The nervous energy buzzing in the air is unmistakable as the students pace around the auditorium, their eyes darting to the empty bulletin board. It is casting day. The atmosphere is charged with hope and anxiety, everyone waiting for the director to walk in and put up the cast list of “Romeo and Juliet.”

Jake tries to hide his nerves behind a mask of casual confidence. However, bouncing on the balls of his feet is a clear giveaway. His friends, always the cynics, stand beside him and tease him. "You really think you’ll get Romeo?" asks Max, raising an eyebrow. "And that it'll somehow make Lily fall for you?" Jake shrugs, a small smile playing on his lips. "Why not? We both had really good auditions, and this could be my only real shot at getting with her. Think of all the practices we’d spend holding hands and staring into each other’s eyes…" His voice trails off, his thoughts wandering into a dream world where Jake and Lily are dating.

Max and the others continue to laugh at him, trying to explain how stupid he sounds. “Lily is way out of your league. She would nev—”

“Shut up! She could walk behind you any second.” Jake said, motioning around him.

His eyes flicker to the auditorium doors just as they swing open, and there she is—Lily. In Jake’s eyes, she's walking down the hall like a scene from a movie, her hair flowing as if caught by an invisible wind (where did it come from?), her stride confident, almost regal. She looks every bit the leading lady, ready to receive her role as Juliet. Lily joins her friends, and Jake can’t help but eavesdrop. "I’m obviously the choice for Juliet," she says, her voice ringing with certainty. "There's no one else who even stands a chance."

Her friends nod in agreement, their faces mirroring her confidence. As Lily continues to talk, everyone in the hallway starts moving aside. The director, Mr. Hastings, strides down the hall with the cast list in hand. He reaches the bulletin board, and with a flourish, pins the paper up. He smiles smugly and shouts, “Good luck to all!” and struts away with an energy that could only follow with chaos.

A wave of students crashes toward the board as they push forward to see their roles. The voices grow louder, a cacophony of excitement and nerves. Jake grows increasingly anxious, feeling the intensity of the moment that could make or break his year.

A shriek cuts through the noise. It’s Lily. Her face is a storm of emotions as she stomps off, the sound of her platform wedges echoing down the hall. Jake, breathing heavily, finally pushes his way to the front and his eyes scan the list.

"Romeo - Jake."

Before he can even react, Jake is high-fived and slapped on the back in approval. The sounds of congratulations fade away as his eyes move to the line just below his name. "Juliet - Isabella." Jake’s heart sinks. He forces a smile, trying to look excited and happy as his friends cheer around him. Deep down, disappointment gnaws at him. He had hoped being Romeo would bring him closer to Lily, but now she’s cast as Juliet’s understudy. His whole plan is ruined. Did he even want to be Romeo if he didn’t have his Juliet? As the crowd begins to disperse, he wonders, "Who is Isabella?" His mind drifts back, vaguely recalling a shy girl he showed around on her first day of school. He barely remembers her, but he was about to get to know her very well. As the initial shock wears off, Jake takes a deep breath. The show must go on, and he had a role to play. -------------- Chattering excitement fills the room as students slowly arrive in the auditorium for the first rehearsal. Actors are warming up on stage, laughing with their friends, and meeting the rest of the cast. Jake stays off to the side, distractedly flipping through his new script.

This is it. Jake thinks to himself. It’s the first rehearsal of Romeo and Juliet, and the perfect time to talk to Lily. After a few minutes of back and forth in his head, Jake takes a deep breath and looks up at the stage. He steels himself and walks up the steps of the stage towards Lily.

There she stands, laughing with her friends, but to Jake it’s as if no one else is around. Platform wedges showing off her defined calves, golden hoop earrings glistening from her ears, and her shining, waist length hair blowing in the wind. (Seriously, where is that wind coming from?)

Jake’s heart pounds as he approaches her, forgetting everything he rehearsed to say. “H-hey Lily,” he stammers. “I was wondering if we could—” Before he could finish, he feels a gentle tap on his shoulder. “Hi Jake,” says Isabella softly but with enthusiasm. “I’m so excited to work with you and be your co-star. Maybe we could go over our scenes together? You know, to work on our chemistry and stuff.”

Jake glances over his shoulder at Lily, her left eyebrow now raised and her smile slightly faded. Jake wants to say no, thinking this would ruin his chance with Lily, but he has a responsibility as the lead. “Sure, sounds like a good idea,” he says reluctantly.

Isabella’s face lights up, and she leads him to a quiet corner of the stage. They sit down and open their scripts, about to begin their first scene together. However, they are quickly interrupted by Mr. Hastings calling the cast to center stage. Jake quickly joins the forming circle, sliding into the open spot next to Lily. He shoots her a crooked smile, and tries to start a friendly conversation. “Looks like we’re all set for an amazing show, huh.”

“Yeah, whatever.” Lily responds coldly, her tone edged with irritation. Jake, hurt, looks away in a shrug. I ruined it. Now I’ll never have a chance with her , Jake thinks to himself, forgetting to listen to the director's opening words.

“I SAID, Jake, time to dive into the first scene,” shouted Mr. Hastings, already showing his short temper. They are flying through the first few scenes and it’s time for Romeo and Juliet to take the stage together. Jake and Isabella take their places, facing each other on the stage. As they deliver their lines, it becomes painfully clear that something is off. Their interactions are awkward, their movements are stiff. The moment they are supposed to hold hands is ruined by Jake's recoil to Isabella’s sweaty palm.

“STOP,” barks Mr. Hastings. “This is supposed to be a moment of connection, not repulsion. From the top!” Jake sighs in frustration, and pushes through the scene. However, the awkwardness lingers, and his mind keeps wandering to Lily. After another hour of criticism from Mr. Hastings, the whole cast is on edge, and the initial excitement has fizzled into tension.

Rehearsal finishes and everyone starts to leave. Jake stands alone on the stage, feeling the weight of the practice pressing down on him. He just watches as Lily gathers her things and leaves without a word. Isabella lingers around the auditorium, casting hopeful glances Jake’s way.

Jake sighs, rubbing his temples. This is going to be a lot more complicated than I thought. -------------- The auditorium is starting to feel like a second home for the cast, as opening night is around the corner. The walls backstage are covered in posters, sketches, and set designs, showcasing all the hard work that has been put into the set. The play itself has also begun to take shape. The awkward interactions between Jake and Isabella become more natural, and, at moments, almost magical. The chemistry they display on stage breathes new life into their performance, and their energy is undeniable.

Jake starts to look forward to rehearsals after school, not just because of his character, but to spend more time with Isabella. His feelings for her are growing. Her initial shyness starts to melt away, revealing a passionate, witty, and charming girl. They spend hours together, on and off stage, running lines and exploring their characters, only to find they have a genuine connection.

This afternoon during rehearsal, Isabella and Jake perform their scene that had caused them trouble from the beginning. Now, when the time comes for their hands to touch, the whole room can feel the passionate energy. After the scene, Mr. Hastings claps his hands slowly together and says, “Bravo! Now where do you suppose this beautiful chemistry that blossomed tonight came from?” Isabella beams, barely containing her excitement. “Well,” she says looking up at Jake, her eyes sparkling. “We went out on a date to get to know each other better.”

Jake feels his stomach flip when she says “date.” Annoyed at how fast she’s moving, he realizes he doesn’t like her as much as he previously thought. He chuckles nervously, shaking his head. “It wasn’t really a date.” The room grows tense and awkward, whispers spreading around the auditorium. Isabella’s face falls, her smile fading and cheeks turning pink. “Come on, Jake. It was kind of a date.”

Jake feels the heat rise in his cheeks, and in frustration he says a bit too loudly, “No, it wasn’t, Isabella. We were just rehearsing.” The room turns silent. The cast and crew members exchange wide eyes as they watch this interaction. Isabella’s expression hardens, her frustration growing as she takes a step closer to Jake. “Why are you being like this?” She says through her teeth.

“Because this isn’t just about us.” The words tumble out of Jake faster than he can process. “This is about the play, and how you even got the lead in the first place.” “What are you talking about?” Isabella sneers, in a much too defensive tone. “I’m talking about how you bribed Mr. Hastings into getting the lead! All I want to know is why,” says Jake. All eyes turn to Mr. Hastings, whose face now resembles a beet. He opens his mouth to speak, but no words come out. Tears well up in Isabella’s eyes, and she has no idea what to do with herself.

“Is this true?” Someone whispers, breaking the heavy silence.

“I just wanted to get close to you,” Isabella chokes through her tears. “I didn’t mean for it to get out of hand. I really really like you, Jake.” “I can’t do this anymore!” Mr. Hastings cries, as the students' heads turn quickly back to him. “I am sick and tired of the lies. The truth is…I am a collector.”

Confused looks spread across the students’ faces.

“I collect antique stage props from Broadway. When I see one, I can’t help myself. And when Isabella came to me, a one of a kind Phantom of the Opera mask was being sold for a price I could not afford on my own. Don’t look at me like that, I know it was a mistake and I deeply apologize.”

Mr. Hastings looks around the room one last time, watching as the cast snickers and whispers to each other. He feels pathetic. All at once, he gathers his things and storms out of the auditorium, papers flying behind him as he makes his dramatic exit. The room erupts into chaos, no voice can be heard over another. Accusations are flying, sounds of panic echo. Jake stands frozen in the center of it all, unable to process all of his emotions.

Jake storms off the stage and out the front door of the school. He needs fresh air to process everything that’s happened. The cool outside air washes over him, but does little to clear the turmoil in his head. He thinks about the irony of him trying out for a play just to get a girl, only for another girl to manipulate the show to get closer to him.

He sits on the concrete, his face between his knees. They are so close to opening night, and they are actually getting better. At this point, he doesn’t even know if there will be a play. -------------- The next day at rehearsal, the atmosphere is thick with uncertainty. Students walk around the room, distractedly running lines, and glancing nervously at the clock. Mr. Hastings is nowhere to be found, and speculations are swirling around the stage with what might happen next.

Jake sits alone on the edge of the stage, legs dangling, absentmindedly flipping through his script.

His thoughts are a tangled mess of anger and confusion as he sorts out last night’s revelations and tries to figure out how to move forward. The auditorium door creaks open, and all heads turn toward the entrance. A tall, middle aged woman, with sharp eyes and a confident smile strides in.

“Good morning everyone.” She begins, her voice steady and authoritative. “I’m Mrs. Thompson, and from here on out, I will be directing your production.” Murmurs ripple throughout the room. Jake exchanges a glance with Lily, causing butterflies to appear in his stomach. Isabella stands off in the corner, eyes downcast and face pale. She regrets even showing up, but there is something she has to do. In true director form, Mrs. Thompson claps her hands together loudly. “All right, all right. There are a few things we must discuss before we get started, so pay attention.”

Isabella steps forward, her voice trembling. “Before we start, I need to say something to all of you. I’m sorry. I realize now the hurt I caused because of my selfish goals. It was not fair and I understand if you guys are mad.” The cast threw sympathetic glances her way. “That is why I have decided to step down as Juliet, and let someone who truly deserves this opportunity have a chance.” There is a moment of stunned silence before Mrs. Thompson adds, “Thank you Isabella. We appreciate your acknowledgement. That was very mature. Now team, let's begin. Lily, I understand that you were the understudy for the role of Juliet. That deems you perfect in my eyes to fill this role. Do you think you can handle it?” “Yes, ma’am. Thank you for this chance!” Lily exclaims, determination shining in her eyes. The cast proceeds to go through warmups and prepare for the first run-through with the new changes.

Lily pulls Jake aside during warmups to a quieter side of the stage. “Hey,” she says with a genuine expression on her face. “I’ve been acting like a brat. I’m sorry. I was mad at the casting and took it out on you when it wasn’t your fault. Can we start over?” “Thanks Lily, this means a lot,” says Jake with a warm smile. “I’m Jake, and I am so excited we get to co-star in this play.” Lily giggles, throwing her head back. “Nice to meet you, I’m Lily. And we are going to rock this play.” When it comes time for their first scene together, Jake feels a mix of nerves and anticipation for how it will go over. Their hands touch for the first time, in the play and in real life, and there is a burst of passion and sparks that no one can deny. Their hands meet, not with clammy awkwardness, but with true connection and excitement. Their fingers intertwine perfectly, and their eyes lock, acknowledging all of their feelings for each other in a single look. Mrs. Thompson is on the edge of her seat in the audience, a huge smile spreading across her face. “That…was… IT, my darlings. Keep this up and we will be ready in no time.” Jake and Lily continue the scene, their movements fluid, and every line delivered with heartfelt emotion. It feels right, like this was how the show was always meant to be. Every touch, every glance is filled with a love and affection that could only be true. During this run-through, they are not acting. As the scene comes to an end, the rest of the cast erupts into applause, creating a unity and excitement that has not been felt in weeks.

Lily turns to Jake, overflowing with joy. “Wow, that was amazing. I don’t even know how to describe that, other than… right.” Jake nods, still feeling the rush of the moment. “Do you want to hang out after rehearsal?” Lily stands still. “Like a date?” Jake takes her hand and says, “Yes. Like a date.” She smiles shyly and nods her head yes. Rehearsal finishes stronger than it started. Everyone embraces the energy put forth by Jake and Lily’s connection, and experiences the best run-through yet of “Romeo and Juliet.” The journey to opening night is back on track, and the cast moves forward with a sense of excitement and solidarity, ready to bring their story to life on stage.

Jake and Lily walk out of the auditorium that day, hand in hand, ready to embrace the rest of their journey together.


Bohdan Kozak had lived on the outskirts of Kyiv all his life and he’d seen Russian tanks trundle past his front door before. Thirty-five years ago, his house had trembled on its foundations as dozens of heavy old Soviet T-62’s retreated East to Moscow. He could still recall the thunderous approach and the sulphurous fumes left in their wake. His wife, Oxana, had compared them to a flight of cantankerous dragons suffering from acute halitosis. They’d laughed at the time and brushed off their home’s minor structural damage as one of life’s unfortunate events. Deep down, both knew there’d be no apology and little recourse for redress; distress would get them nowhere. # Today’s return visit had started two days ago when the first platoon of shiny T-14 tanks had rumbled towards them, followed by support vehicles and A.P.C.’s packed with fresh-faced conscripts. The tanks travelled two abreast and were the head of a long column that disappeared into the far distance. There had been a news blackout. The local TV station had gone off the air. There was no explanation for the sudden appearance of Russian tanks. The old couple had no choice but to ignore the rumpus and hope the commotion would soon desist.

For two long hours, the couple’s windows rattled and the internal woodwork creaked as the mighty battalion ground its way towards the capital. Oxana resorted to burying her head under two feather pillows and Bohdan stuffed his ears full of cotton wool. Their precautions dimmed the racket to a certain degree, but did nothing to stop the house from complaining. Its timbers and beams shrieked as the weight of the passing cavalcade twisted and undermined the property’s fabric. After the din diminished, the house relaxed once again, and Oxana raised her head and gesticulated at Bohdan to check outside. Bohdan exhaled dramatically and shook his head as if he couldn’t believe what had happened. It was a relief that the commotion had stopped, but Bohdan had an unpleasant surprise. The noise had subsided; it was true, but that was because the endless line of armoured vehicles had come to a halt. Eight feet away from their front door, there was a solid wall of heavy metal; caterpillar tracks, armour plating and countless 125 millimetre cannons. # Clutching her ear protection to her chest, Oxana poked her nose past her lace curtains and peered out of her front room window. The stationary vehicles’ exhaust pipes coughed and spluttered noxious fumes and that was the only sign of life. However, as the afternoon drifted away, they heard orders barked, distant shouts and the crackle and splat of radio transmission.

The column remained motionless in front of their home and, by early evening, there was an eerie silence. All the engines had stopped belching out diesel fumes and as the sun dropped below the tree line, Bohdan detected nervous birdsong in the surrounding woodland. He recognised the familiar chirrup of a friendly blackbird, but it seemed more remote than usual. It was as if the creature had retreated to a safe distance, just in case. # Oxana fretted all afternoon, and Bohdan did his best to calm her. She’d made noises about an evening meal and said she couldn’t wait any longer.

“It’s no good,” she says at last, “one of us must collect the groceries.

Bohdan inhales with my mouth closed tight. “Mister Kalashnik’s store isn’t open all night and he’ll be closing his store soon,” Oxana says, presenting Bohdan with a list of groceries as though it was both a challenge and a commission to accept or be damned. Oxana had trained her husband well over their long marriage. Bohdan was an obliging fellow and his partnership to Oxana had flourished for four decades despite all the regime changes that had occurred over the years. He accepted her scrap of paper, double-checked the list of provisions, and saluted Oxana.

“I may be some time, my dear,” he says, hauling on his outer coat and knotting his scarf.

Oxana pinches his long, straight nose. “Now, don’t you stop on the way and get talking to any strangers,” she says, pursing her lips and frowning. “I won’t,” he says, clapping his hands together. # There was a fug of wood smoke outside the house, and Russian voices echoed up and down the column of static metal boxes. Bohdan shuffled up his short garden path, closed the gate behind him and edged his way past the convoy towards the village.

It was a pleasant ten-minute walk on most days, depending on the weather or any local impediments. The rolling pastures beyond the pine trees support cattle and it’s not uncommon for a herd of Ukrainian Greys to delay a trip to Mister Kalashnik’s store. Milking times occur at regular intervals during a working day and all traffic stops when they cross the road. Bohdan wondered if there’d been any cows traversing the tarmac today or if they’d abandoned the milking schedule.  # Mister Kalashnik is folding his metal chairs and coffee tables outside his store.

“Hey, Kalashnik!” Bohdan says, checking his list again. “Had a busy day?” “Busy day?” He asks. “It’s always a busy day. I’m busy here and busy there and I’m busy everywhere.” “Is that good business?”

“I’m always busy in my business and any business is always good.” Bohdan enters the premises and places his wicker basket on the counter.

“You have Oxana’s list for me?” “You know me too well, Mister Kalashnik.” “I can supply most things, but…” He scratches his chin. “Business today has been---”

“Busy?” Bohdan asks, frowning. “But we live here and---” “I can’t turn away extra business and today I’ve had an extra busy day.” “We’ll take what ever is available.”

“I’ve had a run on toilet rolls and flour is in short supply, too.” “Milk and butter?” He shakes his head. “Bread?” “Yesterday’s only.” “You have been busy.” “That’s business.” # Today’s unwelcome visitors have lingered longer than expected.

We do not know when they’ll leave or in which direction they’ll depart. The End


Just looking for critique on anything really . The story is by no means finished but I'm finding getting feedback rather difficult. Anything would be gratefull be it structure, naration, bloody grammar ..... anything would be welcome.   **Augur** We all have that little voice inside our heads. That running commentary, a play by play of what could be and what could have been. The constant drone that just keeps playing scene after scene, never ending, keeping you awake till the small hours of the morning. Getting up for work the next day after only 3 hours of sleep, feeling exhausted but that little bastard voice just starts right up again. Playing out how shit your day is going to be. How you are so tired you have no idea how you will manage to even get through this day never mind this week, this month, this year, this life…. The incessant replay of that time you were flirting with the girl you’ve been crushing on. Her joking, you laughing, then her silence. The look of shock and utter disgust on her face, some strange green slime totally covering her face and hair. You wondering where the hell this vile shit came from, only then to realise it was you. You laughed so hard trying to impress her, you blew your whole fucking nose worth of snot all over her. You now never leave the house without at least two packs of travel tissues. Forever blowing your nose, people have started calling you Rudolph behind your back. How about the upcoming work appraisal, imagining and reimagining every moment in your head. Telling your boss exactly how much you are undervalued. How you are such an important member of the team, and you are not receiving both the recognition, and the compensation of somebody so vital to the operation. Imagining every possible scenario in your head, creating every argument and counter argument. Seeing exactly how this scene will play out, your boss finally overcome by your reason, admits defeat and agrees to all your terms. You are victorious, supreme, and master of your destiny. While in reality you agree to more work and less pay, furthering your degradation. But every now and then that little voice inside your head gets it right, fills you with hope. That maybe this time things will change, things will be different. You might start living the life you always knew you were meant to live. That maybe you can make a difference, maybe you can *be* the difference. It was at the age of thirteen, lying in bed getting ready to go to sleep when my first vision of what was to come happened. The scene that kept replaying in my head was about my baby brother. He had just started walking, you know what they are like at that age; stumbling around like a drunk who’s been trying their hardest to forget the miserable existence that is the cycle of their waking lives, while they slowly kill themselves with booze. Up steady on their feet one minute, the next thing they are face planting the pavement. Except the pavement for my baby brother was a Boerboel, our guard dog. It stood 72cm high at its shoulders, 92Kgs of pure muscle with a bite force of 800psi it was an absolute monster of a dog. In slow motion time and again watching my baby brother falling face first into this beast of nature, hitting it square in the head. The dog, startling awake, lashing out in defence, biting my baby brother in the head. Red velvet streaks flying across the air, wails of excruciating pain come from what is left of my brother’s head and face. This felt so real, this was going to happen. Running to my mother in floods of tears telling her what my mind’s eye had conjured up, she soothed and hugged me, reassuring me that it was just a nightmare. “Everything is all ok. Look, there is your baby brother right there”. He was stumbling around the living room coffee table, and then in a flash it happened. The exact same scene played out, cut for cut just like it did in my head. It wasn’t the dog’s fault to be fair, it was trained to kill, that was its job, to protect the household. He was just frightened and did what comes naturally to all animals’ instinct of self-protection. That didn’t stop my father taking it out back and shooting it. My brother never fully recovered from the attack. His head permanently looking like a dented in ping pong ball. Brain damaged, paralysed down the right side of his body and missing his left eye. Later on that year a few days before Christmas it was visions of my younger cousin. Her cheeks started becoming mottled red with the capillaries turning a purplish-blue. Her nose transforming into a two tone Blueberry Vanilla ice lolly. Lips turning a blue black as the cyanosis took hold. Tears started to stream out of her bulging eyes. Mouth gagging open and closed but no sound came out. Her hands frantically tearing at her throat. Her father rushing to her side. Grabbing and leaning her over his leg. Pounding her on the back so hard I swore I could hear the vertebrae in her back cracking with every hit. Every year the family spent Christmas day at my grandparents’ house. My mother’s brother and sister would bring their families along, which added up to nine kids running around. It didn’t take long for an opportunity for me to try and warn my younger cousin of her impending doom. Needless to say she ran off crying to her mother screaming that she was going to die. It was during the fallout when it happened. She always had liked the taste of metallic things. Forever sucking on old coins, metal buttons, badges... This time it was a beer twist off cap. The doctor says the serrated edge embedded itself between the back of her throat and the epiglottis. The only way to save her would have been a tracheotomy. None of the family were medically trained and it took the paramedics twenty minutes to get there, so in reality there was no chance of saving her.


A giant snowstorm happened overnight and there was so much snow outside that you couldn't open the door without sinking into a giant snowdrift. This was a major deal since we haven't had that much snow well, in forever! Nobody would be going anywhere today, Kara decided.  Shawn and Adam would have to do some major work on the driveway before they could even venture out on the roads to go to work. She was excited! Not that she loved snow, on the contrary.  She hated the cold and the snow and would much rather be at the beach any day and have 90 degree weather but at times, it was rather fun to be snowed in when you didn't have anywhere you had to go and everyone was home with you. Never in her wildest dreams did she think her day would end up the way it did. It all started when Adam ended up being sick and Kara grudgingly helped Shawn with the driveway because she hated seeing him out there all by himself all cold and miserable.  Then, when they were done, he got some crazy idea in his head that they should sled ride over the hill since they were already cold, wet and miserable.  "Why not make some fun out of it", he said. "When was the last time we did anything in the snow?" She smiled and said "That would never" "Exactly he said, trust me, it'll be fun and we can get in the hot tub and warm up afterwards" "Ok, Ok, just for a few mins" Kara agreed. They dug the sled out of their shed and set off over the hill.  Before they knew it, they were going at a crazy, almost warp like speed and Kara thought to herself that something didn't seem right.  Then, they were spiraling through what looked like a portal and Shawn turned and looked at her for a split second with a look that said he was as confused as she was and the next thing they knew, they landed on a sand dune on the beach by their favorite vacation spot. And there were the kids, playing in the water and building a sandcastle.  They sat there for a minute looking dazed and confused and stared at each other.  Because the kids were little. Like really little.  And that morning when they left to go on their little sled ride, Adam was 20 years old.  Now he was 6.  And Abby was 4.  Somehow, they had traveled back through time and were on their first beach vacation together with the kids back in the year 2007, when the two of them first met! They both started talking to each other at once "What did this mean? Kara asked" "How did we get here and how do we get back? she said" and the big question "does this mean my dad is still alive?" and Shawn said " What happens if something doesn't go right and it changes the path of the rest of our lives if we don't get it right on the way back?" "OK, let's think" said Kara "The kids don't seem affected at all, they were just here, like nothing was wrong. Is this an alternate reality?" One where time stands still?" Shawn thought for a bit and said "I don't know, but let's try to find out what's going on and see how we get back." They went over to the kids and it was as if nothing was wrong or out of place or that they didn't just come from a portal where another world existed, which made it even more baffling to them. It was so strange to see the kids so little and so refreshing at the same time. Almost like starting over again! But they knew the outcome of how they would be 14 years later! It was so surreal. They were so proud of them and even more so knowing how good they were going to to turn out as adults. Kara asked Shawn if she thought that they had to remember everything they did on this vacation in order to get back home again to the year 2020 and he said that he thought about that and he didn't think so. He thought it was strange though that there weren't alternates of themselves in this reality, just of the kids. And they wondered why that was and the reason for that. Kara looked alarmed and said "do you think something happened to us?" and he said "no, or we wouldn't still be in our alternate reality of 2020." Then he asked Adam and Abby if we had been here all along and they looked at him strangely and said "yes, Daddy, why would you ask that?" He looked at Kara and said "well, that answers that, we now exist in two worlds." Somehow, when we took that sled ride this morning, we tumbled into this reality and got the chance to see ourselves in 2007 when we first met and on our first vacation with the kids when they were so little. Now we know that we will always exist in both worlds and life has new meaning. While we are here, you should call your Dad and see if he is still alive. Then we will really know" Kara looked at him pensively.  She said "Do you really think he is?" and he handed her the phone and said "call" she took it and called her mom and then her Dad's voice answered and she started crying and laughing at the same time. She looked at Shawn and said "This is the best day ever". After they talked and it started to get dark, they decided that they better try to get back home.  They took the sled and went back in the direction they came and gave it and giant push into the sand dune they arrived in and sure enough, they started hurtling through the portal once again and they looked at each other in amazement. Before they knew it, they were back in their snowy backyard and back home. It was dark and almost midnight! So much time had passed.  Adam had been frantically looking for them and was about to send out a search party.  He looked at them and said "Where have you been? I've been so worried about you!" and Shawn said "you'll never believe us if we tell you but we are so glad to see you, son. We love you"


The door knob twisted silently. The only thing that told the room's occupant that it had moved was the small click of the latch. The door, swinging open, moved just as quietly. A tall, pale, man entered the small room. The heels of his boots echoing on the tiled floor. The occupant, Darius, looked up at the footsteps. It was different from the soft beeping of the heart monitor to his right. His wrinkled hands shook as he closed the book he had been reading. He shifted slightly allowing him to sit up higher in his bed. This visit was expected. He had been waiting for it ever since he entered the hospital. The Man before him was exceptionally well dressed. A tailored three piece suit, black, covered his thin frame. A silver chain led from one pocket to under his suit jacket. He had a long overcoat, also black, draped over his left arm. In his right hand he held a cane. It was long to match his height, and it had an elongated, sharply curved handle running parallel to the floor. His face was smooth skinned with no beard or mustache. The brim of his hat covered his eyes as he looked over his cane. "So you have finally come for me," Darius spoke. His voice, once deep and robust, was now thin and frail. The Man looked up. Black eyes focused on him. He missed a breath. Those eyes were fathomless, and old. They had seen things he couldn't imagine, and now they were trained on him. "You can see me?" The Man asked. His voice was smooth and carried supreme confidence. Despite the surprise his statement implied, his face showed none of the emotion. He seemed more curious than anything. It was the first time Darius had ever heard him speak, but it was not the first time he had seen him. "Yes I can. I have my whole life," he replied. Reaching over he laid his book on the small bedside table. It rocked every so slightly on its wheels as he touched it. "Interesting." Silence fell between the two. The only sound filling the room was the steady rhythm of the heart monitor. He didn't know what else to say, and the Man seemed content in his silence. Darius thought back. Back to the first times he saw the Man, or at least the first time he remembered. The sterile smell of the hospital room faded; the musty smell of an old trailer house filled his nose. His mother had been passed out in her room; sleeping off whatever she had gotten high on. He had been left to fix the little food that was left in the house, and could be cooked by an eleven year old. His younger brother and sister waited eagerly at the table for the boiled potatoes he had managed to make. Having saved a few for his mother, he brought a plate back to her room. There before him was his mom, foam on her lips, unmoving on her bed. Standing over her was a tall thin man. He looked from his mother to the Man then back to his mother. The lights flickered, and the intruder was gone. He dropped the food, rushing to his mother. Screaming her name and shaking her arm. She didn’t wake up. From then on he could always see the Man around in seemingly random places: on a busy intersection, standing outside a house, or waiting at a construction site. It was years before he had another direct run in. After his mother was gone, the three children had moved in with their father. He had enjoyed the government check he got for them as much as their mother had. Finally he was able to afford all the booze he wanted to drink, and drink he did. At the age of fifteen the Man had visited Darius' house once more. This time to see his father who had spent the last few days on a bender. The Man had walked straight past the front door and behind the children. Darius had looked up from the TV to watch him go by. He stood to follow, but couldn't make his legs move. Something about the Man's back, retreating from him, told him not to go. His brother and sister didn't seem to notice; the cartoons were too interesting. He sat back down on the faded couch slowly as a door in the hallway closed. The three had been moved into foster care the next day. It was around that time that Darius was old enough to figure out what he was seeing. What the Man meant. From that point on anytime he saw him, he turned and went the other way. Running from what he knew he was seeing. The Man visited more than a few of his neighbors. He clocked out early when his workplace received a visit; that place had been shut down shortly after and he had to find a new job. When his sister had followed in their mother's footsteps; ending up in the hospital for her drug of choice. The Man had come to visit. He had seen him enter his sister's room. To his shame, fear overwhelmed him. He couldn't bring himself to enter his sister's room. He stood in the middle of the hall staring at the door as the alarms started blaring. Only moving when a nurse pulled him aside as doctors tried to rush around him. The Man visited his friends, his family, and even his late wife. Now he was visiting him. Darius came back to the present. The hospital smell returned. The clock showed only seconds had passed. The Man was still standing before him; a pleased smile on his face. "Many who meet me have their lives flash before their eyes. I try to give them time to process it," the Man's voice filled the silence. "I feared you," he began. Ignoring the statement. "I did everything in my power to avoid you." "That is very common." "Then I hated you." "That is also very common," that statement carried a hint of dejection. "I hated you for what you took from me: my mother, my father, my family, my wife. I spent almost all of my years believing you were evil. "And now?" "And now," Darius sighed. "Now I believe you were there to give them peace. To lead them to the other side." The Man's face seemed to brighten. "Never did I think to meet someone who could see me," the Man said. "Let alone one so understanding." "Do I have time to call my children before you take me?" The Man pulled on the chain coming from his pocket. A watch appeared. With a press of a finger it opened and he examined it. "Unfortunately, no," the Man apologized before making a suggestion. "If you want more time you can always challenge me to a game of your choice." "No, it's okay. I am ready." "Very well," the Man approached. His footsteps echoed loudly over the floor. When he reached the bed he moved his cane to his left and reached out. "For what it is worth I am sorry." "It's okay old friend. Take me home." The heart monitor stopped beeping.


Another sleepy morning in Clayton. Clayton is a small town. So small, the morning breakfast coffee shop, lunch deli, and late night saloon are all the same place. (Late night being 10:30pm weekdays, 11pm weekends.) I’m Benji. I own/run the aforementioned establishment, named (you’ll never guess . . .) “Benji’s”. It’s just after 10am, the vacation travelers passing through (well, when there are any), the farmers having done the morning’s chores, and the old retired gang, are the ones filling the establishment at the moment. All two of them today. The door chime rings, “Morning Joe.”, I say, “The usual?” “I’d hate to break tradition. Breakfast Tea, and throw a cheese danish in the microwave a few seconds, if you have one.”, Joe responds. Joe joins Roger and Anna at the bar. Roger and Anna are having coffee’s. Over the years, Joe’s almost turned me from a coffee person to a breakfast tea person. Not totally, but almost. Roger and Anna are updating each other with their children, now all moved away from Clayton. “So Roger, how’s the daughter?”, Anna asks. “Good, good. Well, some days are better than others. She loves being an obstetrician, bringing new life into the world. She’s got a real knack for knowing what they’re feeling, even when they’re too young to tell you anything. Some of it is training, but a lot is natural instinct. Thursday was hard for her. Lost two on the same day. One preemie, expected, that had been on the edge for a while, and one in the ER. Accidental overdose. Just a few seconds looking away, and it got into some cleaner the mother left out. Everyone was hysterical and heartbroken.”, Roger grimaces, “I’m afraid the same natural instinct that lets her know what they are experiencing, makes the pain of the losses even deeper.” “She’s able to cope with it though?” “Yeah, she still runs whenever she can to clear her head, and there’s a psychotherapist near the hospital that sees several of the staff. Try and help then deal with the losses, and keep their personal lives on track.” “How about Melinda?”, Roger asks Anna about her daughter. “Oh, she’s doing well. Still doing materials research at the MIT Nuclear Research Reactor. They irradiate isotopes for medical treatments, but lately she’s been testing new carbon nano-somethings for new reactor designs. They can’t generate power, but they can blast samples researchers send them, to see how they’ll stand up to the environments in a real power reactor. There’s a lot more to it than that. She’s tried to explain a few times, but that’s the most I ever get.” “Now, she’s done now right?” “Graduated? Right, she finished her Doctorate, and just stayed on as full time researcher for the university.” I look out the front window and see Doc Bradley passing by. “How about you Joe? Is Maxwell ready to scoop you off to his private island yet?”, Anna kids Joe. “No, not yet. He’s still working part time at the bar and grill in the Topeka, and part time managing his growing investments. Had a big positive hit on some tech stocks a year or so ago.”, Joe replies. “So he’s Day Trading?”, I ask. “No, he says not. There are too many rules about cashing out at the end of the day and such that go against his instincts. He describes himself as more of a Swing Trader. He’s searching for those stocks he can hold onto for two to three weeks, and then have a few days window to sell for a profit. Or the ‘cyclical's’. Oil Rigs are one of the best examples. They eat and eat and eat money for months, then BANG they’re producing and you get all the investment-time back and more so. Of course it’s not always a BANG, sometimes it’s a fizzle . . . The trick is knowing which companies will be more Bang than Fizzle, and he’s turning out to be pretty good at it.” Doc is just standing in front of the store now, one arm across his chest, bracing the other one he’s resting his chin on. I cup my hands around my mouth and yell “Hey Doc.” At the door. Bradley turns, and comes on in. Pulling up a seat at the bar between Joe and Roger. “Hi.”, he says quietly. Everyone is quiet a moment, seeing if Doc has anything to say to the group, as I slide over a cup of coffee. “Awful long look you have there Doc. What’s wrong?”, I ask. “Sarah and I, we’re . . . Aliens.”, he says. “Not the kind from Mexico I take it.”, Joe asks. “No, not the kind from Mexico.”, Bradley looks ahead. Joe snaps his fingers behind Bradley’s back, and holds out his flat hand to Roger. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll bring you the $20 tomorrow.”, Roger says. “Pffft, like you’ll remember.”, Joe snorts and draws his hand back. Bradley looks at Roger, Anna, Joe, then me. “You mean you knew?”, he asks me. “’Knew’, no we didn’t ‘know’. But there were strong suspicions.”, I wipe drops of spilled coffee off the wooden bar. “You and Sarah have both been here too long, and still look too young. Heck, my father used to call you ‘Ole Doc Bradley’. That, and some of the people in town you’ve saved over the years. We always wondered if you knew a few things the local doctors didn’t. And you’ve had such a range of knowledge, whether it’s battling a flu outbreak, farming, or fixing microwaves and TV’s, you just had a strange depth and breadth of knowledge.” “After all these years, why tell us now?”, I shrug. “It’s Sarah,” (Doc’s wife) “she’s dying.” Everyone sits their cups down and turns to the Doc to listen. “I didn’t know she was sick.”, Anna asks for the group. “She’s been sick the entire time you’ve known us. I’ve just been able to keep it at bay. But time is running out.” Joe put a hand on Bradley’s shoulder, “You’ve treated us all for decades. Seen us inside and out. What’s wrong with Sarah?” “It’ll be hard to explain. There’s no word for it here.”, Doc looks up at me, then back at the coffee cup I’ve just passed to him on the counter. “You know back in the old West days, when they’d talk of people having Tuberculosis leaving New York, or Chicago, or somewhere, and going to Arizona for their health? It’s like that for Sarah. Only, we didn’t come from New York, and it’s not TB.” “Chemical sensitivity to something in the atmosphere. We can live to be near 1300 earth years, under good conditions. But Sarah was looking at only two more years back home. Coming here, the different atmosphere got rid of eighty percent of the problem, but I still had to give her treatments from the ship every few months to keep it fully at bay. The Uranium core fell below drive system levels decades ago, so we can’t leave, but it was still enough to irradiate the Thorium . . . which I used for her treatments. She was doing so much better, I thought she would last another hundred and seventy five years, and let us pass at around the same time. But the Uranium has totally depleted now, and the last of the Thorium is dropping below usable levels. I can’t keep up the treatments.” Roger and Joe both have their hands on Doc’s shoulders now. “So you need Thorium?”, I ask. Doc harrumphed, “No. I HAVE Thorium. I have TWO fricking TONS of fertile Thorium, but it needs to be irradiated into U-233 to power the isotope generator, and the core Uranium has depleted, so I can’t irradiate the Thorium again.” “Two tons? How much does depleted Thorium go for?” “Depleted, raw out of the ground? About $150 per ounce.”, Bradley says, resting his elbows on the bar, and putting his face in his hands. I grab the calculator from behind the bar, place it on the counter. “So”, glasses down on my nose, I’m mumbling out loud while punching numbers, “2 tons, times 2000 pounds per ton, times 16 ounces per pound, times $150 per ounce is . . .”, pressing the last numbers and squinting at the display, “$9.6 million in Thorium.” “How much of it do you need irradiated to treat Sarah to finish your lives together?” “About ten percent.”, Bradley moves his hands back to the coffee cup, and looks up at me. “So”, punching again, “ten percent irradiated and returned to you, and ninety percent of $9.6 million is an $8.64 million ‘gift’ for some company or organization to do the irradiating and keep the whole thing on the down-low.” “Anna,”, I pause, “. . . just how well does Melinda get along with the people where she works?”, I ask. “Way ahead of you.”, Anna says, having placed her phone on the bar, dials and puts it on speaker-phone. “Hi Mom.”, Melinda answers, “Is everything OK, you don’t usually call during the day?”, sounding worried. “No your father and I are fine. I just needed to ask you something. You remember Doc Bradley that did your emergency appendectomy don’t you?” Melinda giggles, “You mean the one that everyone at Benji’s thought was an Alien? Yeah why?” “Yeah, it’s funny you should mention that . . . “, Anna says.


Before him was a program of his own creation, running, 'life.exe'. He had been working on it for so long now, but there was still an infinite number of problems with the executable. No matter how hard and long he worked on it, there seemed to be an infinite flow of issues surfacing on a daily, if not hourly basis. The biggest problem right now was the procedure 'free_will()', which was meant to enhance and automate a large part of the experience. Unfortunately, he made a mistake somewhere along the way. Somehow it kept overriding other procedures like 'faith()' and 'morality()', to the point any of his other subroutines didn't even matter anymore. Other aspects of his program where fine and were always doing exactly what he expected, but it was designed to do exactly what he wanted it to do. But the new mob he introduced, 'humanity' was at constant conflict with everything else. There was a non-stop log of syntax errors showing up after he started to program humanity. It was never enough to crash the world he had created, but it caused all new problems, conflicts in the system he had never anticipated that flowed into other areas of his source. Perhaps he had made a mistake and slipped in a semicolon somewhere it didn't belong? It'd take him eons to go over the source to make sure. For now though, he got up and stretched his lanky body. Perhaps he should listen to his Father, Yahweh. He was right, he needed to get out of the basement every once and awhile and do something else. He left the program run on the computer as he climbed the basement steps, he'd come back to it another day.


Travelling between galaxies is dangerous. Dark abysses plague every universe's sky, leaking in between the warm lights emitted from stars. They hold silent terrors history themself hesitate to inscribe. Stories of murderous marauders, hungry for chaos and destruction, alongside fiend's that feast on black holes call these dimensions home, and only the bravest of travelers take these spaces as feasible travel routes. Or they have unlimited stupidity. "Oh my stars," a blue haired creature groaned, retching as she clamped a hand over her mouth. "What in the Andromedian galaxy did we drink last night?" "Whatever it was, her stars would be disappointed…" Lox mumbled, trailing his gaze from the shards of crystal bottles scattered across the spacecraft’s floor. Ignoring his friend’s complaint’s, the captain turned his blurry gaze across the cramped space to the control screen, only to take a double take.

"What the-" "I’m seeing doubles… Lox, pass me a pack of aqua, would you?"

"Shut your snout for a sec," Lox snapped, stumbling up and hovering against the monitor with wide eyes. Blue snarled, sitting up to reveal a bush of messy hair and her eyes a vivid green. She stretched, sighing as she swiped her forked tongue across her canines. "My canines are sore, and I'm hungry; watch your tongue. Do we have any more froshlins?" "No, we ran out a few days ago... Blue, listen, can you pull out the map from the cabinet behind the table? Just press that silver circle over there, a knob should pop out..." Blue grumbled but complied. She awkwardly jumped from the bed to the cabin floor with a muted thump as Lox took a seat at the control panel, activating all the buttons with a flick of a switch. Blue skipped between the sharp shards of crystal and sat on the small table, avoiding the benches on either side and opened the cabinet while tilting her head.

"Alright, we’ve got Jimeln, Idop, Theresa…" “Uh, those are universes right?” “No, planets; do your homework, man.” "Alright, try to find... one for in between planets." "In between? What do you mean, in between planets?" "I mean, you have space in between planets... to travel from one planet to another, you need directions too..." "I guess, but it's pretty straightforward no? Just follow the sun rays reflecting off the surface of the planet..." Blue trailed off, turning back around to find Lox's jaw tighten. "Or you follow the coordinates.” Silence.

“Why do you need a map?" "... I was just wondering..." "Lox? Why aren't you following the coordinates?" Lox swallowed and leaned forward to clench a lever, glancing back with a flash of disdain in his gaze. Blue stared back, slipping off the table whilst her heart clenched. Lox sighed and pulled, letting the protection blinds part with a high pitched blare. Blue flinched at the lack of sun, and shuddered as she realized they were in pitch darkness.

In the middle of nowhere.

"Lox," Blue spoke in a hush, as if not daring to raise her voice. "I thought you put it on autopilot..." "I did , I don't know why the craft-" “No, no no no,” Blue muttered, tangling her claws in her hair. “Lox this is bad, this is so bad…” Lox buried his face in his hands. “I know.”

Blue scampered up to his seat, clutching the back of it. “Lox, you don’t get it, this is awful! There’s no getting out, we’re stuck here with who knows what! We’re prey!” "Calm down, we'll figure this out," Lox fiddled with a few knobs, and the rush of air drumming from the small vent immediately quieted down. "We'll save our energy, toss any unimportant loads and try to radio a vessel to come get us." "Who other than extraterrestrials and scavengers are out here?" Blue hissed, forcing Lox's chair around. She slammed two hands on either side of her captain, looking him dead in the eye as her eyes turned a fire orange colour. L:ox instantly put his hands up, knowing full well Blue could bite through his delicate human skin in a fraction of a heartbeat. "L-Listen to me," Lox stammered, his brain going on autopilot. "If you kill me, you lose a captain." Blue growled once more, leaning in close as Lox glanced down. She flexed her claws once more before shoving herself back and stalking to the back of the cabin. Lox sighed in relief as she began cleaning up; she turned quiet when she cleaned, and he needed all the silence he could get. He would have to figure out how to contact creatures in the middle of nowhere. That term isn't wrong. The black voids of nothingness has been lovingly nicknamed Nowhere by regular travellers. Nowhere wasn't easy to slip into; if you saw a light source that wasn't yours, you were still somewhere. You had a guide, a promise of warmth and shelter and energy. Out in Nowhere, you are only a speck of matter, with no purpose to anything alive. Scavengers and monsters hiding in it's gloom aren't considered matter, not even plasma. They are unknown of. No names, rumours or myths about them are written down anywhere. Their existence is not to be talked about, because the creatures living in light are scared. How do they survive in the night? How do they survive- no, not just survive, they thrive, and conquer. Countless planets have been overrun, taken apart and ripped to shreds by those hungry souls; and the innocent’s history dies with them, as no living creature acknowledges the evil that appeared there that day. No one would share any information, no matter how small, about these creatures. That thought alone made being stuck in Nowhere all the more terrifying.

* * * “Any luck?” Lox rested his forehead against the wall, letting out a sad sound while caressing his beard. “Absolutely nothing.” “Don’t really know what we expected,” Blue muttered, hopping from her top bunk.

Hours passed dreadfully slow, the two travellers accepting their fate. After riding forward for an indescribable amount of time, Blue shut off the engine and shook her head when Lox glanced up from his will. There was no use wasting plasma that kept their airflow generator going. After dimming their lights, they sat at the table, planning out their rations for one another. They’ve done this countless times; they’ve been stranded inside a planet, waiting out a meteor storm that goes on for one hundred days. The two have been stranded in large bodies of water, in deserts, jungles, in war torn globes and world’s choked with poverty and danger. They survived them all, but the vast opens of space?

Lox and Blue have met their match. “I’ve always wanted to settle down, you know?” Lox glanced up from his lukewarm drink, watching Blue’s eyes turn a dark, broken blue. “I know I’m the last of my species, but… starting a family, watching them grow and stay on the same planet, a safe globe with a solid atmosphere…” “I’m sorry.” Lox murmured. “If I hadn’t been a bad captain and stopped the ship, we wouldn’t be here.” “I know,” Blue sighed, a flicker of dark pink appearing in her irises. “You’re such a lousy captain, we-” The ship buckled to the side, tossing Lox against his seat and Blue’s stomach into the table. Wheezing, she glanced around as her eyes turned yellow with fear as they began to get tugged into a direction. Nobody found them.

“Come here, come here,” Lox coughed, catching Blue as she jumped into his arms. “Hey, it’ll be quick, I promise…” Blue buried his face into his chest, nails digging into his bicep and drawing blood. Lox buried his nose into her hair, breathing in her scent and doing the one habit he took from Earth; pray. As he uttered words under his breath, the ship shuddered to a stop. Lox held his breath as Blue clutched him even tighter. Whether they were in a pirate fleet or a mouth, he hoped their deaths would be swift.

A shudder, then an unmistakable sound of a powerful engine rattled the walls. Lox winced. Scavengers.

Or were they? As the engine shook the walls, Lox felt the familiar rise in his chest and the rush to his head. Blue whined, a rare sound, as she shook her head; her ears were being strained. Atom hopping, a complicated way to travel vast spaces. A deafening crack sounded throughout the cabin, and the pair were launched to the floor as they stopped abruptly. Blue gave a grunt as Lox landed on her, and he stuttered.

“Sorry, sorry, are you okay?” “I’m fine-” “Here, give me your hand-” “Oh my moon, did I do that to your arm ?” “Blue-” “I’m sorry, I think we-” Lox grabbed Blue’s head and turned it to the front of the spacecraft. Blue’s jaw dropped, her tongue slipping out of her mouth. Lox stood, admiring the most beautiful planet he's ever seen. Glowing plants, or water or creatures dotted the planet in gorgeous blue’s and green’s, as if inviting travellers. Paying no attention to the puncture wounds, he began swiftly fiddling with the spacecraft’s controls when Blue tugged at his jacket. Lox gave a glance in her direction, only to take a double take. A bigger, older spacecraft floated next to them, clearly old and rebuilt with scavenged parts. “A pirate ship,” Blue whispered.

“They… saved us?” The pair stared as the ship powered up their engine and began blundering further from them. The craft did not fly away, or disappear; it simply was not there anymore. Atom hopping at it’s finest. The rest of Blue’s and Lox’s waking hours passed in a blur; they found a landing center and were greeted by tender-hearted creatures called Hollyan's, who whimpered in shock and scurried around on their small paws to treat Lox’s injuries. Their squeaks were translated by Blue, who respectfully kept her eyes downcast. “My kind used to hunt them,” she whispered to Lox. “After four wars, we have made peace only a millennium ago.” After explaining their situation, Blue and Lox were escorted to a small hollow near a gorgeous freshwater lake, where the Hollyan's graciously encouraged the pair to drink from and catch creatures to eat. Their planet was plentiful and protected, a quiet refuge for war-battered survivors fleeing different planets. After thanking them, Lox stumbled into the underground home and collapsed on the moss bed, sighing in relief. Blue followed suit, curling up next to him as she fell unconscious after a satisfied sigh. As Lox glanced out the small window to the night sky, he couldn’t help but give a tiny amazed smile.

A fleet of Nobody’s have saved them from Nowhere.


Note: This story contains notions of addiction and sexual violence For nearly 20 years I solemnly perched on my twig-like swing, day after changeless day, singing melancholy melodies. My feathered bodice, once vibrant, shiny, and tamed, turned lackluster and disheveled at best. Long ago, I was a young, adventurous, and naive little hatchling. Nothing struck me as dangerous or frightening until a concealed felon decided to take advantage of my innocent undisturbed life. Little did I know that moment in time would etch away at my internal being and morph me into a helpless little blue bird.

My child-like state did not realize the ramifications of following you to your nest that night. You lured me in with ease by glamorizing your nest; detailing jewels of beauty, golds speckles across the delicate imported twigs, and moss as soft as clouds. Stealthily, you tricked me into believing that you had something of incredible rarity to dazzle me with back at your luxurious home. “What an exceptional opportunity,” I thought, so I abandoned my zone of safety just for you—excited for something magical.

Your nest was set in a secluded area and truly was as captivating as you had described. Filled with unique décor and iridescent items, I was not disappointed. They were beautiful, but later I realized they were items collected from prior victims.

A natural predator, you waited until the right moment to execute your strike. Once I was under a dazed-like spell, unaware of nothing but the charm of my surroundings, you struck your prey. More agile than I, you had me in your piercing talons instantly. Harshly pinned against the twigs and leaves you inserted yourself into me despite my cries. I attempted to claw against you as you violated me, but your strength was overpowering. Clawed down, body immobile, seconds went by like hours. Eventually I stopped trying to fight you. I knew I could not defeat your sickly desires and I grew tired of your bladed beak perforating every part of me every time I fought back. Just like all your other victims, you chained me to a cage so you could continue to batter me and my soul, until there was nothing left to take. Afraid of further harm, I let you continue to take advantage of me. The nest was so hidden, no noble flock could hear my cries. It was apparent that I needed to learn a way to survive the cage of horror.

Since I was alone, except for when in your company, I decided to create a version of a friend. A friend that possessed unique qualities. One unique power was that it could shape-shift into many forms to attend to my ever-changing needs. It provided feelings of numbness, emptiness, and the feeling of nothingness that I craved. It could even make me invisible at times, so I could hide from the monster that originally shoved me into metal bindings. Bindings with minimal space. This friend told me to harshly rub my wings against the sharp edges of the metal to create wounds. Told me to refuse the little food my perpetrator set aside for me daily, claiming it would leave me empty and numb. And for a while it did work. That friend seemed like a blessing. Unfortunately, my friend eventually shifted into a friend and a foe. In friend form, it was small and skeletal. Fragile. In foe, its evil demeanor presented as a cloaked shadow. The shadow, authoritative and dominant, quickly forced my friend into the shadows. It began telling me lies. At first it was a lie here and there; the lies only grew more frequent until everything my foe said was a lie. Trapped by one suddenly became trapped by two.

Who was this foe? Meanwhile, the untamed hawk continued to feed his repulsive acts. First a canary, then a starling, magpie, and swallow. What surprised me the most was when he seduced a hummingbird. The hawk always complained that they “hummed” too loudly and weren’t his type. Fortunately, the monster did not satisfy his needs with this selection. The hummingbird was agile and he, a large hawk, was not. He wasn’t able to recapture this prey. On the hummingbird’s frantic escape out, she saw me. She stopped at my cage and told me that although she could not release me from my entrapment, she could help me. After she flew away, I cuddled up and sat there confused. I could not understand why I was the hawk’s trapped prize possession when he let all the other victims go. He said something about “liking pretty little blue birds.”

One night, while the haw was out hunting, the hummingbird hummed near a small cage space; she did hold to her word. Her long delicate beak pushed in a small bag of strange looking pellets.

“What kind of bird seeds are those?” I asked innocently.

“These are not bird seeds; these are better than that.” Before I could ask more questions, she was gone. My claws sifted through the small pouch of pellets. There seemed to be two different kinds, one labeled “Special K,” and the other, a large “X” in the center. Cautiously, I took one at a time. I started with the one with the “X” in the center. It made me feel calm, almost like there was a void around me and nothing mattered. I embraced this feeling. Excited that the hummingbird really did provide help, I swallowed the special K pellet. This pellet was like no other; my world became distant and a kaleidoscope appeared in front of me. It was the most wonderful and invigorating experience since I was a free and innocent blue bird. One pellet of each a day soon became two, then, three. Then came the black outs and the cravings for more of each wondrous pellet. Although I knew my stash was dwindling, I could not stop myself from indulging. I did not want to feel like I did the night the hawk lured me into his hidden nest. The “X” and the “K” removed that feeling completely and silenced my internal screams for help.

At times, the hawk would have to fly my intoxicated body to one of his trusted healers (one that shared the hawk’s same wrongful acts). The healer would expunge my feathered body from the drugs, to allow me to breathe and flutter around. For selfish reasons, the hawk refused to let me pass into the darkness of the sky because he wanted to inflict more damage. It would be too kind to spare me of my troubled mind. What used to be an open sky filled with rays of sunshine narrowed into a dark and stormy hurricane where I could only see fragments of reality.

Confused about my situation, I continued to hurt myself. Why? Because that was what I learned over time. I was unaware that there was another way out. Funny enough, the hawk had unlocked my cage door years ago; he knew I would never try to spread my wings and fly away; he had trained me well. I did the hawk’s and the shadow’s job for them; all they had to do was watch me repeatedly tear myself down until I was unable to perch and cry my laments. They were the ones who initiated my pain and suffering, but I was the one who perpetuated it. It took me what seemed like ages, to understand that I was my own undoing; however, the mere thought of spreading my wings to fly seemed unattainable.

What had become of me? To be honest, it was a question I could not answer; one I was afraid to find out. I did know that I was no longer an unsilenced, carefree nestling anymore. It made me feel sad at times.

Despite fear of the unknown, and the comfort and familiarity of suffering, I grew tired of my circle of self-destruction. I wanted at least one thing in my dreadful cage- no cages, to change. My mind trapped me just as much as the metal bars that surrounded me. Unsure of how to make change, I did what I thought would help. I’d move my water bowl here, move a twig there, attempt to sing neutral harmonies, and even stuck my beak close to the open cage door. Other than the appearance of my destructive shelter, nothing changed. My inner being was still the same, my sorrows untouched.

It wasn’t until I took a deep look into myself and my previous actions, did I understand how to shape-shift into someone new. Previous attempts failed because I tried to fly on my own, expecting an easy flight after leaving the sky un-soared for quite some time. It did not occur to me that change does not happen instantly, without work or transformation involved. One day, lost in thought, I observed a yellow butterfly delicately flutter through the nest. This is when the answer came to me. Butterflies are not born in their state of beauty, they must transform. And that is what I did.

I constructed new friends (their names were Hope, Trust, Faith, and Forgiveness) that I could furrow into during times of distress or difficulty. I created a unique and personalized plan of transformation. Slowly, I relied less on starvation and the use of pellets laced with drugs. I did not feel the need to inflict self-injury as often. Eventually, I developed enough confidence to spread my wings and soar into the vast blue openness of freedom, where I could belt out peaceful rhythms and chants with the rest of the birds.

After all these years, the hawk no longer owns me. I can finally say that I am uncaged and I am free!


Sat in class, bored as all hell. The incessant drone of anonymous conversations all around me. Sat in class, alone. My eyes heavy, the weight of last night’s lack of sleep hanging off my eyelids. Then, like a superpower, they gain the strength to look up. Look up at you. You walk in, blissfully nonchalant and radiating an inexplainable positivity as always. The slight crookedness in your smile as you see your friends makes my heart thump a little harder than what’s deemed healthy. You turn your back to me to take your seat, your hair flows effortlessly over your shoulder, a picturesque maroon. Glistening slightly in the bright yellow glare of the shitty public-school lighting. I stare pathetically, imagining it’s glossy perfection draping between my fingers as I brush it behind your ear. Giving me a better look into those big, beautiful eyes. I’d come over, sit with you until the teacher arrives. Getting to know you with polite small talk, but my goal would be to make you laugh. To be the one who blesses the room with that contagious symphony. Your laugh would light up my life a thousand times over if I were the one to cause it. I’d impress you with my knowledge in class discussion, being equally as impressed by your smarts and wit, but I know you’d be too shy to raise your hand and speak in front of everyone. We’d talk effortlessly, I’d be nervous, but your talk would comfort me dearly. I’d get your socials, and we’d talk for hours for the proceeding weeks. Eventually mustering up the courage to ask you on a date. You’d be shocked, none of the boys our age have the same old-fashioned ideals of courtship and you’d accept my offer. We’d laugh together for hours, our humour aligning like an eclipse. So fantastically rare but effortlessly beautiful to behold. You’d truly be the sun to my moon: my tired, grey life. We’d leave school and stay together, having the common interest of that class and pursuing it in higher education. We’d have bouts, disputes, and arguments as we grow and flourish together over the course of the years. Inevitably, after everything, you’d end up back in my arms, cuddling close, your familiar coconut-aroma in my face as you nuzzled my chest. Your weight against me the most comforting thing in the world. I’d hold you tight, just like that again, when you’d say *‘yes’* to my proposal. I’d feel no stronger sense of satisfaction than bearing a gorgeous diamond ring on your pretty little hand. We’d be committed, forever. My girl. We’d continue growing, getting older. I’d watch in absolute awe at you becoming a mature, confident woman; with the utmost honour of calling you my wife. I’d have the responsibility of holding you in the greatest of pain as your family leaves slowly, departing from us. We’d grow our family in place of them. Our children would be beautiful: a boy and a girl. We’d watch them grow as we had each other. Holding your hand as we support them in falling in and out of love with the world as we once had. After it all, my greatest pleasure would be looking deep into those big, beautiful eyes on your last day. Holding your hand tight, our hands withered and trembling, but yours as warm as ever. You’d smile, letting me see the greatest beauty in the world one last time. Making my heart flutter, watching closely as you leave us. Content with the loving, full life you’ve lived that I was honoured to be a part of. Even after that, the most painful thing is having to turning my head away from you in that class, as he sits down and makes you laugh, instead of me.


 “For the final time, I would now like to hear the defendant’s alibis for each and every one of these murders.” I suck a sharp breath in as a cold fear grasps hold of me. The defendant. Steven Gunnarson. Me. An indistinct, blue-eyed, blonde haired middle-aged man. Pretty much the spitting image of half of Iceland, which is exactly what my job requires. Seven children from my small, Icelandic town, Selfoss, were found dead; one on each day of last week. Since the overpopulation of mainland Europe decimated the international trade industry in 2050, Iceland has had closed borders. And now, in 2078, I have been convicted of seven brutal murders that I didn’t, and couldn’t have committed. A corrupt government named “SAFE” leads the country with ultimate power and nobody can even come close to having enough people on their side to try and knock them off the top. Because of their lies, manipulation and deceptive spies and, I hate to admit it, maybe my boring, default appearance, I am hated by the entirety of Iceland. Except for my Lawyer, Leo – who is now shakily standing up to try to save me from a life sentence, a death sentence, or whatever the hell SAFE do to ‘murderers’ these days. Leo has dirty blond, messy hair that flows from his head in naturally perfect waves. I know his intelligent, green eyes too well, as if I have been staring into them like they hold the key to my future … which, in a twisted way, I have, and they do. Judge Wolfgang is as different to Leo as she could be. Wirey, grey hair hangs limply from her head in an unattractively spider-like manner. Her eyes are a matching, dull grey and her nose is annoyingly long, with a gruesome hook on the end. Maybe I’m biased. She is trying to convict me of numerous impossible crimes.        I try to ignore the disgruntled murmurs of the hateful audience behind me, whose harsh words seep into me like acid into flesh – painful and unstoppable. I stare at my feet, knowing that despite Leo’s charismatic, likeable manner, he can’t save me from this one. He can’t tell them the truth. Because I wasn’t in Iceland. I know a way past the immeasurably tall walls, thousands of SAFE guards, and miles of churning waves. He knows too. I’m the leader of a top secret, underground organisation called ‘Rebuild Iceland’ (the RI), and Leo is my advisor. Next week we plan to escape the country through an underground pipeline which used to hold wire that crossed countries to supply energy, but as I said, countries don’t really mix anymore. Nobody knows about this, except Me, Leo and the rest of RI. But it looks like I won’t be going anywhere. While all of the people who I’ve ever cared for leave to try and gather allies from the UK to help Iceland’s population escape, I will be stuck here rotting in a dark, damp, vile room, with no window, toilet, sink or bed until they come back. If they come back. That’s how prisons work in Iceland. Or maybe they’ll have mercy on me and kill me, instead of letting me turn insane from my own thoughts in a cell.        As I begin to think of other unthinkable things that might happen to me, I let myself fall into the inescapable whirlpool of dread at my coming weeks, months and years. I’m snapped back to the present moment by a sudden swell of angry voices pushing into my back, before a grinning face appears in front of my own. “WE DID IT!!!!” Leo yells over the distressed shouts of the crowd, who are scared at the prospect of a killer being set free. Then it sinks in. A warm excited rush of joy replaces the cold, distant grief that filled my veins, “WE DID IT!” I bellow back, then confusion warps my joy and excitement into a very simple question. How did he do it? Leo convinced that detestable judge of my innocence. Maybe her eyes aren’t as grey and lifeless as I thought…? I glance over to her chair, but she has already left the room, as have the vast majority of the people behind me – keen to get away. As the last audience member files out, the guards to our right allow us to leave through the side of the court, back over to Leo’s car. The harsh, northern wind hits me in the face like a frozen sledgehammer, snow swirling around us in the dark, late afternoon sky. As we jog to the car and slam the doors shut, leaving a warm, quiet silence that permeates the air. I close my eyes for a second and take a much-needed sigh of relief, excitement and undeniable exhaustion from the day of questioning. When I eventually open them, I see Leo doing his best imitation of the Cheshire cat and showing me his perfectly white teeth. I give him what he wants. “How on earth did you do that? I zoned out for a couple of minutes and you go and save me again! AGAIN!” I can’t count how many times my best friend has saved me over the past few years. I have done him some favours too, but it always seems to be him saving me at the end of things. My own questions have caused a wave of gratitude to course through me at what he’s done. “Well,” he says still grinning, “Last week, when you were first accused, I checked who would be the judge at your final hearing.” (For some reason, SAFE gave us a new judge for every section of the conviction.) “Judge Wolfgang. My father used to know a Julia Wolfgang. He says that he saved her from being convicted for a murder she did not commit, just as I have to you.” Leo’s father was a lawyer, which must be partially why he is so good at it, “I knew I had to get into contact with Wolfgang before today, so I knocked on her door yesterday and explained the situation to her. Not the RI, don’t worry!” he assures me when he sees the look on my face. “So, you’re saying that you managed to convince her to trust us, risk her life by going against SAFE, and displease the public by letting me go free.” I state, not posing this obvious fact as a question. “Bingo. She hates the government more than you may think. I reckon she’s had more than one run in with them than she’s letting on. She might even be a good person to recruit for the RI you know…” He says this knowing my answer already as he pulls out the car park and heads towards the mountains, only a fifteen-minute drive from here. “Absolutely not. No way. Not yet at least. We need to make sure she is truly against this government before jumping the gun and letting a mole into our group. Back to the point, thank you so much. I don’t know how I’ll ever thank you, this has to be, what, maybe the fourth time you’ve saved my life?” “Fifth,” he quips cheekily “Fifth then. Either way, you need to understand how grateful I am for what you did in that court-room.” “Steve,” Leo replies, “you do know that it isn’t a thing that I need to be thanked for. I’d do the same thing every time.” This brings a tear to my eye and a hard lump into my throat. ‘This isn’t like you Steve’ I tell myself, ‘Get a grip.’

Still, there has to be a way to pay him for saving me. We pull into the drive of my rural farmhouse, coming to an abrupt stop outside. I stay in the car for two reasons: I really don’t want to get out into that spiralling snowstorm, and more importantly, I know how to thank Leo. He looks at me expectantly. ‘Spit it out, Steve, come on.’ The wind dies down as if holding its breath for what I’m about to say. “Do you want to become a joint RI leader with me?” I said it, no going back now. Leo looks at me quizzically, “You’re joking right?” “Nope!” I laugh. He does not laugh. He doesn’t even smile. “No. I can’t do that. The RI is yours, you made it, you lead it and it would collapse without you. I would only disrupt things, and probably bring people like Wolfgang in too early. Long story short I’d ruin it. I am completely happy with advising you so you can make sure that none of my ideas that are too crazy come to life.” I open my mouth to speak, but I’m swiftly cut off. “Don’t try to convince me otherwise, I know this is to try to thank me, not to benefit the organisation, so don’t say something you’ll regret. I saved you because you’re my best friend, but also because there wouldn’t even be a way to get to the UK without you. I am honoured by your request, but I just can’t accept. I’m sorry” After that long and unsurprisingly correct speech, Leo returns to his normal self. He smiles at me, says “I’ll see you tomorrow, then!” and unlocks the car door to let me out. That’s my cue. I step out into the gale. “Bye, I guess.” Leo gives me one more of his signature gurns, before restarting the engine and driving round to his house just around the corner. I’m left standing on the pavement, dumbstruck. Why couldn’t he have just said yes. Then I wouldn’t have this aching sense of inadequacy deep within me, which I know won’t go away until I have a way of repaying him for saving me for the fifth time and some things even more important than me.... I open my front door, quickly, eager to escape the cold.

 The gratefulness is true, but the part about the murders isn’t. I have been lying to my best friend, one of the only people in the country who trusts me. I didn’t murder them, I’m not a monster. But the reason I know that SAFE’s evidence was corrupt is because the bodies of the seven children are in my house, very much still working and alive. “I’m back” I holler up the stairs, as seven children come bounding down them and hug me with excitement, “We thought you weren’t coming back Dad!” Yep. These children are my children. Technically, I’m responsible for their disappearances, but I only took back what SAFE stole from me, along with my wife’s life. They stole each of my children when they hit the age of five (the youngest only last week, at the same time as shooting my wife), and gave them to people who are high up in the hierarchy of SAFE to ensure that they would grow up in a household that is loyal to them. So not only am I thankful to Leo for saving me by unknowingly lying, but he helped me to save all of my kids without even realising. They should be able to have a free and good quality life when we get to the UK, which is much safer than Iceland. So overall, I’m in a very good position here, and I will tell Leo about my children in good time, but the gratitude I feel for him is vast, and I know I can never really thank him enough for what he did, but I will try my best. I have to, for my kids. He got them back.


Very new at writing fiction, so be gentle. Looking for any feedback/criticism you have that will make this story better. Enjoy! *** The fever ran rampant as of late, infecting any potential victim it could like some rabid mongrel. Birdie was one such victim. At fourteen-years-old, Birdie McBride was dying. She lived with her grandpa, Chester McBride, who was seventy-three years old, and whom she prayed with every night on their knees – he prayed for fortune and she prayed that she would live long enough not to be buried by Chester. Birdie’s ma was buried in the backyard and her pa was buried in the front. Even in death they lay divorced from one another. Birdie McBride often stood in the hallway between the windows looking out at either grave. She knew she was dying, but to be buried at home would be the ultimate form of degradation. In years past, when the fever was widespread, doctors and citizens alike were hell-bent on discovering a cure. The field of medicine attracted con artists like the scent of blood attracts sharks and Birdie’s folks did not hesitate to capitalize on the fears of the sick and the desperate. After all, many people in town needed medical help, so much so that their needs rendered them more gullible than usual. The couple ran a successful business as self-described doctors, selling what they claimed to be the cure for the fever. In actuality, their “cure” was just some snake oil concoction that did little to remedy the sickness. They cheated sick people out of money for years and lived lavishly for a while, purchasing cars and fancy clothes and the like. That is until word spread around town that their medicine was ineffective and they developed a reputation as con artists. Soon, the couple was met with stares and scolds from nearly every corner of town, even being banned from some businesses. With their reputation in ruins and their money spent, the couple’s relationship became strained. Most times, Birdie’s ma wandered through half of their home, while her pa roamed the other half without ever seeing each other. Their notoriety together, even in their graves, attracted the scorn of the town, with people meeting the graves with jeer or spit or stones. Because of this notoriety, Birdie was sure that when she dies of fever, she would not be buried with her kin, for to be buried with them was to share the roots seeped with their sins. One evening, Birdie felt particularly feverish, perhaps more so than ever. Her liver and kidneys functioned when they would, but her heart persisted doggedly to beat. Birdie’s nose ran with blood and her skin bore a translucent yellow tinge as she dragged herself through the house like a cadaverous apparition. Tonight was the night; tonight, she knew she would die. When she entered the kitchen, she discovered her grandpa dining on leftover stew at a small table. In her dwindling physical state, she believed it to be appropriate to discuss her burial plans with her grandpa for the last time. “Pardon me for interrupting your supper, Grandpa, but I don’t feel well. I fear I won’t make it to the morning in my condition.” Chester turned to face his granddaughter, raising his eyebrows half-mast at the sight of her, “Don’t talk like that sweetpea; you just need something to warm your belly. Why don’t I fix you a bowl of stew?” Birdie gazed at the floor, “I ain’t hungry, Grandpa. I doubt any food can cure me, let alone a doctor. I can feel it, grandpa. I can feel death upon me.” Chester shifted in his seat, tilting his head as he did so, “You sure you don’t just need some sleep? Maybe a nap will do you some good.” “I’m positive.” Said Birdie. Her grandpa nodded, “Well if you really feel that way, I suppose we should make arrangements. Have you picked a spot in the yard yet? Maybe beside your mother or behind your father?” Birdie met her grandpa’s stare, “That’s the issue, you see. I don’t want to be buried in the yard. I’m not like my parents and I don’t want people to think that I died sharing my parents’ beliefs. I want to rest peacefully, without the burden of dishonour.” “Birdie, you know we can’t afford to bury you in a graveyard. We just don’t have the money.” Said Chester. “Besides, what difference does it make? You won’t know or care where your body is when you pass.” “Please Grandpa. We can even dig my grave on some field; any field.” Chester bit down on his lower lip, “Sorry Birdie, law doesn’t allow it. I’m telling you, a home burial isn’t so bad. As much as you don’t like your ma and pa, they are your family after all.” Birdie’s brows furrowed as she balled her fists, “The past and the future are the same to you aren’t they? One forgotten and the other not remembered; you choose to ignore what they did and you have no more notion of dying than the bowl of stew in front of you. I will be damned if I am buried next to criminals.” Birdie turned and stormed off as best as her body could allow, trundling to her bedroom, where she sat marinating in her own sickly decay. A tear began rolling down her cheek as she listened to her grandfather shuffling about to prepare for the inevitable. She let her eyes wander around her room like a housefly, searching for any way to circumvent a backyard burial. Back and forth her eyes beamed until she became dizzy. From what she could see, nothing in her room existed that could prevent her home burial. With a sigh, Birdie grabbed her diary from her nightstand beside her bed and began to pen a final entry and clear her head. As she began to write, she noticed that the left-sided page had a sketch of trees and bushes on it. Birdie wiped her tears while she looked closer at the drawing, raising her eyebrows as she did so. She had an idea. Birdie waited for hours until she could wait no longer. With her pen, she had crossed out what she had been writing and restarted on a new page, which now read, “In a better place”. Birdie then tore the page out and placed it on her Pillow for her grandpa to find in the morning. She grew even yellower and her heartbeat sputtered like an old engine. As she put her ear to her bedroom door, she could no longer hear her grandpa and figured that he must have retired to bed by now. There was no time left for compromise or survival, and so Birdie made for the front door. Birdie gazed at the midnight streets, wondering which direction to run. She winced as she lifted her right leg and began hobbling into the night like a wandering nomad. The stars swung counterclockwise in their course and the North Star winked above her, guiding her path. Birdie walked for hours; she walked all night. She walked until her toes grew numb and she coughed up blood. The trek led her deep into the grassy foothills outside of town, where only beasts and wild things roamed and withered. The landscape looked just like her drawing, with trees wafting in the wind and bushes rustling. From where Birdie stood, the town was a kaleidoscopic sliver in the glare of the rising sun. She had come too far to turn back, even if she wanted to. Birdie sank to her knees, staring at the dirt below her. It was time. She raised her arms and began to claw and dig desperately at the ground like a dying mole. After a minute or so, digging turned into dragging; her fingernails filled with earthen grime as the life slipped out of her. Satisfied with the palm-sized hole she had dug, she lay down on her back and scattered the crumbs of dirt across her torso. Birdie closed her eyes and clasped her hands, whispering a prayer to the sky above. Then, she waited.


It had been a stupid idea from the get-go. Meddie had been pushed into it after the latest run-in with her ex Percy had left her downhearted. “Get out of the house!” her sisters had said. “We signed you up, go! It'll be fun!” they had said. Yeah, well, it was easy enough for them. They didn't have any trouble. No, none at all. But she found it hard to deny her older sisters anything, so that was why she found herself prepping for a brutal night of speed dating. The cabbie had let her out in front of a slightly shabby bar. A chalkboard sign sat out the front advertising the night’s special event. ‘Dating for Deities’. *Ha. More like “Dating for Dropkicks”.* She knew she shouldn't have come; it was ridiculous. The social circles that she and her sisters inhabited weren’t small, but Meddie’s reputation clearly preceded her. As she moved from table to table not a single person would meet her eyes. Which was ridiculous, it was 2020 for Goddesses’ sake! Her eye problem had been solved long ago with the invention of prescription lenses. And conversation-wise it wasn’t great either. For the most part all she got was a few short, clipped sentences. The others tended to just talk over her as if she wasn’t even there. She was at her wits end by the time it got to the last round. Just like the three before him, her second-to-last date hadn’t stopped going on and on all about his previous conquests. At the chiming bell that signified time was up, she downed the remains of her fourth Santorini Sunrise and with a tight smile said her farewells. She contemplated just leaving then and there but thought it might be a bit too mean to leave someone sitting in this ridiculous place alone. Her thoughts were raging as she made her way across the room. *These people are nothing but idiotic Greek preeners and brain-dead siren Barbies. I wish I -'* The thought stopped dead as she looked down at her last date of the night. He was gorgeous. A floppy mane of shoulder length blonde hair, the beginnings of a scruffy beard. A kind face. Definitely a ripped body, hidden underneath a slightly too large shirt. Yum. The only thing that irked her were the sunglasses the man wore. *What kind of a douchebag wears sunglasses inside?* His nametag read 'Adam' and although he looked fantastic, she was well aware of how deceiving first looks could be. Making sure her head-wrap was in place, she subtly primped as she sat down. Before she could say a word, he spoke. “I have a confession. I think I'm in the wrong place.” “What?” Meddie looked up at him in confusion. He leant in, like he had some earth-shattering secret he couldn't share with anyone but her. “I mean, my younger sister signed me up for speed-dating, and I thought hey! Why not? But I think the cabbie took a wrong turn and dropped me off at the wrong event because everyone here has been talking about being gods and sirens and harpies and for god’s sake, I have no clue what's going on!” He took a deep breath as he ran a hand through his hair. Meddie sat stunned in her seat. He was human. A human! At a supernatural dating event. She just had to laugh at her luck. Taking a risk, she grabbed his hand and gave it a light squeeze. “Look don't worry, those guys... they're a little crazy. Just tell me a bit about yourself. What do you do, what are you into?” Adam visibly relaxed. Meddie grabbed a couple of drinks off one of the waiters circling the room. She pressed one into his hands and took a large gulp out of the other as he proceeded to tell her about himself. “Well, I'm Adam, I'm 31, I enjoy long walks on the beach and talking to pretty girls.” He flashed her a cheesy grin. Meddie let out a slightly tipsy giggle. “No, I work down at the zoo taking care of the animals. Well... if we're being honest, I help look after the snake enclosure. I just really have a thing for snakes I guess, always have. Ever since I was a little kid.” He paused. “And now's the part where you go 'ew, really, why snakes?'” “Oh no, no way. I dig snakes.” Her hand unconsciously moved to her head, patting it down, smoothing the invisible wrinkles. “Really?” “Absolutely. No seriously, I think snakes are great.” She gave his hand another squeeze, and felt a thrill run through her as he returned the gesture. “Oh, and I'm blind.” He pulled off the sunglasses. Meddie let out a small gasp, flinching slightly, years of ingrained fear causing her to avert her eyes. Guilt now coursed through her at her douchebag thought. She took another gulp from her glass. “Yeah, when I say my sister signed me up for blind speed-dating, I really meant it.” Nearly snorting half her drink all over the table, Meddie threw her head back, bursting into full blown laughter. Adam followed suit, his gravelly laugh soothing her nerves. When they had finally calmed down, he continued. “So anyway, enough about me, tell me about yourself. What's your name again? Maddie?” “Meddie, actually. I know, it’s strange.” Adam cocked his head, a playful smile on his lips. “No, no, I like it. It is unusual though. Is it a nickname? What's it short for?” A little hiss could be heard from above Meddie’s head and she reached up to pull the scarf from her head. With a quick shake, she let her hair free. “Medusa. It's short for Medusa.” She watched as he stilled, seeing in the tilt of his head and the furrow of his brow that he was doing the math. They sat there for a moment, Meddie growing more and more worried that she had pushed him too far. After all, even the humans had heard the stories. Relief coursed through her as, after another few seconds, a brilliant grin lit up his face. “It’s like I told you before,” he said. “I do love snakes.