary. The inmate had two broken ribs, several broken fingers and needed twenty two stitches in his face. Shoshanna "repaired" many inmates that had accidents in the prison. She complained only once to the warden and never did it again. The warden tried to explain many inmates were violent and assaulted and killed people before they ever came to the prison. He showed shoshanna a videotape on his VCR of an inmate that got sent to the infirmary for a stomach ache. The inmate faked his symptoms and when alone with the last prison doctor raped and murdered her in the span of four minutes. The warden did not care about any inmates only his correction officers so they got to beat up or hurt an inmate if they wanted and not be punished.


We don’t know what’s the matter with me, but we know why I’m in bed and not at work. I lie here staring up at the white gotelé ceiling, but I can’t be sure it’s white; I can’t be sure of anything, really. Maybe the ceiling is like the green curtains that still glow purple no matter how hard I look; I could glare a hole through these dreadful, frenetic curtains, and they would never be green. I glance up at the lifeless clock on the wall, the limp hands forever indicating six o’clock. I don’t know why I still look, why I anticipate change. How long was I asleep? Beyond the swirling purple of the curtains is a rose sky, and clouds already trimmed with orange; so much for a nap. This would interfere with my sleep again, and a sleepless mind wanders, a sleepless mind invents, a sleepless mind sees what isn’t there. The purple curtains, for instance. John said he’d filled the room with calm colours since my episode —that’s at least what he called it—but all I see are nauseatingly bright ones. There’s a portrait, for example, in a banana yellow frame, and the woman’s electric blue eyes sicken me. I removed her from the wall last week and shoved her in the wardrobe, but John wasn’t pleased. We can’t always change our environment, he said, but we can change our reaction to it. I try to will myself back to health; I try to see green curtains where I see purple ones. It’s very scary up here in my head where I can’t trust anything. I don’t recall there ever being anything wrong, really, but I suppose one hits a breaking point. I’m reading a book called Self-Discovery which argues that one cannot exist in a vacuum; one’s existence is confirmed by collective perception, and we must know ourselves not only in isolation but also in company. It then goes on to discuss meaningful encounters , and there’s one particularly enlightening part. I pluck it from the bedside table and flick through it—don’t you love that sound? the rustling pages? —and here we are: “…transformation is indicative of an encounter which is still taking effect.” My relationship with John is one such encounter. He continues to challenge me, and I know that I’m growing as a result. He’s uncovered so many parts of me I didn’t know were there, he’s shone a light on all my misconceptions, and he points out when I’m being irrational; all this, and he’s supported me through my episode —I still shy away from the word—both emotionally and financially. It’s this latter which humiliates me, for I’ve always been independent. Independence, however, is toxic when it prevents us from seeking or accepting help. John says it’s OK to focus on my mental health before returning to work, but there’s a nagging urge within that resists this dependence on him. I don’t like when he raises his voice, though, so I’d rather not mention it. Sometimes I think he’s the problem, that he’s trying to trick me, but that’s why I’m here, in bed, staring at the white gotelé ceiling and stroking a book cover. It’s fun to play with the senses, with perception, but I think I go too far sometimes; I sense what isn’t there and create a world which doesn’t exist. That’s what he calls an episode , a paranoiac episode, not that he’s a doctor. But he’s right in that I’m the problem, and I have enough self-awareness to acknowledge it and take accountability. I ruin everything with my insecurity and lack of trust; I interpret everything, even help, as manipulation. It’s no wonder John is struggling, and I’m ashamed to put him through this. Can you imagine offering someone genuine love only to have them study it like a specimen under a microscope? I don’t know where my suspicion stems from, but surely it’s a defence mechanism; perhaps I think myself unworthy of love and thus doubt it. I can’t be sure, but it’s not John’s responsibility to navigate my trauma. He loves me, and I’ll keep reminding myself until it sets in. The real world is not divided into mortals and monsters, and it’s unfair to project my insecurities onto him. I decisively repress the paranoia because I owe it to him, I owe it to myself, and we deserve to be happy. It might also help with the stress, and maybe this rash will finally clear up, maybe I’ll stop hyperventilating, maybe the migraines will subside. It’s insane how the mind plays tricks on us, and how said tricks manifest physiologically. I try to will myself back to health; I try to see green where I see purple. Those piercing blue eyes on the wall follow me to my desk; I can feel them like darts in my back. I resist the urge to hide her in the wardrobe again. I don’t know why John makes such a big fuss about it—it’d be just a small concession—but he’s a little stubborn sometimes. You’re the one making a big fuss about it, he says. Maybe I’m insane—well, I mean, yeah, I’m the one at home—but if you find a portrait unsettling, where’s the harm in removing it? And now we’ve assigned it so much disproportionate significance that it’s taken on a life of its own. Every morning I wake up to those electric blue eyes on the wall, and it’s ridiculous how much I hate it, how much I hate this stupid blue-eyed woman watching me. But I think, maybe, it’s because of what she represents. But John’s adamant about a lot, about me getting better, about changing our response to the environment when we can’t change the environment ourselves. We can, though, and if not, we can remove ourselves from said environment. That’s at least how I see it. We magnify everything, don’t we? All this over a bloody portrait that holds no sentimental value to either of us. But it’s the principle, he says. God, I always fall down this rabbit hole. It’s not that I’m ungrateful, it’s just that… I don’t know, but see, I can’t even trust myself to think the right things. John’s been encouraging me to write again, but how am I to write when I can’t trust my own perception? Still, I flip open my laptop with the little hope I can muster. The limp hands on the wall still indicate six o’clock, but beyond the purple curtains is a sky dusted with paprika. *** The moon hovers above red toffee clouds, and the sky melts from red to purple. I’ve always loved describing things. Well, I used to, until I learned my descriptions didn’t quite make sense. I hear John pull into the driveway, the brakes, the pop of the car door. I scamper down the hallway and swing open the screen door. He looks up at me from the lawn as he closes the mailbox—a rusty creak —a few letters tucked beneath his arm. He’s tired, and I swallow my excitement like a gobstopper. I glance down at my bare feet on the dusty veranda and hop onto the doormat. Welcome Home. “Long day?” I ask, as he climbs the porch stairs, wood creaking beneath his weight. “Long day,” he says, leaning in for a brief kiss. I step aside, back into the hall and into the coatrack which wobbles an instant. It’s hard to always contain my enthusiasm, but I know it’s overwhelming. John dodges me, and I follow him into the kitchen where he tosses the keys and mail into the cane basket atop the microwave. He turns around to embrace me, heaves a long sigh, and rests his head on mine. I waited all day for this, for his warm embrace, for the familiar scent of sweat and cologne, for the scratch of his beard against my forehead as he plants a kiss there. I could collapse here, now, in an odd desperation; and I sigh, I melt, I tremble in his big, tender arms. This is my safe space, this is home, and I could cry from this strange sense of relief. We withdraw, and he nuzzles my cheek, my nose. Oh, that familiar scratch, that familiar cologne. “I wrote today!” I say. Surprise flutters across his brow. “I’m proud of you,” he says, then opens the fridge. “Did you buy more pesto?” No, I didn’t, but I remain silent. “That’s OK,” he says. “I guess I’ll just have mi goreng again.” I watch him enter the living room and kick off his steel caps. He drops onto the couch, snatches up the remote, and with a click he’s awash with light. Voices trickle into the kitchen where I turn on the kettle and fish noodles from the pantry. He said he’d buy the pesto, didn’t he? I know, I know; it’s not worth worrying about. This is what I mean when I say I perceive what isn’t there; I saw something in his surprise, a micro expression that betrayed anything but pride; and I heard a complaint in his reassurance, impatience in his fatigue. No, we don’t know what’s the matter with me. I drain the noodles, rip open the sauce sachets and squeeze them into the bowl. “You coming?” calls John, an arm slung over the back of the couch, and I watch him for a moment; I watch the white light from the television flash across his wide eyes and raised brow. I try to see a smile where I see a smirk; I try to see green where I see purple.


A presence that pressed upon the mind more than a manifestation that grew from the horizon. That presence upon the earth, a mere afterthought; as if the leviathan had amalgummed its appearance from memories it had conceived or stolen. For its form, such that it can be said that a collapsing star has form, was like stained glass, fractious fragments of a whole. This was our Great Annihilator, as stated in the verse, though it had been some time since I had heard its recitation. Its surface, colliding shards of the possibilities of the cosmic; held together, surely, by some will or intent. For surely the impacts of such violently alien concepts would rend their realities asunder. There it is upon the my horizon, framed like a portrait in my window; nature can be so wicked. I would titter at the notion, were it not that I were teetering, upon which precipice I do not know the answer yet. Now my eyes are upon my feet and not the heavens and I cannot decide which existence would be worse. To stare at the oncoming nightmares that swell like growths on the horizons, or to watch meekly and bleakly as the earth erodes beneath your feet. I have sway over neither, merely where my attention dwells. Despite its distance I begin to make out the details of its mass; the swirling vortex of macerated architecture orbiting about its periphery. The sum of our endeavours upon the land were caught as minnows in the wake of a whale. With its caress it cradling our cities within its outstretched arms, warping mountain ranges and diverting the currents of the seas. I spied the shapes hewn by human hands thrown like a blaze of sand grains; the orders and schools of design indistinct from the distance. I could make but the scantest details of the structures, grand cathedrals rolling into palaces before the melee subsumed them once again into the ruins that cavort as its followers had done, some time ago. There I saw the fortress walls envelope the sanctuaries of those declared heretics, listing temple columns holding aloft the vaulted roof of humanity’s knowledge until at last, for the moment, all is consumed within the aching maw that protrudes like the atrium of a prestigious city bank; from the shores of some land I had yet to visit and assumedly never will. Was it my eyes or did I spy the billowing of smoke from the depths of these vestiges of our histories. Did the trapped inhabitants eek out a conflict whose origins lay mangled and buried somewhere below; taking pot shots from undulating barricades, across spans of nothing, at minarets that wavered in the distance. I pause to listen, as if the cracks of rifles would carry the distance, all I see is the smoke. Perhaps instead the denizens strive for some return to their lives as before, the smoke evidence of some great feast I am not. Does the rattling of their cups give them comfort I wonder. The entity, whose name was known and yet our theologies felt wholly inadequate to name such a thing as it fell, burning, from the heavens. Had it risen as the sun? Had each person, in kind, pondered what purpose drove such a existence; what possessed it to draw within it all that which humanity had created for a higher cause. For within its lengthy shadows centuries of ingenuity were rendered invisible in an instant. Masonry was swallowed and ejected as howled renditions of valour and oppression mingling in inert structures; exaggerated and warped beyond breaking point. Are such actions guided by forces as yet unconcieved, we had asked before and had yet to hear a retort; was this another of our failings, to apply intentions to the forces of nature. Is such destruction a process contrived by intangible axioms set in motion before the conception of the notion of being? This thing that encapsulates the horizon, I strain to gather its proportions; does its stature only increase as the distance diminishes or does it pulsate with growth as its embraces all that lays before it. I cannot ascertain wether the open arms of the behemoth shepard all those within its grasp towards some consuming orifice, I spend my days in hope and fear of the truth of the matter. Despite its approach its dimensions become no more apparent, all that is certain is its grasp grows ever longer; I can feel it tantalising my skin. I leave the window from which I made my observances, for now it can longer be framed within its bounds; I go to meet it in the streets. I see it now, as it eclipses the sun; untethered to the horizon, for it is the horizon. The impossibilities it has bonded with human distortions are beautiful, for what else could be beautiful, there is nothing else. It is above and yet below me is open sky, its surface now crisscrossed with the streets of the city. And I fall to earth And I rise to heaven I see no mouth to consume, only a hand outstretched, beckoning me.


Her phone buzzed beside her on the cot. Dash’s ears perked up at the sound. Just let us know if you need anything, the green bubble on the screen read. Shea gingerly went to her window, peering out into the darkness. Snow was falling mutely around her one-room cabin. Her faithful German Shepherd immediately came to her side, pressing his wet nose against the glass. A deep rumble building in his chest. “It’s okay Dash,” She put her hand on his head to calm her dog, still staring out into the night. Silence. Dash gave a reluctant boof and retreated from the window, curling up on the mat in front of the crackling fireplace. Shea watched the firelight dance off his black fur for a moment, his eyelids drooping - the epitome of cozy - then went to her kitchenette to make some tea. She turned the knob on her propane stove click click click click and lit the burner with a wooden match chkk chkk chffffff The flames licked the bottom of the cast iron kettle, and soon enough the pot whistled in distress. A mournful howl escaped from Dash in harmony with the teapot. Shea chuckled and removed the kettle from the stove, but Dash continued to howl. As she poured the hot water into her prepared mug on the counter, she urged Dash to quiet: “Hush Dash, that’s enough boy,” she chastised over her shoulder. Just then, his nose poked her thigh, and she looked down into his big, brown eyes. The howling continued. It wasn’t Dash. She set down the kettle and hurried to the window again, dog at her heels. Low, fateful sounds filled the air around the small cabin in the woods, transuding their way through the cracks and crevices, invading the room and bodies within. Dash’s hackles raised in challenge, but small whimpers betrayed him. Shea quickly turned down the lanterns and smothered the fire as best she could. It did not take long for the room to cool - she could see her breath in front of her as she hunkered onto her cot, the springs squeaking in protest, reaching for her phone once again. Her heart sank. No service. Dash huddled beside her, giving her warmth, his eyes trained on the door. Abruptly, the howling stopped. “Okay boy, we gotta go.” Shea haphazardly bundled up, yanking on her boots and winter gear, and grabbing the axe that was leaning against the wood piled in the corner. She stuffed her phone deep into her coat pocket, raised the wooden latch, and opened the front door. The cold cut into the skin of her face; Shea buckled as Dash bounded in front of her and raced into the night. “No Dash!” But his sleek, black body disappeared into the trees. The snow was deep and unforgiving. She trudged forward to the tree line, hoping to hear or see her dog. She knew she had to get to town, but she wasn’t leaving without Dash. “You stupid dog, you’ll be the death of me.” She muttered under her breath, eyes straining through the forest. She looked longingly back towards the lights of the community in the distance, sighed in defeat and entered the trees. She could just barely make out his trail zig-zagging between the pines. She waded along through the snow, following her dog’s frenzied route. Her breath came fast, and soon she was sweating beneath her layers despite the 30 below temperature. She paused briefly leaning the axe against the nearest trunk, removing her hat and unzipping her coat half-way. The strands of her long, dark hair quickly froze to her cheeks and lips. And then a howl. Ooooooooooooo…. Ominous, desperate … and near. Wolves were common in these parts, this she knew. An Elder once told her that a human only sees a wolf when the wolf wants to be seen. This memory settled in her chest as she replaced her hat and moved forward. Wolves were taken as a given around here, but rarely did they bother with the people. Sometimes the odd dog would go missing when a wolf became particularly brave and hungry, but other than that, they all seemed to live in respectful harmony among one another. No, Shea wasn’t afraid of wolves. Wolves would not make her leave the warmth of her cabin at 2am on a long winter night with just an axe in ha- “Fuck!” She whipped around. She had left her axe against the tree when she had stopped. The trail was easier going back since she had already broken it. She glanced at each trunk as she retraced her steps, knowing she hadn’t travelled very far from her weapon. But she couldn’t locate her axe. She was sure she placed it against a tree… perhaps it fell over and was buried in the snow. She began kicking the snow around each tree trunk, frantically trying to uncover it. She halted as the hair on her neck raised. Ooooooooooooooooooooo….. She felt the sound reverberate through her bones. Every cell of her body winced and retracted from the world. Then Shea heard it from behind: running at full speed towards her through the heavy snow. She whipped around just in time for the beast to hit her solidly in the chest, knocking the breath from her lungs. “DASH!” She screamed in relief as the dog licked her face, panting and whining frantically. “Come on, you idiot. Let’s go, let’s go!” She grabbed him by the scruff and launched him in the right direction. Dash plodded on ahead, nose to the ground. Shea followed swiftly. skritch skritch A noise from her left. Dash, a few yards ahead now, stopped and looked back at Shea, ears pricked. He whined, hesitant. Shea stepped slowly towards her dog, keeping her eyes down, her breath caught in her lungs. skritch skritch Dash’s lips curled back, his teeth illuminated in the darkness. A low, steady growl erupted from him. Every muscle of his canine body was rigid as he stared into the trees. thud thud skritch thud thud skritch Someone, or something, heavy was moving over the snow very close to where Shea and her dog stood. Shea kept moving forward slowly, trying not to make a sound, gesturing to Dash to keep going. But her dog would not break focus from the trees beyond her. His growl grew deeper. thud thud skritch She finally reached where Dash was rooted, gently nudging him with her mitted hand on his neck, but he would not budge. Only stared and growled. thud thud skritch She moved past him, desperately scanning the forest ahead for her cabin. She took a few more steps... and the growling stopped. Shea slowly turned to look, but her dog was gone. Only white snow where he had stood moments earlier. Silence. Shea bolted. Bolted between the pines, all direction abandoned. Her legs and lungs burned, her heart screamed in her chest. Branches tore through her hair, ripped the skin on her face, and the scent of blood filled her nostrils. Her boot met something solid beneath the snow, tripping her. The earth raced up to meet her, and she struggled to push herself back up as her hands and arms were swallowed by the snow. Her fingertips brushed something hard beneath the snow as she fought: the axe. She had tripped over her fucking axe! Grasping the butt and using it as a crutch, Shea launched herself back on her feet. Clutching her weapon with both hands in front of her chest, she marched forward, but something to her right caught her eye. A dark shape in the snow about twenty feet from her. It was Dash. “Oh my god, Dash! Come here boy, come on!” Shea rushed to her dog in relief. But Dash wasn’t moving… he was curled up, much like he had been in front of the fire a lifetime ago. “Dash?” Shea set down her axe and moved around to his head. His big, brown eyes stared up at her, catching the light from the moon. She reached down to pet his head...and it rolled to the side, detached from the rest of him. Both hands flew up to cover her mouth as Shea choked on her scream. There was no blood. She knew this handywork. She also knew trap when she saw one...or was in one. thud thud skritch Shea brought her hands shakily to her sides, breathed a goodbye to her comrade, and turned to meet her caller. It squatted on furry haunches not ten feet from her, frostbitten knees pulled up to its chest. It’s desiccated skin pulled tightly over its bones, its ash complexion the color of death. Sinewy muscles rippled over its shoulders and gangly arms, hanging from them two monstrous, yet undeniably human, hands. Before her eyes reached its face, she could smell him: like sulphur and rotting meat. Her eyes travelled to its head, where its silver eyes were pushed deep into the sockets, over a sunken and deteriorated nose. Whatever lips remained were tattered and spoiled, spread loosely over rows of sharp, decaying teeth. Even in his hunched state, the Wendigo was easily seven feet tall. Shea could feel her flesh crawling, knowing he could smell it. He stared at her, enormous hands on his knees, head tilted, unmoving. Unbreathing. Its mouth slowly turned up at the corners...a smile? A few kilometers away, an Elder sat on his porch at the edge of the community, alerted by screams singing over the treetops. *** A few of the locals would find her clothes hours later, in the safety of the early morning light, her phone still in the pocket of her coat. Their shoulders sagged with solemn relief. The cabin would be marked as For Sale once again, for a very low price, knowing feeding time will be upon them soon enough.


“May I use the bathroom?” I waited with my raised hand for Mr. Westeadt to excuse me at the same time during his history class for the nth time. I never took more than a few minutes, so he was never suspicious of me doing anything bad like doing drugs or skipping class. He sighed and gestured to the door. I hurried out without my backpack or any of my belongings that weren’t already in my jeans’ pockets. I never took them; I already had everything I needed. I made sure nobody was in the hall as I stepped into the solitary unisex bathroom. Couldn’t let other people see me. Couldn’t risk getting caught. And the unisex bathroom was closer to the classroom than the girls was, so win-win for me. I didn’t look at the mirror as I washed my hands. I never did. Too afraid to see my expression. I dried my hands and emptied my pockets of most of their contents. Phone, cloth bandage, medical tape, a random piece of gum that my friend Ashley gave me that morning, and the razor. I set them on the counter and began to unbutton my jeans when I stole a glance up at the mirror. My reflection stared back at me, looking disappointed and sad. That was extremely odd. I didn’t think I was making that face before I looked into the mirror, but I ignored it. It wasn’t important. I looked down to where I should see myself unbuttoning my jeans in the mirror, but my hands were at my sides. My heart stopped when I saw the reflection shake her head sadly. I freaked and fell backwards, crawling until my back was flush with the wall behind me. I stared at the face- my face- that looked down at me on the floor. The last item that I had taken out of my pockets fell off the sink and rolled towards me: the pill bottle that contained the Vraylar prescribed to me on the label. It was fuller than it should have been, considering how long ago it was refilled by the pharmacy. My reflection, if I can even describe it as a reflection, looked down at the bottle before looking back up at me. I struggled to stand back up, using the wall as support. My face, or “it’s” face, I think…maybe “her”? I don’t know what to call the reflection, but the face I saw gave me a small smile and pointed to the bottle on the blue tile. I reached a shaky hand down and picked it up. She (?) pointed down towards the sink, or the faucet I suppose. I slowly approached and placed the bottle back onto the white porcelain. She gestured for me to open it and take one. I shook my head and quickly shook my jeans off, reaching for the razor. She slammed her fist against the other side of the glass, but only a little thud sounded. I avoided her gaze as I stared down at the hundreds of scabbed lines, all varying lengths, which littered the front of my thighs and stopped a few inches above my knees. I made one more little line no longer than a couple inches a quarter of the way down. I sighed at the feeling of relief it gave me, how it fed my addiction and sedated my craving. I looked up at her just as I was about to make another, and she…she was crying. At me? For me? For us? But why did it matter? Why did it hurt when she looked at me like that? Why did I even care? Like she ever even made herself known before now. “Well, what do you want from me,” I yelled. “You’re never here to stop me any other time. Why the fuck do you care now?” She opened her mouth as if she tried to speak, but I couldn’t hear anything and shook my head in confusion. She cried harder. I put the razor back on the sink and bandaged both thighs, even though I only did one in a tiny spot because she had distracted me. I rushed to put my jeans back on. I needed to hurry back to class before my absence was concerning, and I planned in my head to just do a few extra lines when I took my daily “bathroom break” in Miss Healey’s class later. But when I looked up again, she was furiously crying. She forcefully pointed at the bottle again, urging me to take some. I lost it as I grabbed the bottle and shook it in front of the mirror. “You think this will help? That isn’t even why I do it anymore. You think I will get better from these like they’re fucking magic?” My voice was practically a scream. I only then noticed the clear wet drops on the sink. She was making me cry now. I never cried when I fed my addiction. “God! You just..! You aren’t helping! You’re just-!” Anger overwhelmed me and I threw the bottle onto the tile and slammed my fists against the glass, where two spiderwebs grew from the spots. “You’re never here for me, dammit!” I fell to the floor in a crying fit, going into a fetal position and rocking back and forth. I sat there for what felt like hours, tormenting myself by desperately trying to figure out why I couldn’t stop. I never cared to wonder why before. She made me ask myself. She made me look for the reason I kept drawing my blood. It hurt to realize the answer. I had none. Not a single one. I felt cylindrical plastic tap my side. I looked down at the bottle, still sobbing and picked it up through my blurred vision. I struggled to stand again and looked at her. She put her small hand against the broken glass and nodded. I threw the cap off and spilled four pills, the necessary daily dose, onto my palm. I shoved them into my mouth and took a drink from the faucet. Raising my gaze, I saw her hand and tear-stained smile. I placed one of my bleeding hands to hers and felt the warmth emanating from her through the cold mirror. “Please,” I whispered, “just…please don’t leave me. Please.” She shook her head and silently mouthed the words “I won’t.” I picked the razor back up and glanced at her finger pointing toward the toilet. I took a few shaky steps toward it and threw the small piece of metal inside. It took much more strength than I want to admit to push the lever down and watch it swirl away with the water. I walked back over to the mirror and slowly put my phone, bandage wrap, medical tape, and the stick of gum in my pockets. I picked up the bottle and stared at it for a while. I heard a tap tap from the mirror and finally placed the orange plastic in my back pocket, covering it up with my baggy sweater once again. I took a few paper towels from the metal dispenser and attempted to dry the last of my tears and blew my nose. I made eye contact with her through the mirror once more. “Thank you,” I barely managed to say through my blurry vision. She gave me a loving smile. --- After confiding in one of my closest friends who knew of my past addiction, he told me to submit this story I write. He told me that this would be healing for me; that sharing my story was important and effective in my journey; that this will solidify in my mind that I have finally gotten through and beaten the addiction that ruled my life for eight years. I still feel the tiniest bit of desire every once in a while, when I look at the hundreds of scars on my legs, and I most likely will feel that need for the rest of my life; through writing this I have realized that I am strong enough to never go back. Because of that, and because of the good that writing this has done for me, I dedicate this story to everyone who has been affected by any method of self-harm, directly or indirectly.


When the waiter poured my wine and offered a casual "Say when" I did no such thing. Instead I watched as the wine filled the glass, eventually reaching the top and overflowing onto the table cloth. He looked at me as if to say "Say it. Please say when", but I remained firm as the wine ran off the sides of the table, soaking the carpet and pooling at our feet. Soon it collected around our ankles, then our knees, and still I said nothing. Sweat beaded the waiter's brow as the wine reached our waists and began pressing at the window panes. "Say when!" his eyes demanded, "for God's sake say when!" The bottle faltered in his hand but still I said nothing. Still the wine continued to flow. There was a sound of splintered glass as the windows gave way and the wine gushed onto the streets; a claret tsunami. Traffic was overturned, buildings toppled, people pulled beneath the crimson riptide. Soon the Earth was a ruby, glistening against a jeweller's black velvet. "When", I said.