Her vision dances before her, flecks of near blue in an endless black sea, stumbling about like drunken ants. She digs her knuckles in deeper, and blue brightens to white, a starry sky painted against her eyelids, then beams of bright light, then dizzying spirals that slowly swallow the darkness. Maybe if she pushes hard enough, they’ll swallow her too. She brings her hands down to rest in her lap, one atop the other, and in time the brilliance subsides, and she is once more alone in inky blackness. All around her are the sounds of panicked people that should be at rest. She focuses on the rough stone beneath her instead, cold as the desert night. She ought to be wary, sat as she is, a restless city beneath her, their cries drifting to her ears on the wind. But some slight, terrible instinct within her fears that to leave her refuge and descend, would be the most dangerous thing of all. She sees brief glimpses of reds, and oranges, dull and throbbing. Perhaps figments of her imagination, perhaps not, but dread pulses through her regardless. Her head hangs low, spine curving forward like a triumphal arch, severed in two. A single spasm could send her tumbling over the edge.

The reds and oranges continue to bloom like weeds, just as the white did, as if hoping to engulf her. Razia opens her eyes. She looks down, to see a world ablaze. **************************************************************************** They’d lain in wait beyond the city walls. Tens of thousands of pale demons – armoured ghosts, bloodless ghouls. She doesn’t know when they’d first arrived. It feels like a lifetime ago, but she remembers the time before. She remembers a calm, of sorts. A crystal night, when she had climbed up onto the city walls and seen nothing but stars, eternal and unending. A darkness not permeated with the glare of firelight on metal, and silence not corrupted by the constant brays of dying horses. The city has not been dark, truly dark, for many months, but she would rather the uneven night to the inferno she sees now.

“Hell must be empty,” her mother had once said, “for the number of devils in the world.” She thinks now, that her mother must have been wrong. She looks around, and knows that Hell has followed its servants here. The very air burns. **************************************************************************** She cannot stay on this roof, sedentary, sedate, as much as her fluttering heart implores her to stay. She feels exposed, and vulnerable, and she knows that while the streets hide untold dangers, they will still be safer than simply waiting for fires to spread and claim her. Voices rage below her. She uses that disquieting blend of terror and triumphant mirth to mask the sounds of her own descent, and when bare feet finally touch down on dusty earth she keeps close to the flickering shadows of building, innocuous and unnatural. This is her home, the city where she grew up. These are the alleys she played in as a child, the homes where her friends and family live. She can only pray that the familiarity will serve her now. The dark shields her like an old friend, while surrendering the foreign devils without mercy, pale faces reflecting the firelight like fallen moons. Her mother calls to her in her mind, in her memory. “My little shadow,” she’d laugh, walking between the rows of buildings as she visited her patients, bringing food and medicine, comfort and clothing, and Razia would doggedly follow her footsteps, though her feet would ache and she was seldom allowed inside. Today, when the cries had rang out that the walls had been breached, heralded by choked screams, her mother had looked at her with bright eyes and wordlessly told her to flee. Today, when her mother had left the house, Razia didn’t follow. But she can still be a shadow. She moves like one now, silent and stealthy. Intangible. If she can convince herself of that, then maybe the flying arrows and stray blades and wandering hands will believe it as well. If she can will herself untouchable, perhaps she will make it through this night unscathed. ****************************************************************************

The air stinks of smoke and the night is thick with screams. But for just a moment, Ravia feels removed from it all, hearing nothing, feeling nothing. For a moment, here, in this alleyway, as the city burns around her, she is only aware of one thing. The man lies on the ground, stiff and unmoving. She thinks she could recognise him, but she looks away before she can be sure, not wanting to know. Lidded eyes unseeing, rigid fists press deep into his flesh, tight around the sword hilt protruding from his stomach. The ground around him is streaked red. She imagines him, the man he was, dirt beneath his fingernails as he desperately tried to claw himself towards help, to safety, before succumbing to insurmountable pain, to the beckoning of death, and simply holding on instead, as his grip slipped on the life bleeding out of him. She moves closer. More screams – and laughter too, she can hear now, but screams always are the best at making themselves heard at night. She knows these streets like a sailor knows the night sky; even amidst the chaos, she could walk the path to her uncle’s shop with closed eyes. The mosque is around the corner from there. She is sure, with a sudden, plummeting certainty, that that is the focus through which the demons will unleash their Hell. People must have fled to the mosque when the battle horns sounded, seeking safety, sanctuary, salvation. The void within her remembers the cries she tried to block out on that roof, and their words take shape in her mind now, though she did not want to understand them then. She sees smashed doors and burning buildings, but not a single person, and has the horrifying suspicion that those who did not run to the mosque were dragged. Screams and laughter, and the screams demand more attention, beg more loudly to be heard, but it’s the laughter that sends shivers down her spine. She wants to run, but she has nowhere to go. And she wants to survive, but she doesn’t know how. Choices stretch out before her, and she fears that they all lead to death. She moves closer still. **************************************************************************** She kneels. A dampness soaks through the knees of her shalwar. The hilt is a curious thing, strangely crooked, topped with a cross. She tries to adjust the hands, to better study the sword – there is a little resistance, then a loud crack, and she can move the arm aside with ease. The blade, what little she can see of it, is narrow and flat. She tugs, but there is little give. She thinks it must have been straight at one point, but now it sticks, bent against the ground. Useless.

The screams are growing softer, hoarser. Her resolve strengthens with every one. If the only thing she can do now is give witness, she will not shy away. She turns instead to the man’s belt. It holds a dagger - small, with a beautiful curved blade and a hilt that fits her hand as if moulded for her grip, as if it were made for her to wield. Part of her laments that she cannot use the demons’ own blades against them, but the better part knows she is as like to damage herself using a sword as the enemy. Perhaps she will do the same with this knife, but it is at least familiar, and will not unbalance her as she walks. And for all the strength of her will, she cannot bring herself to approach the devastation unarmed.

The taste of smoke has made a home in her nose and mouth, and she is preparing to venture even deeper into the hellfire. She will need protection. She can readjust her hijab to loosely cover her nose and mouth, and must be content with that. She reaches out to close the man’s eyes, and then stands. She doesn’t know the entire Salat al-Janazah, but it feels wrong to say nothing. So she recites the Takbir, and hopes someone will be able to perform the complete rites later. And then, still in the shadows, she begins to walk to the mosque. **************************************************************************** She watches from the shadows, as the mosque, it’s doors barred, is set ablaze to depraved laughter. She chokes on smoke and other people’s screams, and ash clings to the tears that stream down her face.

Heat floods the night - she tells herself it is still the night, though the sky is so thick with grey that she doubts she’ll know when the morning comes, because if this is only one night then it can still end when the day breaks - and dries her throat, her mouth, her lungs. She welcomes it - it keeps her quiet, silences her sobs. And through it all, she refuses to look away. This is her burden to bear, the price of her unearned fortune, and she pays it willingly. So though her eyes sting, with sorrow and anger and frustration, she opens them wide, and lets the sight of flames engulf her.


“I can’t wait to see you, Bunny.” A wave of panic rose over him, like the adrenaline rush at the crest of a rollercoaster. He read the text message again, then a third time, hoping doing so would somehow ease his worries. He cared for her so much, and she’d finally invited him to stay the night, yet he couldn’t stop thinking in worst-case scenarios. She was waiting for him when he stepped off the tram. “Hi, Bunny!” She ran over and kissed him. “I wish you wouldn’t call me that, it’s so cringey.” He said that, but deep down he liked his pet name. Bunny walked by her side. His eyebrows were raised high causing the stress lines in his forehead to protrude. She slipped her hand into his. “Your hands are clammy. What’s up?” He shook his head. “You know how I get, Fa…” He almost called her Fate. It was a single letter from her actual name. He’d never said the pet name he’d given her out loud. She squeezed a little tighter. “We’ve been seeing each other for a while now. You’re safe with me, I promise.” He’d told Fate about his issues, and how difficult it was for him to be away from his home. Yet he hadn’t told her everything, and the closer they walked towards her home the more the panic rose within him. Fate noticed Bunny’s lips moving slightly. “Did you say something?” “…no. Sorry, I was just thinking.” Bunny trusted her. Yet he still felt it would have been embarrassing to admit he was repeating positive reassurances to try to keep himself calm. He looked at her through the side of his eye. She was beautiful. Not only that but she was kind, funny, and brought the best out in him. He was seen as quite serious, often described as moody, but her joyful spirit made him smile. He felt he could let his guard down with her. It wasn’t love, not yet, but it was close. Her hair was long now, way past her shoulders, but it had been short when they’d met. Fate had been looking at Joy Division albums in H.M.V. when Bunny saw her from over in the Heavy Metal section. Her bag was made from two old vinyl records and some cloth, which she’d made herself. He hadn’t asked a stranger for their number since he was fifteen, yet he was compelled to when he saw Fate. Fate opened the door to her house and walked in, flicking off her pumps. She started to walk towards the living room and then paused. She turned towards Bunny and looked puzzled. “Why are you still standing at the door?” “…you didn’t invite me in?” Fate laughed. Bunny might have felt offended, but her chuckles were so warm he knew there wasn’t one iota of malice within them. “It’s a given, Bunny.” He nodded and walked in, standing in the immediate entrance, and not moving. Fate sighed with a smile on her face and rolled her eyes. “Will you just come in?” She moved behind him and began to push. He managed to get his shoes off before she’d shoved him through the door to her front room. She frogmarched him in front of the couch and pushed him into the seat. “I’m not even going to ask if you want a drink, because you’ll say no. I’m just going to get you one. It’s okay, you don’t have to be polite, it’s not as if my parents are home.” He looked around her front room from his position on the couch. Over in the far corner was an old upright piano. Fate came back into the room with two glasses of water. “I didn’t know you played?” Fate went quiet for a few seconds before responding. “I don’t… I mean, I do play it. I just don’t play in front of people. My grandmother taught me. She’s the only person who has ever heard me play.” He smiled. He wanted to ask more, but her response told him it wasn’t a comfortable subject. She placed the two glasses onto the coffee table, slipping a coaster under each. Then she moved over to the piano and opened the lid. “I’d like to play for you, Bunny.” He stood and walked over to her. “You don’t have to if…” “I want to.” He smiled. He wanted to say something about how much of honour it felt, or to thank her in some way. But he was still incredibly anxious, and his brain couldn’t create a sentence that felt right. Words were a clumsy jumble within his mind, impossible to organise. She began to play and for the next few minutes he forgot all about his issues. He stood behind her and watched her fingers dance over the keys. Every now and again he would close his eyes for a few seconds, letting the mellifluous sounds wash over him. Then she stopped. She replaced the lid and turned to him from the stool. “…Thank you for listening.” He wanted to say it was him who should be thanking her, but again he couldn’t get the words out. Instead in leaned over and kissed her. They moved towards the couch, their lips parting only for brief moments to avoid any collisions. She lay with her back against the cushions, wrapping her legs around him. He ran his fingers through her hair and kissed her neck. “Bunny, do you want to go upstairs?” Like a strike of lightning the panic hit. He’d been in the moment, out of his own head and filled with passion. Yet that single sentence killed his confidence instantly. He didn’t want to say no, yet he couldn’t say yes, layers of fear piling on top of each other as he tried to find a reasonable excuse. “I… not just yet. Let’s hang out for a little bit first. We’ve got all night, so there’s no rush. I think I still need a little bit of time to settle in and get comfortable.” She nodded and smiled with understanding, but he felt disappointment radiate from her. She kissed him again and got up from the couch, grabbing the remote and turning the television on. They nuzzled up together on the couch while watching a film. “I feel really comfortable with you, Bunny.” He wanted to say he felt the same and, in many ways, he did. He felt more comfortable being with Fate then he had with anyone before. Yet, his mind was still conjuring full catastrophe outcomes for the inevitable conclusion of the evening. The credits for the film eventually began to scroll on the television screen. He looked at Fate, her eyes were hazy. “I think I’m ready for bed, Bunny.” He felt the fear once again rise within him. They headed, hand in hand, towards her bedroom. She undressed in front of him and slipped on her nighty. He remained fully clothed. Fate raised an eyebrow. “Are you really going to sleep in your jeans?” With defeat he nodded. He lay on his back while she straddled him. Kissing her made him feel so much happiness, yet still he remained inside his own head. He criticised himself for not being able to lose himself with a woman so beautiful, the worry piling higher and higher. His motions were all correct, he kissed with passion, he ran his hands up from her waist and cupped her breasts. Yet he knew it would go no further. Any time Fate tried to work her hands down to unbutton his jeans, he would move them back up towards his chest. This was done with as much tact as possible, but the obviousness was difficult to hide. After a while, Fate rolled off. “Well… I guess we’ll go to sleep now.” She rotated to face away from him, and he spooned her. After a short time, she began to snore in a gentle melody. Even her sleep was filled with music. He lay there the entire night. His eyes were closed but slept never took him. His mind continued to be filled with catastrophic thoughts. Would he ever be able to make this work? Would he ever be happy? Would he ever be able to be the man that Fate deserved? What if he never got comfortable enough around her? How long would it be before he couldn’t hide it any longer? Would she leave if he told her the truth? It was fine when he was alone, when he wasn’t anxious, why couldn’t it have been fine just this one time? Was it fair for him to have her affections when she could have so much more? The more the hours passed the more panic ebbed, slowly replaced with the heavy weight of melancholy. He felt the sun against his eyelids and heard the morning song of the birds. He rose from the bed and Fate stirred slightly. He leaned over and kissed her forehead. She smiled, yet never woke. He creeped out of the front door and back towards the tram stop. Sat on the tram he pulled out his phone and began to type. “I really like you, but I’m just not looking for a relationship right now. I should have said something last night, but that’s why I was acting distant. I’m sorry if I’ve led you on, Fate.” It would be the first thing she would see half an hour later when she woke. She thought the last word was a typo.


Jack stood at the doorway, stooped, with his hand held up and pointing at the doorbell, but unable to actually push the little steel button. He felt the tickling sensation as drops of sweat rolled down from his forehead, and he felt hot in his chest but cold everywhere else. In his frozen stillness, he began thinking over the vents of the past few weeks and what he had to say. It took him numerous calls just to find the address. He could no longer make contact with his son any other way, so he had to go over to his house. It took him two hours get there, during which time, he practiced all the things he would say to him. Upon his arrival, he felt ready; he stormed out of the car with a straight back and a determined face, his steps fearless and strong, but as he was nearing the mansion, his legs started to weight more and more, making his movement rigid, his shoulders leaned inwards and his heart started pounding faster. With his confidence vaporized, his body froze in a position of stillness at the door. It’s been more than ten years since he saw his son. Ten years ago, he briefly appeared on his son’s wedding and wished him good luck for the future, then went back to the office to run the accounts. During the following ten years, times changed, and he changed with them. He realized his errors in his life, and the biggest of all was his relationship with his son. It took him a great effort to pick up the phone and call him, but he did it, and they talked. That conversation still haunted his mind, and he could still recall all that was said. “Hello. You have reached William Fisher, executive director of Fisher & Thom’s Ltd,” Jack was nervous even as he dialed the number, but hearing his son speaking made his face turn ashen. “Hey Will. It’s me…” After moments of silence he continued. “It’s me, your father.” “Oh, right. Hey dad. I didn’t recognize your voice,” Will’s own voice was rigid without a trace of cheerfulness. “Hey son. I wanted to call you… It’s been so long since I saw you, and I-I…” “Yes, it’s been a few years, hasn’t it?” Will suddenly cut him off. “Don’t worry about it, dad. How is business doing these days?” “Yes, it’s good. Everything is great there, but that’s not the real reason…” “Have you finally fired that Joseph Pierce – I remember he always gave you headaches.” “Listen, son. I’m not here to talk about Joseph Pierce or the firm; I’m here to apologize to you.” “For what?” There was real surprise in Will’s voice, which scared Jack more than an outburst would have. “I’ve done some pretty bad things in the past, and I want start over. I want us to be a family again.” “But dad, what are you talking about? We are still a family,” he said in a carefree, emotionless voice that made Jack’s eyes watery. “Yes,” Jack said quaveringly, “but I want to see you again, I want to get to know you and…” “Sorry dad,” like a sudden icy breeze Will’s voice hit him in the head, “I’m getting a call on the other line. Listen, don’t worry about it. I will talk to you some other day. Bye.” And his son hung up before he could even say goodbye. After that initial conversation, he made more attempts, but all were in vain. He thought that Will just didn’t want to talk to him anymore, but he desperately wanted to make this one thing right. He wanted to show his son that he cared about him. He wanted to show Will that for once in his life he would be there for him. He wanted to try to be a father for once. He had one phone number; he didn’t even remember Will’s wife’s name; and he had no idea where they lived. So he did the only thing he could, and he called up friends and family members he hadn’t seen in years in an attempt to learn his son’s location. After the tenth call, an old family friend gave him the address, and he set out on an early sunny morning with an optimistic smile on his face, and a plan in his mind. He imagined how surprised Will would be, when he would see his old man at the door. His son would invite him to his house, and Jack would apologize for all the years he was not there for him and all the times he missed from his life. Then he would tell how he realized that the connections are all that truly matter to a person: not work, not travelling, not the colleagues; but the truly important connections – the ties of family. Then, they would both look sideways with watery eyes, and Jack would mutter ‘I love you, son’, and his son would whisper an ‘I love you, dad’ and they would give each other a manly hug. The vision in his mind was crystal clear, but walking towards the door it became murky, and he was forgetting all the script in his mind. His heart was pounding and his limbs anchored down, unable to move. Come on, man , he thought to himself, it’s now or never. He will be happy to see you no matter what. Just talk from the heart. And with that idea, he pressed the doorbell and heard a ringing sound resonating inside. After a few seconds, which seemed like hours to Jack, muffled footsteps came closer and closer until the door opened. It was him. Will’s face didn’t even twitch as their eyes met. He had stern, commanding features making him quite handsome. As Jack examined his son’s face, he realized that Will was more and more reminiscent to his younger self back in the old days, when he was still working at Wall Street. He was even wearing a delicate suit, which seemed strange, since it was a Sunday afternoon. Jack felt like he was looking into a mirror to his past. “Hey, son,” he said, but the other one still looked vaguely at him, then with a light of recognition, his face turned into a half smile. “Oh, hey dad. I didn’t expect you. You should have called,” he was leaned at the doorframe with his hands around his chest, seemingly blocking the entrance. “I tried to call you, but you didn’t…” “Oh, you must have called my old number. I only use that phone to make personal calls, but mostly I use my business phone.” “Right,” Jack glanced down. “Listen I wanted to come here to talk to you personally.” “Well, you are here. What did you want to say?” “Son, I know I was a terrible father, and I wanted to apologize for the past and…” “Oh, this again? Dad, you were not a terrible father. You didn’t do anything to me. Why are you crying?” Jack wiped his watery eyes and looked into Will’s eyes. “Look, son. I was absent from your childhood; I was never there for you, and I was always busy with my nonsense: my career, travelling to exotic places and making money. But I want you to know I have changed and I want you to know from now on, you can count on me. Of course I understand if you don’t want me in your life, but I just wanted to apologize.” Jack’s eyes were solemn, contrary to Will’s, whose face remained rigid with a half-smile and cold eyes. “Look dad, I appreciate you coming here, but I don’t really have the time right now. I have a plane leaving in an hour, and I have to get ready.” “I-I understand. Where are you going?” “I have a meeting in Norway. I will be away for a few weeks and…” Will was interrupted by someone calling out for him. Jack glanced inside and couldn’t believe his eyes – it was a little girl there, maybe six years old. He didn’t even know that his son had a child. “Daddy, who are you talking to?” The little girl asked and Jack’s face shone at the sense of having a grandchild. “It’s nobody, dearie. Get back inside, I will join you soon.” And as soon as she came out, she was gone. “I didn’t even know you had a child,” Jack’s throat was dry and his voice muffled. “I have two actually. Now, listen this meeting is really important. It was good to see you, dad, but as I said I have business to attend to.” The door shut before him, before he could even say goodbye. The words of his son still echoed in Jack’s mind: nobody – when the girl asked who he was talking with, he said nobody , he though. So is this what I became: just a nobody? Maybe I was always a nobody to him – no wonder he’s so cold towards me. He doesn’t even hate me; he just barely knows me. On his way home, Jack didn’t think about anything, then stepping into his house he began repeating the conversation in his mind. He didn’t see any possibility to ever visit Will again: his son didn’t even give him his proper phone number – his business phone’s number. The whole conversation sounded like he was arguing with his former self: with someone, who doesn’t care about the people around him, puts on a fake smile for conversing, and places financial success above all else. Did his son really become like that? Or was it just a strange resemblance to his own past? With all his heart, Jack hoped Will wouldn’t turn out like he did, because that would result in negligence towards his family, a divorce and years later a bitter realization about all the mistakes he made. Eventually, he would realize that there would be nobody to save him from his crippling loneliness, not even his own family. Only time could tell. And Jack could do nothing, because he was just a nobody, a passing ghost in his son’s life.


Log #2 As I stepped down the ladder, I was dreading being in this place for days, or, if I'm unlucky, months. When I reached the bottom, I looked around. I saw an oven, a fridge, and a few other necessities. Kitchen. There were two hallways off the kitchen. I walked down the one closest to me. There were a few numbered doors. These must be the bedrooms. I walked back to the kitchen and down the other hall, there were a few open rooms, I only peeked in them. One had a foosball table, a pool table, and a few more. This must be the game room. I looked at the room across from it. It had a door. I opened it and there was a bathroom, only a toilet. There must be bathrooms in the bedrooms. I walked to the other two doors. There was a few shelves with books in one. Library. The other one had a fireplace, a T.V., a few couches, and everyone else that was in there. They all looked at me when I came in. I saw my friend (I forgot to tell you, his name is Fin.), and a few others. I assumed they were friends and family of his. I said hi and sat down, and we immediately started talking. About the nukes, the stock of food we had, etc… There was an older woman, her name was Mag, a little girl and boy, Rachel and James. A woman about my age, Dawn, Fin, and me. After we introduced ourselves, we talked about what we were going to do. Fin said this place has a recycled air system in every room. Not only enough water to last 5 people 5 years, but also a water recycle system. He also said we have a large sum of canned goods, a few herb farms (Cilantro, Cayenne, etc. .) And a freezer room full of meats, vegetables, fruits, and more. Not only a generator, but a backup generator, and a backup generator for the backup generator (The one I brought.) I told you he was at a good place in life. We then picked our rooms, packed up the goods I brought, and I settled my ferret in. By then it was about 6 PM. So we started on dinner. I made myself some spaghetti-O's, then settled down in my room. Each room had 2 outlets and one T.V. Before I went to bed at about 9, I went and talked to Fin. About why I felt bad that I didn't bring anyone else. About why I just wanted to sit and think for hours, which is what me and him did. We were there talking until about 3 AM. Then I went back to my room and slept till about 8. I woke up to a familiar smell, someone was making bacon. I went to the kitchen and saw Fin making some bacon. A lot of it. Enough for everyone. When he saw me he smiled and we started talking. Soon everyone came out. We all talked and ate breakfast. And for the first time in years, I felt like I had a family. I was stuck with these people for a long time. Better make friendships. After breakfast we all sat down and watched some T.V. It was an amazing time. The kids were playing, we were watching some T.V. and talking. I was happy. Finally with people I actually liked. Then There was another rumble. All of the lights cut out. Shit.


The old man across the table looked ancient. Not ancient in the way most old people are. His eyes were old. Forever. The only wrinkles he contained were confined to the corners of his eyes. It was as if his body never aged, but his eyes had existed before the beginning of time. Of course, if he’s to be believed, then that very well might be the case. “Immortal”, he said. “As old as the earth itself and probably wiser”. Making eye contact is always difficult, but looking in this man’s eyes was like staring into a bottomless well. It felt soul-sucking. Empty and infinite. Yet, I knew there would be something at the bottom. Something foul and gruesome while also life-giving. Wells were like that. You think of a well and you think deep disgusting pit with bones at the bottom. But wells gave water. They gave life. They provided when other sources didn’t. In that way, wells were both life and death. Just like this man. “Being immortal isn’t what you think it is. No one thinks about the passing of days. Imagine your longest, most boring day. Imagine the days you’ve lived. Can you count them all? I lost track many decades ago. I aged with technology, with advancements and with knowledge. Before there was anything, I was there. After there is nothing, I imagine I will still be there”. He leaned back in his chair. His back groaned as loud as the wooden supports. “I’ve witnessed it all. Even the small things. I’ve witnessed the creation of great monuments. I’ve witnessed the crying of a mother that has lost her child. I witnessed the first murder. I’ve witnessed the creation of greater weapons, and as a byproduct I’ve witnessed the creation of greater murders. I witnessed nukes, bombs, guns and war. Soldiers shot, crying in the dirt as they slowly realize they will not be making it out alive”. There’s pain in his voice, but not a sharp pain. Not a pain of fresh feelings. It’s a resigned pain. There’s no tears, hardly emotion. His eyes are as empty as when we first spoke. I visited this man every Sunday, my one day off. “No one thinks about how you lose everyone. How you watch people age and die and birth again. The cycle of man, of animal, of nature. How can you grow attached to something you know will end soon?” Weeks go by and I continue speaking to the man. He never seems to age a day. “People ask what I am. Who I am. My answer is always the same. I am. I am existence, I am pain, I am desperation. That feeling you get when you lose your best friend, your dear mother, your loved one. That anxiety of impending doom, when all is too well. I am what hides in the dark corners, where you see a shape shifting about.” The restaurant we met at weekly got sold 7 years after meeting the man. 10 years after that, it shut down. “With every wrong, there is a right. With every dark, there is light. This seems cliché, but clichés stick around for a reason. They work. They’re proven. Duality is a strong factor in our lives. I am existence, I am hope, I am grace. I am the first flower of spring. I am the newborn cry, shocked by the first breath in a world of chaos. I am that feeling of calm on a rainy day.” I married, I had kids, my kids had kids. He’s seen them all, but never more than once. “In this way, I am eternal. In all these ways, I have always been and always will be. This doesn’t make me a god; I am no more than any average man. The only difference is I’ve existed far longer. I’ve seen the world and what it has to offer. There’s no good or bad, fair or unfair. There is no light or dark, no duality. As I’ve lived, I’ve realized there is no Yin and Yang. Only existence. Only experiences.” My wife has passed. He didn’t attend the funeral. We never spoke about it, but he was fully aware of everything that happened in my life. I lied in my bed, growing ever sicker. He started visiting my room every Sunday, sitting beside me. “I have no answers, only questions. But as I’ve lived, I’ve come to terms with never receiving any answers. Answers are not a part of our existence. This world offers only questions, like an unresolved mystery. A cold case murder. D.B. Cooper, the Zodiac Killer, all mysterious. Their identities, sure, but also what compelled them to act in the ways they did. Human beings killing other human beings. Man against man, woman against woman. Finding differences to rationalize their prejudice. “ “Is life futile? Does our presence on this earth even matter? Nobody leaves a lasting impact, at least not one that matters once everyone has long gone. When the earth is nothing but a speck of dust in the cosmos, will what you have done matter? Because of this question, why worry? Why hate, why loathe, why grow distaste knowing that ultimately it doesn’t matter. Humans create their own reason, their own purpose. I’ve created my own purpose, though I’m not sure what that might be anymore.” “We make and lose friends, lovers, family. We watch them grow and fade. After they’re gone, do they truly matter? Our scope is limited. The random person on the other side of the world never comes into our existence. You shall never know the life of a stranger. Does that bother you? Does that not keep you up at night, to know you cannot physically experience everything, everyone, all at once?” “But on the other side of the coin, even if we do not truly matter, this is our experience. We care. To care is to love and to hate. I love the people around me, and I hate what they do. I love you, and I hate to see you leave. There’s something odd, something terrifying, about watching someone you love leave. We may think we’ll see them again, we may hope there’s another side, but are you certain? All that’s guaranteed is that everyone will leave.” “I have no answers, and it’s the most unsatisfying feeling that could possibly be felt. Only wondering. Endless searching has given us psychology and an understanding but that’s not an answer. It has only generated more questions. Why do we dream? What’s the voice in our head? Why do some people have more than one?” I pass away, lying next to him. I could’ve sworn he held my hand in my final moments. I cannot say whether there is another side, but I can say that this man will never see it. That unresolved feeling will be with him forever. He never cried, never shed a tear. He moved on, used to the fact that people left. But he did grow attached. It’s impossible not to. How do you know someone so deeply and not care for them? Then again, how do you not care for someone knowing they are like you? This man gave me many questions, and very few answers. He had none. I wish I could have given him some comfort. Maybe I did. He wanders into a large coffee chain which had replaced the family-owned restaurant that was there before. He will never find answers. But at least he had a moment of hope with me. That is the greatest gift I will have ever given.


“Ya know, that paper confetti blew all the way over here from Times Square, and it’s still all over the streets.” It was an uncharacteristically warm and cheerful morning on one of the first days after the New Year. Yves sat sketching the view from his street-facing window, which included a park with an old playground, a sprinkler, and a bathhouse. “The city doesn’t bother dealing with it,” his girlfriend, Claire, half-shouted from the kitchen. She joined Yves in the bedroom, tying her reddish-brown tendrils of hair into a bun. A taxi pulled into the remaining parking space across the street in front of the park. “I wonder if it’s because there’s just so *much* of it that they just let it get into giant clumps on the curb, and *then* they clean it all up.” Yves’ blank expression and floating gaze communicated that he wasn’t intent on listening to her anymore now that his idea was vocalized. It seemed, at least to Claire, that he paid *less* attention to her responses whenever she was *more* receptive to whatever it was he was talking about, which drove her up the walls. She *hated* that about him. She wasn’t supposed to *say* she hated it, but she really did *hate it* when he dismissed her thoughts in such a passive way. *Why do you* ***ever*** *tell me* ***anything,*** *if you don’t care to hear what I think about it?* She wanted to say. He would blame it on an undiagnosed ADHD sort of quirk, but she’d seen him be engaged in conversation for *hours* at a time when we wanted to, especially when *the guys* were involved. “I’m wondering if I should include the confetti in this,” Yves said, folding his arms. “Ya know, for accuracy.” He rolled up the sleeves of his denim shirt and looked back at the bones of his sketch. “Well, does it fit the — I dunno — the *mood* of what you’re trying to depict?” This sketch bore little resemblance to the others — the bleak, dreary, arteries of the trees and the avenues around the park went up against the vibrant oranges and blues of the other sketches. “I don’t think It does,” Yves questioned, standing up. “But I’m finding it hard to imagine the scene without all of it now.” “Well, there you have your answer.” Claire relocated her attention to the bookcase that towered over the bed, adjusting the few that stood out of their place. She looked over at a slight crack in the wall just left of it, and wondered if the building’s management wouldn’t mind fixing it. She’d prolonged asking about it since she was always putting in requests for various tweaks and repairs in the apartment. She recalled the words of her mother, back in Pittsburgh, about being entitled to what you pay for. It’s what *they* were paid to do, anyway. “Hmph.” Yves furrowed his brow and tapped his pencil on the sill. He sucked his teeth and backed away from the window. “Also, this guy is more or less obscuring my view of that little garden in the park.” “Who?” This made Claire react almost defensively. “This homeless guy. he’s got a ton of stuff with him, and it’s blocking what would be my view of that little garden in the park.” Claire shrugged. “It’s winter, anyway. that garden is a pile of dust and dry soil,” she said definitively. “I don’t think it’s any different in the springtime, incidentally.” “I guess I’m just finding it hard to ignore.” Yves stood motionless, save for his twitching eyes, scanning the scene. “Ya think I should go down there and bring him something to eat?” He said after a few moments. “Wow, you gonna try and goad this guy out of the park with a snack for the sake of your crumby sketch? That isn’t artful integrity.” She glided behind Yves and buried her chin into the space between his shoulder blades and gripped his torso. “Well, if you must know, I think I may include him in it,” Yves said resolutely. “But he does look hungry, and my guilty conscience could never stand to capture somebody who’s hungry.” Yves freed himself from Claire’s hold and craned his head into the doors of the pantry, shuffling around assorted bags and cans. “Man, this healthy kick has got us strapped for snacks,” he said, closing the doors. “I can hardly find anything that doesn’t resemble rabbit food.” “I think you’ve used that rabbit line once before. Or, a few times.” “Well, I just don’t feel so good about forking over a bunch of pickled *artichokes,* or-“ “It’s asparagus. Artichokes have too many carbs for a *vegetable*, believe it or not.” “Oh, I believe it. Hey, what am I gonna bring this guy to eat? Nunna these stores are open, go figure. And I’ll feel just awful if I’ve gotta watch him be all miserable down there.” Claire passed through the kitchen. “Hmm.” Yves turned to watch as she carefully filed through the fridge, squatting down in the yellow light of the doors. She wasn’t wearing her trademark carpet slippers with goats embroidered on them, with it being so warm over the last day, despite her feet always being so *cold*. You’d think the tiles were made of lava the way she hopped about them, and the way she terrorized Yves by planting them on his back at night. She had Yves fixed on her, his arms and the corners of his mouth tied in admiration, enamored either by her delicate handling of each item or by the upper thighs that peered out from the bottom of her sleeping shorts. “Well, if this wasn’t ever a nudge to take a visit to the grocery store,” she muttered. “Nothing?” Yves asked, heading back toward the bedroom. A pause. A pause that meant Claire wanted to be *sure* if there was something to bring or not. “Ya know what?” the light in her voice quite literally magnetized him. She rose out of the fridge, gripping a bushel of bright red strawberries in her long, situationally useful fingers. “I’ll wash these and you can bring them down to him.” Claire stood up and pushed closed the door of the fridge with her hip. “They’re *mine,* as you know,” she said as she brought the fruits to the sink. “But they’re the sweetest strawberries on earth.” \*\*\* Yves clomped down the stairwell with a small cardboard box and paused at the door of the vestibule. It truly was a *nice day —* something about the air even had a taste to it. That usually didn’t happen for another three months. Sometimes more. Across the street, the homeless man flung pieces of bread at a gang of pigeons bobbing around in the garden. Underhandedly, though, so as to not startle them on impact. Yves descended halfway down the stoop and took in a large inhale, and a longer, slower, more necessary exhale. Whether or not he consciously acknowledged it, he was nervous. Not because the man was homeless, but because he was a stranger. Meaningful interactions with strangers always made him nervous. He always said it was because, in New York, people don’t go around having meaningful interactions with strangers unless they want to appear “suspect”. Or, if they want something from them. Yves crossed the street and squeezed through the bumpers of parked cars and yanked open the iron gates of the park. As he approached the benches, the man looked up from his zookeeper duties with a sort of jovial warmth that quickly transformed into a stone-cold default as Yves neared closer. “Hey, man. Y’want s’more to eat?” Yves raised the box. “Some berries.” The man peered into the box, looked up at Yves, and gingerly accepted. “My girl washed them and cut the tops off. That’s the worst part.” The man took a bite of one. “She said they were the sweetest strawberries she’d ever had.” Yves forced in a chuckle — an expulsion of air or some sort, as to make the situation more — human. God, he loathed the idea that this was something transactional. He loathed even more the idea that the other person would feel the burden of having been done a favor. “Thanks, brother. Really,” the man nodded insistently, exposing the thinning crown of his head. “God bless.” Yves walked off, feeling overwhelmed with nervousness. He could even feel his pulse thumping in his ears. When he passed through the park’s northside gate, he wondered what the man’s name was, and where he was from. For some reason, he thought San Francisco or Seattle. Somewhere on the west coast. Then he wondered *why* he was homeless. The truth is, he wanted to be friends with the man. He wanted to know his story from the beginning, and what he liked doing. It made him upset that he *couldn’t* be friends with the man, not because he was homeless, but because he was a stranger. New York *never* lets you be friends with strangers. It might be because a lot of them end up being lousy friends. It can be real transactional in that way. As he rounded the corner outside toward the avenue, Yves started to feel better about everything. The man probably didn’t want friends, anyway. For someone like that, hanging out with a stranger and getting *sympathized* with is the *last* thing they want. That’s what he told himself to feel better. The start of the new block revealed dozens of people in two single-file lines along the sidewalk. Mostly women over sixty-five, or something around that. Every few moments, they would shuffle their carts forward in the direction of this big church all the way down to the west side of the avenue. Those at the front of the line received their portions from the back of a van — bread, it seemed, but no strawberries. Holding on to the side of a few of the carts were little children. Grandchildren. They were remarkably poised and attentive considering the monotony of waiting in line to get a few loaves of bread. And for being little kids and all. A gust of wind flowed by and crept under Yves’ t-shirt. It was indeed still winter. Along the curb, pieces of yellow, blue, and pink confetti twirled around and danced in the air in front of him. \*\*\* Upstairs, Yves pushed the apartment door open and tossed the keys on the counter. He caught the door reflexively on the way back, so it wouldn’t slam and piss off the whole building. Save for the buzzing of the light fixtures in the hallway — that sound was *always* there — it seemed a lot more quiet than usual. Claire was in the back, sitting ambivalently on the split of the window and the fire escape. It was funny; now that he was focused on Claire, imagining what she was looking at and hearing in the street, it seemed *less* quiet. She was already smiling when Yves looked over at her, but it became a grin once she turned over to him. It was impossible not to smile back. He wanted to keep things serious and maintain that almost *sublime* sense of morosity he’d been feeling in the street, but it was no use. Claire bounded over to the kitchen and into Yves’ arms. “Well, do you think he liked them?” Yves looked down at Claire’s middle-parted hair, and at the tops of her bristling eyebrows. “Yeah,” he said, pushing some bass into his voice. “I think he liked them.


A wealthy and exceptionally intelligent man once hired a renowned artist to bring his ideas to life as masterpieces. The clever artist, being cunning himself, agreed only under the condition that the rich man would pay double the regular amount and provide double the usual time for each painting; this way, he believed he could truly turn them into masterpieces. The rich man accepted the proposal, with the stipulation that the artist remain anonymous, reject all other work, and exclusively paint for his grand gallery, available for purchase or auction. With the agreement in place, the artist and the mastermind exchanged ideas, and the artist dedicated time to giving them shape. After a lengthy wait, the rich man saw his grand concept manifested on the canvas. He arranged an exhibition, and the painting became an overnight sensation. Wealth and grandeur flocked to witness the creation of this masterpiece by an unknown artist, and its value soared to tens of thousands overnight. Unbeknownst to the wealthy man, the artist had secretly crafted a far more grandiose rendition of the same concept, executed with perfection. The painting displayed at the exhibition paled in comparison to this exquisitely created piece, hidden away in a concealed dungeon. Many years passed, and numerous paintings later, the artist approached the rich man, requesting retirement. The wealthy man agreed, rewarding the artist with a house, land, and a modest estate for his years of dedication. As the years rolled by, the allure of the rich man's gallery paintings waned. Rumors spread that these artworks were inferior to the superior art styles of similar ideas executed elsewhere. Intrigued, the wealthy man attempted to trace the origin of the new painter who had depicted similar ideas. To his astonishment, he discovered that this painter was none other than his own, selling his work under his own name. Amazed, the wealthy man visited the gallery and watched as the artist introduced him to the public. The artist revealed how the rich man had used him for his paintings, exploiting a poor painter for his own glorification. This confession resonated with the public, who turned against the rich man and supported the artist. The painter's superior artistry and style gained immense popularity, leading to paintings' prices soaring to hundreds of thousands. Time passed, and the frenzy gradually subsided. The once-famous painter faded into obscurity, and the prices of his paintings dwindled. Meanwhile, the rich man established a new gallery dedicated to classical art, which gained prominence. Curious, the painter visited this new gallery, only to find his original, lesser-quality art depicting the rich man’s novel ideas. Approaching the painter, the rich man smiled and gestured towards the paintings, declaring to the audience that the painter was the world's most famous artist, whose art was considered godly, flawless, and ethereal. He highlighted the "limited edition fault-only" paintings, showcasing imperfections, deformities, and the dark side within the divine. The word spread like wildfire, and people flocked to see this collection of greatest flaws. Suddenly, the price of these "defective" paintings surged to millions. The rich man concluded, proclaiming that as long as artists exist, a rich man will always be there.


I’m not crazy. I love her. I want to protect her. I want to be with her. She will be mine. Ever since the day I saw her, the first time I heard her voice. “Hi!” she said to me. She is so goddamn cute. Why is she so beautiful? She makes me feel so happy. I’m not crazy. But, she will be mine. Those other guys are disgusting. They will hurt her. They will use her for their own needs, not caring about hers. I’m different, I will only give her love. I will give her my time, my attention, she is my world. I will walk with her at night, through the park. She looks so lonely by herself. It’s dangerous to be alone. I care about her. I can’t let her out of my sight. I have to be quiet though. If she sees me, she’ll tell me to leave her alone, she’ll try to avoid me. I don’t want to go back to the darkness. I’m not crazy. I’m not a psychopath. I love her. That’s all. I just want her to be happy, to be loved, by me. She will be safe. She is my main priority. I won’t rest, I won’t sleep, I won’t stop. Until she is safe. Until she is with me. Until she is in my arms. Everytime she is sad, I cry. Every time she’s scared, I want to protect her. Tell her, “Everything will be ok.” Everytime one of those bastards try to talk to her, they make her feel uncomfortable. I want to kill them all. Make sure they have a slow death, something they deserve for what they do. I’m not crazy. It would be out of love, and protection. She can never find out. She would look at me like I’m a murderer. She’d run away, call the cops, then I’ll never see her. I am a protector, a guardian angel. They say I need a doctor, my own friends, they think I’m a danger. They’ve started avoiding me. That doesn't matter. When I have her, the demons will go away. She’ll make everything better. The thought of her already does. I want to hold her hand on those long late nights. Hold her close, knowing she is safe. I’m not crazy, but I want to bring her here. To my house. I don’t have any roommates, no one will tell the cops. But, I don't want to hurt her while doing so. I’ve made a spare room for her. Comfy, safe, and within the area around me. She’ll love me. Once she sees how horrible the real world is, I can bring her to a fantasy, where she is treated like the queen. Her family is just as horrible. I should feel relaxed when she goes to her parents in the winter. But, she comes back bruised and hurt. She hardly ever looked up last time. I need her to be with me, I want her to be happy. She is the only thing in life I care about. I am not crazy. I am protecting her. I’ve saved her. Nobody can hurt her anymore. I love her.


“How did you hear about this place?” My voice broke the long-established silence, a silence that had been building since we snuck out of our houses. It was almost like Marty thought his mother would still be able to hear him despite the hour of walking we put between us. “You know, those like, internet rabbit hole type site.” He replied in a quick tone that almost sounded like he was trying to hush me. I had initially been excited when he brought of the proposition of some festival hidden deep in the nearby woods. “I found this invite online, don’t worry I checked it out, it’s legit.” Those words continued to rattle in my brain. The woods weren’t particularly dense and it was easy enough to find your way back to our little town, just listen for the water, find it and follow it upstream. I had, however, never been so deep in the woods and never that late at night. The moon punctured the tree's canopies lighting our way with a scarcity of natural spotlights. “How are you holding up?” I questioned Marty not wanting the silence to settle back in as I had no idea how long we still had to go. “I’m alright.” His whisper quite responds only audible thanks to the still forest. He knew what I was referring to, I could see it when he reached up and gripped his sleeve-covered arm. “We should be getting close now.” ‘Thank god I thought, I was getting sick of getting playful branches whipped across my face and the foliage was making my thighs sticky. His words rang truer than either of us could have imagined as after only a few minutes we saw the silhouette peeking through the clearing in the trees. A prominent and mysterious mass of shadows saw just a few feet in front of us. “Well shit,” I spoke more to myself than anyone. With each step bringing the place further into view I was filled with more and more disbelief despite it being right in front of me. Standing in a large circular clearing in the forest, devoid of trees or up reaching foliage was the imposing shaping of Carnival Vivacity. The miniature city before up was completely shrouded in shadow, the light beaming through holes in the clouds being the only reprisal. “Did we miss it?” I addressed the Carnival that lacked any signs of life. “Let’s just check it out? We’re already here.” Marty spoke taking small and timid steps towards the towering tents in front of us. “Okay, but I’m not too keen on being eaten by Lions,” I remarked, I heard Marty mimic the sound of a Lion growling up ahead. I didn’t want to say it out loud but my nerves were standing on the edge, something about a darkened Carnival refused to sit right with me. It wasn’t a secret that Marty was nervous too, despite it being pretty high in the nineties he was visibly shaking under his long sleeve shirt. We got into the grounds without meeting any resistance, the Carnival was like a long-abandoned ghost town as we walked through it. Empty food stalls sat unmanned and the three large tents around us were devoid of the chaos you’d expect from them. “This is cool man, but maybe we should come back another time?” “No way.” Marty spat out almost irritated at the thought. “This is my last chance, Andrew.” He more calmly stated while looking around like he was trying to find someone.“Last chance for wha-” My question was quickly halted in my mouth as the Carnival Vivacity sprang to life without warning around us. Like a switch had been flipped we were suddenly surrounded by a cacophony of colored lights resembling a Christmas tree. Powerful beams of orange illumination reached out from the openings of the tents. There were people around us when the lights turned on, I was almost unable to really comprehend their sudden appearance, it felt like my brain accepted it as normal. “Hello, Miyazaki,” Marty said aloud with drawn-out syllables as he looked around the newly lit up Carnival ground with complete awe. His smile was so wide I thought he would fit right in with some of the clowns I witnessed trotting around in my peripherals. “So what do we do first?” I asked, surprised that the first thing out of my mouth wasn’t, “Let’s leave right now.”Marty lifted his hand and rested it gently on his stomach as he feverously eyed a nearby food stand with steam from a grill pouring out of it. “I’m feeling pretty hungry,” I said, even though it was so outwardly expressed Marty was never going to say he was hungry. I can’t imagine what he got for dinner that night if anything at all. I walked behind him, mildly vexed when I saw that no one was manning the stand and in fact, no one else was there at all. Sitting on the small round stools in front of the stand I peered over looking for someone who could help serves us. When I didn’t see anyone I began turning to Marty to bring up how odd it was when a work appeared out of the corner of my eye. Surprised I went to look at the man approaching us but when I did he had vanished into thin air leaving only a vacancy. Marty started to speak beside me but I only registered what he said after I had already come to the same conclusion. I could see a crowd of people walking around the Carnival but they were only there when in my peripherals if I turned to look at them, they’d be gone. “You can only see them directly if you’re one of them.” Those were the words that slowly registered. One of them? I thought about that sentence all the way up until it was closing time. “I’d like whatever you recommend,” Marty spoke to the spectral worker, if I looked straight ahead it was just a steaming pile of meat, but through the sides of my vision a cook was working around the stove flipping the meat and seasoning it. “One for my friend too.” I took the time to look around the Carnival with a more observant eye, everywhere I turned the tightly packed crowd would vanish when meeting my direct eye line. We were alone and completely surrounded at the same time. All but for one, I saw him only for a moment initially. Slightly shaken I started turning back to Marty when the clink of a porcelain plate meeting the bar in front of me aroused my interest. A steaming plate of meat and vegetables on top of a flour tortilla shell filled my nostrils with a heavenly smell. Marty was already wolfing down his food like he had been hunting it all night. The food made my mouth salivate and forcibly pushed and thoughts of suspicion or anxiety from my mind. The food was exquisite, I had never and likely will never taste something as good as what the Carnival offered us. When I thought about asking for more I was pleasantly surprised to find that I felt full despite eating fairly little. Marty too let out a huff that told me he was stuffed. “Okay, this is super cool I admit, but maybe we should go it’s- not normal.” I had tried to keep it together for Marty’s sake, I hadn’t seen him this happy in a long time and the smile on his face was something I almost forgot he could do. “It’s only here for tonight. It is harmless.” He retorted. “Once it’s gone, like the people, you won’t be able to see it.” He turned his head around the grounds before his sights landed on the tent. “Besides we at least have to check out the show right?” He was beaming. With a quick nod of approval we rose up from our seats, I turned back and said a quick thank you to the cook, a whispy ‘you’re welcome’ crept into my head. Not like it was said by anyone it felt just like a thought I would have. We made our way to the tent, my steps were cautious as I kept thinking I was going to run into someone. When we parted the flaps and walked inside I saw the man in the red coat standing in the middle of a dirt ring. Out of the corners of my eyes, I saw an audience seated and ready for the show to start, I could feel that they were waiting on us. “This is incredible,” Marty whispered as we slowly made our way to the only two open seats we could find and claimed them as our own. “Welcome to Carnival Vivacity!” The ringleader’s voice boomed throughout the tent, his words were said instead of heard in my thoughts. Even though I could see him when I looked directly at him, his face was difficult to look at for an extended period of time. His features would constantly shift creating this blurring effect. He was warping between a culmination of every face that I had ever committed to memory. As he spoke, welcoming the crowd and describing the night’s events I watched the familiar features of my parents, kids from school and even Marty’s sunken eyes appear on his face. Then the Ringleader rose his hand and I could feel the metal seat I was in trembling, the whole tent, in fact, was shaking. I turned my head hoping to catch whatever was causing it in my peripheral And then I saw it clearly. It was unbelievable, I had seen them in textbooks before when were would study our ancestors but there it was. A massive Woolie Mammoth had waltzed into the middle of the ring, I could see both the creature and Marty’s infatuation with the whole ordeal in one scene. A few more things played out. A group of people in acrobatic attire walked out and began swinging off ropes hanging from the high ceiling. There was a gasp from the crowd that flooded my thoughts when one of the performers dropped to the dirt. I could see her body fold on impact and become twisted and mangled, bones poking out from her knee. Then the girl lifted her hand and gave a thumbs up accompanied by a wicked smile. Everyone laughed, everyone but me. I watched in horror as the girl manipulated her body and put it back together. I hadn’t gotten to take it all in but the girl sparked a notion in me, that everyone around us looked so conventionally attractive. Each one sculpted from perfection belonging on the front of a magazine. Marty no doubt noticed it too, I would catch him touching the bags under his eyes or running his hands through his scraggly hair. After watching a Tiger jumping through rings of green fire, a fire that would cast a light on the Tiger revealing its true decaying self, I decided I had enough. “And now I just need a volunteer!” The Ringleader asserted nearly gluing me to my seat. I knew it was going to happen before I had time to try and stop it, Marty’s boney arms slipped right through my grasp. His lanky body was already standing up and shuffling through the crowd, I could hear him offering apologies to the people he passed by on his way to the stage. They all just cheered in my head creating an obnoxious buzzing noise. It all happened so fucking fast. Before I had a chance to protest or try to storm the stage, hell who am I kidding I wouldn’t have the nerve to do something like that. As Marty stepped into the ring and the Leader asked the crowd to applaud the young man I watched with my every breath stuck in my throat. “Thank you for volunteering, this won’t hurt a bit.” The Ringleader affirmed as he reached into his pocket. The whole time Marty stood there, smiling and bowing at the roaring crowd he continued to scan. Then his eyes landed on me. He mouthed something, something that was only for me as I sat surrounded by people I couldn’t see. My eyes became hot and stingy as I read his lips and before I knew it my fingers that were gripping the seat tensed up. There was no time process of what was going to happen before the Ringleader made his move. Pulling his hand out of the duster he put a revolver up to Marty’s head and without an ounce of hesitation, pulled the trigger. Once a spattering of red was thrown onto the dark brown circle of dirt I could feel my body lifting from the chair. I rose and Marty fell. He fell to the dirt at the Ringleader’s feet. I thought my emotions were running hot enough to evaporate the tears on my cheeks as I rushed through the set of chairs offering no apologies. Even though looking at his face created an intense urge to vomit I stormed right up to the Ringleader ready to - I don’t know honestly, I was stopped before it got that far. “It’s okay Andrew!” My eyes were still fixated on the Ringleader, his face continued to shift but his body was unmoving. I kept my gaze on the Leader, hoping he could feel what I was feeling but out of the corner of my eye Marty started to stir. Slowly he rose to his feet, I couldn’t see any sign of the gunshot but the blood still rested on the ground behind him. “We’re fucking leaving.” I scowled being more assertive at that moment than I ever had been before. “Are we free to leave?” I asked the Ringleader. “You’re free to go, Andrew.” The Ringleader responded through ever-changing lips, his calm voice almost a mockery of my emotions. “I do hope you enjoyed your time.” Those words were like a punch to the gut, like he was so far above me that he couldn’t care less about my swelling rage. “Come on Marty.” I quickly turned around and began to storm out of the tent, looking over my shoulder to confirm that Marty was following me. He was, walking much slower than me with his head shoulder hanging heavy. I didn’t want to stop, all the while as I made my way out of the tent and back to the grounds, every so often turning my head to make sure Marty was still there. The trees came into view as I shuffled through the invisible crowd that only appeared as they passed by my sides, I could feel their shoulders and arms brushing up against mine. “Andrew,” Marty spoke behind me. “We’re almost out don’t worry,” I replied, not even looking back to make sure that he could hear me. “Andrew.” His tone was the same but it was quieter, no not quite, I was just further away like he had stopped walking. All of a sudden my body felt like a rock, like a was a statue planted into the ground and each part of me feared to turn around as the realization punctured my lungs like cutting knives. I could feel his presence behind me, I could feel him standing several feet back and suddenly the night became quiet. There were a few guests in my peripheral that had stopped their meandering and stood completely still around me. “Please don’t,” I said in a whisper to no one in particular. Perhaps a plea to the orchestrating higher powers. My face was becoming wet again, cool streaking tears running down my face on the verge of a manic break. “Andrew, it’s okay.” Marty’s voice was soft. As his words were a warm blanket wrapping around me on a stormy night. It reached me, Andrew, you’re feelings reached me. My lead foot slipped from the patch of grass it had flattened allowing my body to begin its pivot. I swiveled around until I had turned to face Marty. And I was alone. The lights were off and the crowd was gone. My head became heavy as it rolled back and my eyes closed pushing the well of forming water out. My lips moved, mouthing words I couldn’t even decipher. I dropped to my knees in the large empty field, it was just me. My emotions dripped off my face and watered the warm blades of grass that hugged my legs as I let it all out. In those woods is where I left my sorrow, it’s where I let all the pain seep out of my chest and become one with the forest. As the sun started to peek above the horizon I too lifted myself up and made the hike back into town. A town that in time would forget Marty. His mother would pretend to care for a few days until the public eye was taken off of her. Very few people knew the kind of monster she was to Marty after his dad passed away. Marty saw a chance, a chance to be well fed and to see the world, be a part of a family. To do something that only a person at their lowest could accomplish. Seeing the world beyond showmanship. There were search efforts to find him. I was put into counseling and questioning at the same time as I was his only real connection to this town. I couldn’t tell them, it would seem like a fever dream to anyone who wasn’t there but Marty, he was gone. And all I had left of him was the words he mouthed to be the final time I was able to look him right in the eyes. “Thank you, for being my friend.”


"Speak now." Father said. His arms crossed firmly against his chest, so tight that you could see muscle strain against his red polo shirt. His gaze pierced and forced Gregor's eyes down by the judgement it contained. Gregor wish he could explain, truly he did. He was used to being in good graces with the grownups in his life, but now his lips were sealed, and his hands trembled. He grimaced at the hot burn in his eyes and nose. The indignation of doing the right thing was fresh with him. His father sighed in resignation. "Alright. Go to your room. We'll talk later." His posture relaxed into resignation and grabbed his keys from the hook. He mumbled something about supper. Gregor cleared his throat and said, “The usual, please.” His father grunted and the his heavy boots announced his leaving on the wooden floor. Gregor slumped down the old hallway towards a larger-than-needed room painted in a joyful robin eggs blue. He looked over to his squat dresser; on top was a photo of his mother in an old picture frame. She was sitting next to him and playing on his Gameboy while he watched. The picture always brought a smile to his face. The warmth of her smile had that magical essence that allows it to travel through time and space and enrich all who saw it.  “I miss you.” Gregor said in a stifled voice. She’d been out of the house for a while now. They tried to explain to him that they just needed some time apart, but he knew things were worse than they were letting on. Mom had been acting strange lately and the small town rumors always swing around to everyone – That tetherball of gossip. The hottest take was that she was moonlighting as a prostitute to pay for a crippling drug addiction. He bloodied a boys nose the first time he heard it at school. He got three days suspension, and of course there was no punishment for spreading what Gregor knew in his heart to be slander. With his dad out of the house to pick up some food for the night, he opened his closet door. Everything was as he left it. He moved some clothes that had fallen off their hangers long ago to uncover a forgotten moving box. “So far, so good…” he thought. He knew his dad had gotten a call from the school, but he wasn’t sure if he’d already done a thorough investigation or not yet. He opened the box and gave a sigh of relief. His hard work remained undiscovered, though he knew he had to act soon. Tonight would be the night. Dinner with Dad started expectedly awkward. Both ate fast food in silence, Dad occasionally glanced up at his son with a vacant but concerned stare. As dinner went on he relaxed though and said, "Do you want to watch a movie tonight?" Gregor took a few moments before answering and met his gaze with hesitation. “No thank you…” “Ah, you sure? There’s a whole lot of westerns on this week. Some kind of special, I think.” He quickly shoved a handful of tepid fries in his mouth. Dad always preferred a specific burger place in town that was just far enough away for things to be a little lackluster when they got back home to eat. "Yeah, I think so... but thanks" Gregor grew out of westerns a long time ago, when he was six or so. There's only so many high-noons and drunken prospectors a kid can take. Dad never seemed to get his fill, though. The memory of watching them together must have stuck with him. It'd been a while since they've found a common passion. "Sure thing, son... Hey, listen..." Gregor tightened up at this. He knew it was coming eventually. "You know you can tell me anything, right?" His voice was deep and gravely. It sounded like a bear trying to sooth a rabbit with a growl. "Yeah, I know Dad." He said. His gaze dropped down again. "Well, okay then." Dad said with a sigh of frustration. "You know where to find me if you need me, son." He lumbered to the living room to fill the dad-shaped dent in his recliner to turn the TV on and crank the volume up. His hearing has steadily gone downhill since he took the factory job; his energy too. Gregor knew that he'd fall asleep in about thirty minutes or so. Gregor played video games in his room while he waited for Dad to fall alseep. Tonight was the night he’d do his best to help things go back to how they used to be. It didn't take long for his Dad's snoring to reverberate across the house. It was a comforting annoyance, like the creak in the ceiling fan one has had since they were a baby. He changed out of his pajamas and put on a dark hoodie and black sweat pants. Not only to blend in the night, but the cold nip of a fall night filled the air. He looked at himself in the mirror and smiled; He looked like a frumpy little ninja. "I'm on my way, Mom." He said with a nervous smile. He positioned one of his pillows beneath his covers to make a little boy-shaped bulge. When he felt satisfied with his ruse, he slid off the windowsill to the outside driveway, his sneakers crunched on the gravel. The box was heavy in his hands, but he pressed on past his father’s mud-crusted truck and made his way down their alley. He knew his way around his small town and still remembered the bike paths he'd take to avoid the heavier trafficked streets, and the yards of the meaner kids at his school as well. Back when he went outside. He walked on and passed by his school. It always looked like it would topple over on him, especially when he’d gaze up at the steeple. The lot was empty all around it, which gave him comfort. Sister O'Hara's classroom light was on, she never turned it off. Something about how 'Sin perpetuates most in darkness'. Gregor couldn't help but snigger at himself, stumbling in the dark, making her words true. She was the whole reason he was out so late this night, he remembered. He had overheard her talk about his mom to another teacher. Talking about how she'll never go to heaven if she can't get off of drugs, how her vice has led her to doing unholy and shameful things. How she abandoned her son because she gave in to Satan. Through tears and a swelling fear he ran. He knew if he had to hear her talk any longer his blind rage would lead him to expulsion, and his parents had enough stress in their life as it was. The rest of the trip was uneventful, save for the couple of times where he ducked behind a hedge to hide from a passing car. Things never happened in places like this at night, or if they did it was so seldom as to not change the habits of anyone. Life would simply roll on, and no one would feel guilty for staying the same. Not when a tragedy didn't affect them directly. He reached his Grandma's house after traveling a couple miles down a dirt road. It was pitch black save for the beam of his flashlight. he pressed on until he saw the faint dim blue glow of her house in the copse of elm trees around her lot. He was holding his breath in anticipation and exhaled in relief when he saw his mother’s blue Oldsmobile in the drive. Thank goodness she was here. The box was feeling heavy as it shifted underneath his left arm, sloshing slightly. A light was on in the second story guest room. That must be where she is, he thought. He smiled when he saw her faded-pink colored bedhead pass by the window. She looked hollowed out but still warm, somehow. Like a fire on its last legs. She held a freshly lit cigarette in her hand, a habit she quit off and on for years. Gregor picked up a pebble and chucked it at the old paint-peeled boards next to the window. He saw her look his way, her eyes thinned and her face curled in confusion before she gasped and opened the window with some effort. "Son? What on earth are you doing here, it must be... Goodness it's two in the morning!" "I'm just like you mom, a night owl I guess." She gave him an exasperated smile, rolled her eyes, and said, “You must be freezing! Come in!" He saw her hurry away and before long the kitchen light glowed through the side door. Gregor approached and wiped his feet on the mat out of habit before he entered. She gave him a long and remorseful hug before sitting at the small two person table in the old kitchen. "You know you can't be sneaking out like this, Greg, Robert would have a heart attack if he knew you walked here... I nearly had a heart attack! Are you okay?" "I'm fine, I’m fine. I got into a bit of trouble at school, but...yeah." He set the box town on the table and sat across from her after giving her a hug. "Mom, I know you and Dad aren't getting along and that you need some space, but I miss you and I couldn't wait until the weekend to see you again because something happened." "Well, what happened, Greg?" She was fully awake now. Her face contorted with guilt, a look that became increasingly familiar those days.” "I was walking by the teachers’ lounge after school waiting for Dad to pick me up when I heard Sister O'Hara talking about you. She said that people like you don't deserve to have children and that she'd be surprised to see you in Heaven." She looked pained and she closed her eyes before sighing. “People love to say hurtful things when they're not around their victims, Greg." "I know, I know. What scared me so much was the idea that you wouldn't go to heaven. I don't think she knows what she’s talking about, but I just wanted to make sure that someone was looking out for you, and I figured it might as well be me." He opened the top of the box and pulled out a gallon of grape juice and a box of communion wafers. He also took out two petite plastic cups and set them on the table. Staying late usually sucked, but he was glad to that one day, when he’d swipe the communion supplies right from under Sister O’Hara’s nose. His mother looked confused and looked back at him with a confused face and started to laugh. "Oh my goodness, son! There was no need, dear! I'm-" "Mom-" he cut her off, "It would mean a lot to me if you shared communion with me tonight." She looked up and smiled at the seriousness of his face. "I had no idea you felt so strongly about this stuff, Greg" "I do, in my own way I guess. Sometimes church sucks. Everyone takes it too seriously; or not seriously enough. Sometimes I think they only want to look good and not be good." She smiled softly at him, “We all have different ways of dealing with the world, honey. It's easier for some than others too. Lord knows I've had my faults in how I've delt with it myself. Just as Sister O'Hara has hers and you yours. No one is handling this thing called life gracefully; if they look like they are that just means they're good actors." She winked at him while he poured the grape juice. "I'm touched you'd do this, though, Greg, I really am. I can't say I approve of you stealing from school or being out so late, but I will say I won't forget tonight. I'll share this and pray with you, if you like, then we got to get you home, okay?" Greg yawned and nodded, sliding over a wafer and shot glass of grape juice to his mother. She took it gingerly and he his and she said a small and clunky prayer over the grape juice and crackers. They both solemnly completed their communion. Mom wiped away a tear from her eye and hugged her son. "Tell you what, let's do whatever you'd like to do this weekend; maybe I can even get your father and I to take you out for a big fat steak, how does that sound?" "I don't know if Dad would be down with that, he seemed a little mad at me when he got the call saying they think I stole from the school." "Well... Let me talk to him and explain, and I'm sure he won't be mad after. Sometimes we do the wrong thing for the right reason, you know? That doesn't always make up for it, but it does make it understandable. We'll talk it out, dear, but know that regardless of what he says that I'm very proud of you. I love you unconditionally, and I know that he does too." She smiled at him slowly and with an expression of complete and utter prideful delight. "Besides, when have you known your dad to pass on a big slab of meat and potatoes?" "Only that time you burnt the crap out of his filet mignon." He gave her a crooked smile. She gasped and had to stifle her laugh from waking up her mother. "Alright you turd. Let's get you back." The school never found out who took the supplies. Dad and Gregor munched and drank the evidence over the next few weeks, and with the evidence gone, all that remained was a fond memory for all three of them to cherish.


Liam looked out over the calm sea and prepared his nets for the day ahead; the skies looked promising except for some gray, low hanging clouds far out to sea. “Aye, let this be a good day,” he muttered, “My press is as empty as a scoundrel’s heart.” “Mother,” he looked skyward “could ye see fit to bring me a wee bit of good luck today?” He often spoke thus to his beloved mother who had sung to him as a boy and told wonderful stories of Irish folklore. He was particularly fond of those tales which spoke of the merrow and morgens, enchanted mermaids and sea sprites, who occasionally encountered seafaring folk like themselves. “Shouldn’t fill the lad’s head with such nonsense,” his da would scold his mother lovingly, “sea life is hard enough.” “Ah, true,” she’d say, “sea life is difficult, and we haven’t much, but love, ah… love conquers all.”  But the stories and his mother’s beautiful singing filled Liam’s heart and built a strong bond between them. When influenza struck their small village, it took his mother when Liam was in his early teens. The pain of her loss struck the boy and his father hard, but they carried on as best they could. The boy learned the ways of the sea from his father, who passed away himself, only a few years later. His passing left Liam alone in their small cottage by the sea.   The sea became his life. From his earliest memories he recalled helping his father with their small fishing boat, repairing nets, preparing bait, studying the clouds for impending weather and the many simple tasks which made possible wresting a simple life from the sea’s bounty. His father had taught him that the sea could be a loving mother, bountiful, caressing, cool and comforting or as cruel as any childhood fable’s hag, temperamental and threatening, powerful and cold, suffocating and irascible.

He set out to sea, ignoring the distant clouds. The storm had come up quickly as many small tempests did in this part of the ocean. A massive school of fish passing his boat had distracted him. He had never seen such a rich array of fish, schools one following another. He had labored fiercely with his nets to keep up, hauling in the catch, one after another. This had gone on for hours. He lost track of time and place, greedily seizing from the sea this unexpected catch. It would be a grand payday ashore. Finally, he collapsed on the deck of his boat exhausted. Only then did he discover with alarm, how far he had drifted from his customary course. The clouds threatened an ominous storm. In fifteen minutes, the seas rose sharply. The sky begun pelting his small craft with walls of water. Then, from nowhere, a phantom wave lifted his boat like a great hand and dashed it into a deep trough between the waves. He felt his boat tear apart at amidships tumbling him into the sea. That had been hours ago. He clung to an empty piece of floating debris and kept afloat with a Herculean effort, part conscious part unconsciously. Liam was finally swept ashore in the night, on one of the small anonymous isles which dotted the sea.

In the dark, as his senses gradually returned, his focus fell upon his hands and aching limbs. God, I hurt everywhere . Then, Liam was distracted by the sound of music floating faintly in the air. Was that a human voice? It was a high-pitched sound, a cry like that of a child, or was it a song? It seemed like a familiar melody, echoing in the breeze from the darkness of the island beyond. “Hello, who’s there?” he called. His voice was unintelligible, a croak more than words. In reply, came nothing but the musical sound and the wind. He rolled onto his side and slowly disentangled himself from the rope handle of the locker. His hands, in excruciating pain, twisted this way and that to free himself. The roar of the surf filled his ears and he felt himself slowly ebbing in strength. He knew he could not pass out this close to the sea’s tide. He hauled himself on his elbows and knees laboriously up the beach, the sea sucking at the sand beneath him as he crawled toward the interior of the island, toward the sound he had heard invisible in the darkness. Finally, exhausted, he lay on dry sand, perhaps only ten yards from the surf, but as far as his strength could carry him. Then, he heard the sound again, a singsong voice drifting to him in the breeze. “Help me,” a small voice cried, “ Mo choimirce , help me, please…” Liam rolled onto his side, the sand grating against his skin, “Who’s there?” he called. There was no answer. He crawled another few yards and his hand encountered an object buried in the sand. It was smooth, firm to the touch. Liam traced his fingers along the exterior, feeling an irregularly patterned, textured covering. He found that it extended several feet sideways to his outstretched arm. Beneath the sand, the trunk of the object felt as if it flattened out like a wide tail or a fin. It was like the fin of a great fish.

The sky was pitch black except for an occasional star winking through the passing clouds. With no moon or light of any kind he tentatively let his hand stray along the object in the opposite direction. As he stretched his hand along the figure, the firm scaly fin merged into soft velvety skin. As his fingers traced the skin from the tail, the form shifted beneath his hand. It was alive! He felt a shiver as he slid his hand up the skin, realizing it was the back of a woman. Long tresses of silken hair now slid through his fingers. Then the creature spoke. “Please sir, I beg you, do me no harm. I need only be returned to the sea, which is my home. For this, I will grant you any three wishes your heart may desire.” Liam was stunned. He momentarily forgot his pain, hunger and thirst. He was spellbound by the sudden realization he had happened upon a live mermaid. Was this one of the merrow his mother had spoken about? He squinted into the pitch blackness but still could see nothing of the creature before him. “Are you real?” Liam croaked, his voice strained from weakness. “I can’t see you.” “As real as you are,” the creature replied. Her voice was ethereal, a soothing, mellifluous lilt. “When the dawn breaks, you will find water and sustenance. But before the sun fully emerges I must be returned to the sea. The storm washed me far ashore and I have become trapped on the land. Will you help me?” Liam, his spirits buoyed by her beautiful voice, responded. “ Begorrah. I have little strength after my ordeal, but ‘twill be a pleasure to do as you ask.” He once again traced the mermaid’s skin finding that her fin had become entangled in the roots of a large trunk of driftwood. He tore at the roots which bound her and after a short struggle he was able to free her. He didn’t know how he found the strength, but Liam managed to stand. He carefully scooped the merrow up in his arms and carried her back toward the sound of the surf pounding against the shore. He bore her into the sea until he was waist deep and gently let her go. By now he saw the light shimmering at the horizon as the sun was rising in the eastern sky. Before him was the merrow, swimming and frolicking in the sea, ten or so yards away. Looking at the beach as the light illuminated his surroundings, he saw bottles of water bobbing in the surf and strewn along the beach. He waded to shore and greedily drank his fill, feeling strength return to his body. “I have promised you three wishes to repay your kindness and that shall be your reward,” the merrow sang as she swam up to Liam, now languishing on the sand. “Well, to be safely home to my friends and simple cottage, that would be my first wish,” Liam replied with a smile. “That you shall have,” she replied sweetly “and what else would you want?” “Well, I suppose, to be rich and successful beyond my wildest dreams, to own anything my heart desires,” he laughed. “Is that not what every man dreams?” “Done,” she responded with a smile, “And your final wish?” Liam looked at the mermaid, who now in the dawn of the brightening sky was more beautiful than anything he had ever seen. “I have no wife, with whom to share these things,” Liam began. “For my third wish, I want you to come with me, to my home, be my lifelong love and companion. This would bring me the greatest joy.”            The mermaid looked at him sadly. The first two wishes I can grant, but a union between man and merrow can never be. We are from separate worlds and are meant to be of different forms.” “Nonsense!” Liam insisted “Love can conquer all, m’ ma always told me. You will be my wife and be cast in human form. That is my heart’s desire!” “Very well,” the mermaid replied, in her soft, lilting voice. Liam opened his eyes. He found himself lying in bed, rich satin sheets and fine linens covering him. About him he recognized his simple fisherman’s cottage, but now transformed. Everywhere he looked he saw piles of gold coins and jewels and the finest furnishings he could imagine. He was home and wealthy beyond imagination! Then his bedroom door opened and the merrow, now a beautiful woman, cloaked in rich, luxurious raiment, entered the room. “Good morning, husband,” she sang sweetly, in that voice he heard in his dreams, “I hope you are feeling well. How shall we spend this fine day? Perhaps, down by the seashore?” “My wonderful, loving wife. Nothing would please me more. Let us first breakfast and then celebrate our new life together.” Liam’s heart swelled with joy and wonder at his good fortune. He threw aside his covers and bent to swing his legs over the bedside. Only then did he realize, that below his waist he bore a long, silver scaly fin, which twitched gently as he beheld it.


TW: gore Before I begin my account of this story, you must know that I cannot be held accountable. My mind doesn’t work right, and I black-out. I don’t know what happens when I black-out, and sometimes I don’t even know that I’ve done it. I’ll just suddenly realize that I don’t know how I got to the other side of the room, or in the next room over, or sometimes in a completely new place.         As an example, I’ll tell you that one day, I was driving. I was just driving for hours on end until I suddenly realized that I had no recollection of me entering the car. I didn’t even remember where I intended to go. When I checked the navigation system, I discovered that I was hours from my home and in a place I’ve never even been before. But when I had the itch in my brain telling me to look behind me, I found that in the backseat of my car was a shocking amount of blood. In a panic, I pulled over, hauled the seats out of my car, and dragged them about a mile into the desert where I had found myself driving. And there is where I left them.         The question of why keeps me up at night. Why did those seats have blood on them? Why can’t I remember? Why is this happening to me? And then the what. What have I done?         When one asks themselves, “What have I done?” it is usually a rhetorical question. One simply asked out of disbelief that they could have done something so terrible. But that means that they know that they have done that thing. When I ask myself that same question, it is seldom rhetorical. On many occasions, I have asked this in genuine search of an answer. But no matter how deep I search into my memories, I simply cannot come up with one.         Now that you surely know it’s not my fault, I will tell you my story.         There has been a sizable black barrel that has sat in my basement for some time. Like many things in my unusual life, I cannot remember how it came to be there. Most people may just go and open it to ease their curiosity, but my fear greatly overrules my interest. I know that I should go down and check, but I fear that I may not be able to live with myself if I knew the barrel’s contents. In complete honesty, some naïve part of me still believes that I won’t be responsible for whatever may be in the barrel if I don’t know what’s in it. Of course, my mind still runs wild with all of the possibilities. Maybe more things like the bloody seats, just suspicious items that I wouldn’t want anyone uncovering. But shoved deep to the back of my mind is the worst, seemingly most apparent option. At night, images of decomposing organs and flesh haunt my dreams, hinting at what I don’t know—hinting at what could’ve happened when I don’t remember.

        But to my knowledge, there is no person that I dislike enough to harm them like this. I get along well with all my co-workers; I have no outlandishly painful past relationships. I have had very few past relationships. I have always been a fairly lonely man. There have been a couple of signs that I have had more than I remember due to the black-outs, but I haven’t ever blacked out for very long. I doubt my… My other side could keep up much more than a fling.         Now, as I recount these things, it is a cold December night. I hear the wind howling, snaking, and whipping through tree limbs and over rooftops. Snowfall, which should be peaceful and calm, is being slanted and pushed to the ground. I keep it warm in my home, but just looking outside makes me shiver. I can’t sleep. My back aches, my side hurts, my mattress is too hard, and my bed is too soft. No, that’s not it. I can feel that black barrel. I now feel the distinct kind of dread I get when I go down to the basement and see it in the corner of my vision. The feeling usually stays contained downstairs, but tonight I can feel it. Like it’s at the foot of my bed. Suddenly I get chills, my arms tense, my chest tightens, and my head throbs. Something out of my control possesses me to swing my legs off my bed onto the cool wood floor and stand up. At this point, I could stop. I know I can, and I probably should, but I don’t want to. I am going to settle this feud with that blasted barrel once and for all. It doesn’t matter what’s in there; what can be worse than what my head has concocted? If it’s a body, then it’s a body. There’s nothing to be done.         I reach the door and do not hesitate to open it. To the basement stairs, and I step right on down. But I stop- I need something to open it with. I climb back up the six steps I had taken.         One.         Two.         Three.         Four.         Five.         Six.         Opening the junk drawer, I snatch two flathead screwdrivers and sprint down the basement stairs, beginning to fear that my adrenaline is wearing off. By the time I’ve reached the bottom step, the tightening in my chest has become almost unbearable. I can feel the barrel almost like a heartbeat, beating once more and once more violent with every step closer I take. Finally, I reach the barrel, tucked into a corner of an unfinished room. The pounding in my ears is so profound that I can only compare it to thunder from a lightning strike just yards away; it cracks and burns in my ears.         Slowly, gingerly, I place my hands on the rim of the barrel. With one screwdriver in each hand, I shove them underneath the lip of the lid. The thought of the tip of the screwdrivers inside the ominous black barrel nearly drives me mad, and I work quickly. It takes several minutes, while intense winds howl in my ears even from the outside and the pounding still in my head, but I finally feel the lid pop up from the hole in the top of the barrel.         The tightening is now so significant that I have to clutch my stomach and breathe deeply before lifting the lid slowly. So slowly. I open the top until I am hit with a thick wall of the indescribable yet unmistakable stench of decomposition. Now I am sure of what is inside, and I toss the lid on the concrete floor with a loud ringing smash. Surely enough, there is a half decomposed corpse of a woman in the barrel. But there is something else. I reach past the woman’s rotting torso to retrieve a piece of laminated paper. I turn the note over to the written side and read: I knew that you would cave. I am you, after all. And she, after all, was your wife; whether you knew her or not. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------- A/n This story was inspired by a true story! No, I am not kidding. Yes, you should be creeped out. To be fair, only the concept of the barrel was real. There was this guy, Ronald Cohen, who owned a house that he sold to a man named Hamid Tafaghodi. Hamid asked Ronald to get rid of this big 55-gallon drum in the crawlspace. Ronald never even opened this barrel for the entire time he lived there, because there were some toxic/chemical warnings on it. When he removed the drum from the house, he opened it and found the body of 9 month pregnant Reyna Marroquin. She was in that drum for 3 decades, and was actually mummified because she was stored in the barrel. Anyways, you're welcome for my true crime story of the day. you can read more about the horrible event that inspired this story here: https://www.thecriminaljournal.com/murder-of-reyna-marroquin-body-of-a-nine-month-pregnant-woman-was-found-inside-a-barrel-hidden-underneath-a-house/