After Adam eventually died of lower back pain, nine or ten generations passed on Earth. These generations all slept with each other and slowly became more and more retarded from chromosome problems, until Noah was born. This was before "retarded" was a bad word to use. Way before. God looked down on the Earth and saw the damaged DNA fornicating and drinking and doing mad endos with Hummers that were unaffordable and not to be endo'd. This angered God. But, Noah seemed OK. Somehow, through the work of natural sele...eh....God, Noah was born with a healthy set of genes and chromosomes and was, eh, not a bad guy. He wasn't the greatest guy. Not by a long shot. It would be a few thousand years before THAT guy came about, but Noah was someone who you might trust to mow your lawn. Anyway, Noah was married and had a wife and they lived on a grand farm and everyday Noah would go running through the valleys holding hands with his wife and singing to butterflies and they would go to a Community College and learn sign language and knit sweaters, with the butterflies. This angered all of the people in the land who were genetic jerks and they would throw stones at Noah and catcall his wife and knock on Noah's door and then run and borrow Noah's chainsaw and not return it and commit upper deckers in Noah's toilet and generally be mean to Noah. God saw this and God was pissed. He also was pissed that the genetic failures would listen to bands that sucked and had numerous wood instruments to somehow make it seem like they were an adult band with real musical knowledge, when in fact it only takes a person with soul and three or four strings to make a good album. I mean, I don't get these Arcade Fire types with their banjos and suspenders - I'm not buying it and God isn't either. But I digress. So, God started thinking about the Earth and how it had water on it. So, he froze the water so no one could drink it. This created ice ages. But then people developed fire and melted the ice and that stumped God. So, then he decided that he would flood the Earth. God was a logical man and realized that in order to flood the entire Earth, he would need more water. So, he took the water from Mars and just kinda put it in this huge Ziploc bag that he floated over the Earth as a threat. That's how Martians were wiped out. Anyway, so the people on Earth looked up and saw the giant Ziploc bag of water and they figured it was just another moon or star or something - they were stupid. Also, you must give them credit as they did not know what a Ziploc bag was. This was like way before even that movie The Land Before Time. God then spoke to Noah and said "Dude. Dude. DUDE!" Noah was passed out. He had been drinking all night and partying out in the field with some giraffes and skunks. That's the kind of guy Noah was. He partied with animals, making him the original party animal. Noah awoke. "Dude?" "Dude." God confirmed. Noah looked upon God. "Dude." God had taken the form of an elephant with a blazer on and sunglasses. It was Risky Business meets National Geographic and it was totally uncalled for. But Noah could hang. "Noah, in the beginning after the light and stuff, I made man and man was good for awhile. But then I never made another strain of man, so all of these men and women started having sex with their family members and that's way wrong and makes way messed up kids. Like that dorkus Jerry you hang out with. Do you see how he wears his pants down to his knees and listens to really shitty hip hop music and doesn't even know who NWA were?" Noah nodded. Jerry was a douchebag, but he was the only person that would hang out with Noah and go singing in the fields with him and ferment oranges to make really bomb ass alcohol. God continued. "And how he always has everything just a little bit wrong. Like he reads a little bit about something and then just makes up the rest and when you call him out on it, he'll act like he knew it all the whole time? Or how he rides a bike in traffic and doesn't follow any of the traffic rules and - " "Yes. Jerry. I know him." "Well, anyway, these guys have to die. We must get rid of them. You are the only person on Earth that I can stand. It's like watching TV and it's all just Jerry Springer and reality shows and - well, not now. That's when I flood the Earth again. After I promise I won't. Shit. Look, forget all that. Let's start at the top. K, so I'm going to kill all of humanity." Noah looked around and saw humanity in the streets, with their kids, shopping for school clothes and double parking. "OK." "And all the animals." "Wait. What am I gonna eat?" "Plants. I will leave you plants to eat. And smoke." "No way. Animals taste good. Can't you leave the animals?" "OK. But we must kill them all first, but we'll save enough to breed. Like two a species." "But aren't you gonna get that genetic problem again?" "Shut up! Now, listen, I will flood the -" Noah then had a moment of reflection and thought about the time Jerry loaned him an ox to help him fight the dinosaurs that were attacking his house. "Wait, God. Can't you give humanity another chance? You know? For the 'oah?" God thought about it and said "No." "Wait. What if I sacrifice some stuff?" "No." "K. What if you give me like a week to tell everyone to be cool?" "OK. But I don't think it's going to make a difference." And God was right. Noah began preaching about the people's sins and about how stupid making bags in markets illegal was and how owning twelve axes to protect yourself was stupid and how Siracha sauce is the best way to spot a douchebag. But no one listened and Noah went home and had a real American meal with Tabasco sauce, thousands of years before America was invented, which kinda made Noah a hipster douchebag, but who cares. "K, God. You win." And Noah went off into the forest collecting animals like Dr. Moreau. So, God opened the Ziploc bag full of water. It took him awhile because it was hard to get his huge God fingers between the plastic folds. But then the flood rained down on Earth for a shit load of time. Noah would occasionally put his hand out the window and go "Still raining." to his wife and she got really upset because the joke was way old and she was tired of Noah and the kids and the shit load of animals that smelled like shit. Eventually, Noah's wife made Noah kick all the dinosaurs off the boat because they were smoking in the ark. And she kicked the unicorns off for gambling and not having fishing licenses. Finally, Noah saw a bird. An eagle. The eagle was holding an American flag in its talons and winking at Noah. Noah landed the ark on Plymouth and everyone got out and started stretching because it was a way long boat trip. Then God came out of the sky and said "Check out this fresh rainbow!" Noah and his family and all the animals looked at the rainbow and realized, yea, it twas fresh. "Noah, this rainbow is a covenant that I will never ever flood the Earth again." God was crossing his giant God fingers behind his giant God back. "Thanks, God! But why a rainbow?" "Oh, no reason." Then God went back to heaven to his husband Timothy and they went antiquing. The End.


Quinn dozed off in front of her brother’s grave. Her seated posture swayed closer and closer until her helmet bumped into the headstone with a clatter. She jerked awake, looking around the forest glade with a frantic expression, before slumping her shoulders with relief. “Sorry, Caleb,” she said, wiping imaginary dirt off the stone. “The council’s been running me ragged. Everyone’s pushing their limits to catch Sylas and his mages.” Her body felt slow when she got up, like the caked mud on her legs was concrete and gravel ground her joints. She could feel the roots and stones under her boots, the soles weathered flimsy thin from her nonstop marching through the hinterlands of northern Demacia. By the distance Valor was sitting, she didn’t smell the best either. She pointed a finger up the sky, twirling it clockwise, and watched as a giant eagle, perched atop the tallest tree, stretched its large blue wings and flew up in the air. While Valor scouted the vicinity, Quinn limbered up her body for the last march. She’d been combing west to east of the hinterlands in search of the mages’ whereabouts but nothing crucial had been discovered. She’d found nobles and their aides dead on the roads but when it came to magic she wasn’t sure what clues she could rely on. Some of the dead had their throats cut, others seemed to have been executed by suffocation with no rope marks around their necks. There were no trails of footprints on the grounds to track, no broken twigs or blood on leaves. The whole thing was more of a ghost hunt than chasing rebels. The villagers weren’t any help either. Each settlement had been tight-lipped and too scared to share anything. The worst was that Quinn didn’t know whether it was the mages or the mageseekers the villagers feared. There were quite a few mage-sympathizers, oblivious to how terrifying magic was. Quinn adjusted her leather tunic, tightened her greaves and spaulders. Her last spot to check was a remote farm town bordering the foreign nations of Freljord and Skaggornland. A place she hadn’t visited in almost a decade, her hometown Uwendale. Her gaze lingered over the dirt and cracks on her repeating crossbow as she refilled it with bolts. Her father’s handcrafted weapon had been through a lot. She wasn’t sure how to meet her parents without feeling guilty for not writing enough over the years. There was also the difficulty of her position as a ranger-knight of Demacia. Would the town welcome her as a returning daughter or greet her like an official knight on duty? The screech of Valor snapped her back to the present. Her partner had found something and was circling near the towering mountain walls separating Demacia and the snow-covered region of Freljord. “Talk to you later, Caleb,” she said to the headstone and jogged towards the mountain base. The greens of the forest faded as the elevation rose. Dark tree trunks paled to white as linden and oak transitioned to birch and aspen. Quinn trudged on, glancing up at the foothills and following the shadow of Valor. Leaves rustled and a faint wind brushed past. Quinn stopped in her tracks. During spring, the wind normally carried with it scents of budding pomes and fresh sprouts, not the sickening-sweet odor of death. She raised a hand and clenched her fist, signaling Valor the change of plans. The scent had been close, brushing up the slopes towards the mountains due to the warm noon air. A movement lumbered through the line of trees, crossing her left periphery. Quinn sensed the growl more than heard it. She pulled out her crossbow, finger ready at the trigger when a large wolf stumbled into vision. Nasty gashes covered its body, open wounds festered and putrid. The wolf must’ve been in intense pain, yet it growled and raised its hackles at Quinn. Its glare had a wild look and froth dripped out of its bared fangs. Two bolts pierced its skull and the wolf dropped to the ground. When only the hushed wind replied, Quinn stepped closer. She’d done her best to make it a quick death for the rabid wolf and the bolts had struck true, killing the beast in an instant. The wounds in the body were the opposite of swift, deep gouges by talons bigger than any bird Quinn knew of. Valor plunged from the sky, a blue blur diving towards a bush. The bush shrieked and hissed. A boy jumped out, waving his hands in an attempt to fend off the bird. A raccoon scuttled away, its striped tail brushing past Quinn’s ankles. “Get’ im off! Get’ im off!” the boy shouted. “It’s killing me!” Quinn shook her head in disbelief. The lack of sleep must’ve really taken its toll on her if she couldn’t even detect a kid. “Valor would’ve already cut your throat if he deemed you a threat,” she said and held out her right arm. “He’s just messing with you.” The azurite eagle flew to Quinn, landing on the horn-adorned bracer covering the arm. The boy was a mess on the ground, struggling against his cloak. On a closer look, the emblem of a hawk was sewn on the hood. “You’re a ranger-in-training?” Quinn asked. “Huh? Yes, how do you…” His gaze flickered between the giant eagle, Quinn’s helmet, back to the eagle, the repeating crossbow. “You’re Quinn!” he burst out. “Wow, can I shake —” Quinn aimed the crossbow at the boy. “What’s the first rule of survival?” Color disappeared from the boy’s face. “Wha…?” “The first rule of survival. Three seconds.” “I don’t…” “Three. Two.” “*Always assume someone’s after you!*” The boy shouted, hands over his head, eyes pinched shut. Quinn gave a nod and put the safety on her crossbow and latched it to her belt. She caught the glare of Valor. “Of course, I trust your judgment,” she said to her partner, “but it’s always good to double-check.” She then turned her attention back to the boy. “What’s your name? “Adam.” The boy slowly stumbled out of his cloak and stood up, his gaze locked warily on Quinn. He seemed to have had his growth spurt, matching Quinn in height, although his face had yet to catch up. Hair like tumbleweed framed round cheeks and bombardment of freckles. “And your companion?” Quinn nodded towards a tree root where a striped tail could be seen. “Dash,” the boy said gloomily. Hearing its name, the raccoon crawled out of its hiding place and ran up the boy’s cloak, nestling itself by the scruff of his neck. “What a good partner you are,” Adam muttered. “Aren’t you a little bit far from Uwendale for a trainee?” Quinn asked, “And why are you alone?” “I’m watching the western perimeter alone because warden Mealla trusts in my abilities.” Adam jutted out his chest. “Was tracking the rabid wolf when I heard it growl and decided to hide.” That was strange, Quinn had sent the majority of Uwendale’s rangers east, to watch the borders by the Greenfang Mountains, but there should still be a handful left in the town. At least enough to not need to send a single rookie to scout. “Do all knights scowl?” Adam asked. He flinched by Quinn’s expression and quickly added, “Not that there’s anything wrong with it.” “What about the town watch?” she asked, “Two guards could’ve been stationed with you.” “Busy with the festival,” Adam said. He walked to the dead wolf, grimacing over the wounds. “This is horrible.” Dash, the raccoon, peeked out from under the cowl and ran down to the wolf’s head. Its small fingers grabbed one of the bolts and waggled it free. “What festival?” Quinn asked. “The Slayer’s festival, what else?” Her head throbbed under the helmet. Her feet ached and the rotten smell made Quinn nauseous. There were so many things she needed answered, then there was the thing Valor had spotted. “Adam and Dash, was it?” she asked, “You’ll have to come with me. There’s something I need to check on. I’ll also need you to update me on the current situation of Uwendale and this festival.” She let Valor fly again and began to ascend the foothills. When no sounds of steps trailed behind, she turned around with a questioning look. “Why up the Rocky Mountains?” he asked with an unsure voice, “Are the Freljordians going to attack us?” “Hardly,” Quinn said, “climbing straight through the mountains is suicidal. We’re just going to the base to check on something.” “I think I’ll stay here,” Adam insisted, “The warden told me to keep watch of the western forest and the mountain is not included.” “You know my name,” Quinn said, raising her voice, “then you must know that I’m a ranger-knight of Demacia and the highest ranked out of all the rangers. My order overrules the warden of Uwendale. I’m ordering you to follow.” The boy looked like he was caught between a boar and a bull. His eyes flickered between Quinn and to the east, where the town of Uwendale would appear after two hours of marching. Finally, he seemed to prioritize the closest threat and joined next to the ranger-knight. A bitter taste spread over Quinn’s tongue. She hated using her rank to bully people into submission but the exhaustion dragged out her ugly side. She thought about apologizing but dismissed the idea. She had pulled the rank-card, might as well stick with her draw. A small noise made her look down. Dash extended a bloody bolt towards her as an offering.  \*\*\*\*\*  The hinterlands of Demacia had been Quinn and Caleb’s playground when they were young. While they had explored the foothills and the forests, they had seldom climbed up the mountains. Past the craggy walls lay nests of wyverns and those beasts were not something the siblings had wanted to encounter. The flying reptiles were troublesome enough for Uwendale when they attacked the village during harvest season. What Valor had found was a dead wyvern, splayed on a rocky surface. They were at an overhang, made of mostly rock and some stubborn patches of grass. thirty feet above ground. The wyvern’s wings dangled over the mountainside, the membrane torn. Its talons were bent, neck and belly punctured and maimed. The wounds on the neck indicated fanged beasts, and the smudges of dried blood on the stones had a few paw marks. Most likely a pack of wolves. Quinn knelt next to the corpse, pressing her fingers against the wyvern’s soft neck and belly. “Have the wyverns moved their territories down the mountains?” Adam, standing a distance away and holding his nose, shook his head. “They might’ve even retreated further up ever since the Slayer killed four of them a few weeks ago.” “Did anyone see this ‘Slayer’ kill them?” Quinn prodded the wyvern’s leg, feeling stiffness. “It would seem a bit silly to have a festival in his honor, if he hadn’t done anything.” “No, but the wyverns’ heads were caved in, like the dead bandits on the road and the rabid wolves, so it’s probably made by the same person.” “So this one wasn’t done by the Slayer?” Quinn plucked out a dagger and pried away a few scales on the wyvern. “I guess not. What are you doing?” She sank her dagger into the wyvern’s thigh, carving a line through skin and flesh. She made a fist with her gloved hand and dug into the new wound, breathing through her mouth to lessen the foul stench. She pushed her hand upwards, feeling rock-hard muscles, sinews like steel wire, and mushed jelly. A dark, watery liquid trickled out of the cut. “Blood is thick and separated,” she concluded, retracting her arm and wiping it on the grass. “Corpse-stiffness had not yet disappeared from its legs. So between half a day to two days old, I would say.” Adam looked as if he wanted to vomit. “Was that really necessary?” “Rule number two,” Quinn said, “Survival never takes second place to dignity. Seen anything interesting over the past two days?” “Not much except for people on the roads heading towards Uwendale for the festival.” “Right, a festival celebrating an unknown hunter for presumably killing a few beasts, how does that make sense?” Adam cleared his throat and said in an exaggerated low voice, “These are trying times, so we should find reasons to celebrate, however small.” The imitation softened Quinn’s expression and the end of her lips pinched slightly upwards. “Was that Samuel?” she asked, “Is he still the mayor?” “And still selling his lamb pies. Been saying how grateful he is to the Slayer because of all the potential cattle saved.” That did sound like the mayor of Uwendale. The hefty man had a thing for finding the stars in the darkest nights. “Could it have been wolves?” Adam asked, inching closer to the wyvern’s carcass. That had been Quinn’s guess too but things didn’t add up. “So a pack of wolves climbed up the mountains, found a wyvern and decided to attack it and won with no casualties, then climbed down without leaving any footprints on the way down?” Adam had no reply, instead he squatted down next to the wyvern and stared into its dead eyes. “A corpse torn to death by jaws and claws,” he murmured, “and a swift kill by arrows. It’s like an omen isn’t it?” “What omen?” Quinn asked while walking around the rocky surface, her eyes scouring the cracks on the wall. Water trickled out from a hole and dribbled in a thin downstream no wider than a hand. “Kindred’s omen.” She turned around with a blank expression. The boy shrugged. “You know, Lamb with her bow bringing a swift death and Wolf with his crushing jaws for a violent ending. Don't these two kills remind you of the Eternal Hunters?” A memory emerged from the depths of Quinn’s mind, of her and mother, clothed in gray, watching her father shovel dirt onto Caleb’s coffin. She remembered her father stopping halfway, unable to hold the shovel steady. There was the village elder, in a mask half white and half black, comforting her father, saying in a raspy voice that Caleb had been blessed with Lamb’s arrow, a quick death. She hadn’t understood what the village elder had meant with the arrows then as she had seen with her own eyes how the tuskvore had gored her brother to death with horns. Lamb and Wolf, together they were Kindred, the Eternal Hunters. The gods of death. She had forgotten about them, the stories of Kindred had been left behind when she traveled to the Great City to become a knight. While Kindred were known among the citizens, The Winged Protector had been the more revered deity in Demacia’s capital. “Is Kindred’s omen a bad thing?” Quinn asked. “Can omens be a good thing?” Adam countered. A small bark grabbed their attention. Dash had followed the stream of water further down. He held up a wet wyvern scale. “Maybe the wolves cleaned themselves in the water,” Adam suggested. “The stream is too small for a whole pack of wolves,” Quinn said. “And there would’ve been blood on the way. Maybe if they rubbed…” Quinn paused. She took a closer look at the patch of grass she had wiped her hands on. The watery blood trickled down the blades and into the soil. The dirt was loose, not from mountain winds but as if someone had scraped claws and paws against it. Straws of grass lay crumbled and flattened. She checked the other patches and found them to be the same. “No,” she said, “I guess omens can’t be a good thing.”   \ ***DISCLAIMER*** ***‘The Tales We Tell’ is a non-profit work of fan fiction, based on the game League of Legends.*** ***I do not own League of Legends or any of its material. League of Legends is created and owned by Riot Games Inc. This story is intended for entertainment purposes only. I am not making any profit from this story. All rights of League of Legends belong to Riot Games Inc.


Somebody once said: To be subjected to indifference is worse than being the object of hatred. Those words always stuck with me, but I never fully grasped what they meant until now. Until now… as I lay in a fetal position on the sofa in my apartment, nursing a heartache brought about by my own obtuseness… by my own stupidity. I smothered my face in the sweatshirt she’d forgotten, sucking in her scent like a drowning man, and angrily cursed my inability to bridle my juvenile longing to feel needed, to feel desired. Why had I allowed myself to fall for her? She was way out of my league; I should have known better! My fists clenched so tight they hurt! I sobbed long and hard into her sweatshirt, glad I was alone. Contrary to popular opinion, misery does NOT want company. The first time we met was on an unusually warm February day. I was skiing at Camelback Mountain and had stripped down to my tee-shirt after my first run down the slopes. “Nice arms!”, came a pleasant female voice from behind me as I was pole-pushing myself towards the line for the ski lift. I twisted my body around to glance back and saw a very attractive woman catching up to me. I assumed she must have been talking to someone else, and so I turned forward again to see who the lucky guy was. But then a small but strong hand grasped my right arm from behind, just above the elbow, cold fingers causing an eruption of goosebumps as they squeezed my bare arm; “No, silly. I meant you, not someone else,” she said with a grin as I turned and looked down into the most stunning blue eyes I had ever seen. I remember feeling all the blood rush out of my body and to my face, intent on humiliating me. The approach of this beautiful woman had knocked me completely out of my comfort-zone. This kind of thing NEVER happened to me; to my friend Troy, yes, but not to me. The only time a pretty girl had ever approached me out-of-the-blue was at a convenience store to… wait for it… to ask if I could spare a few bucks so she could buy cigarettes. It's not that I consider myself homely; I just know that I am not the prettiest tool in the shed. And that thing she said about my arms-- I don’t even work out! Sure, I play hard, and I do heavy work with my hands in construction which gives my arms and shoulders a lot of definition, but muscle-bound I am not. The pain in my chest deepened as I recalled that beautiful day. As hard as I tried, I couldn’t STOP thinking about it, about HER, just like when somebody tells you, “Don’t think about the pink elephant.” The next thing she said to me should have clued me in as to what might happen, what would eventually happen. Ahem! Where were all those red flags and alarm bells when I needed them? But I was helpless before her, like a sheep being led to the slaughter, when she asked, “Do you mind if I ski with you? My ex-boyfriend is here, and I don’t want him to bother me; he’ll leave me alone if he sees me with another guy.” I was painfully shy, she was so pretty, and I feared that an opportunity like that would never come along again. A little voice inside my head started screaming at me, DON’T DO IT… SHE’S USING YOU!! DON’T… DO… IT!! “Sure, no problem. Glad to help!”, I said back to her. What else could I say? That I would rather ride the lift alone than be than be stuck together with her on the same chair for the whole ride up to the top of the mountain, rinse-and-repeat, for the entire day? Which, I am ashamed to admit, was exactly the fantasy going through my head at that moment. So, I was cornered; I could either be rude and regret that moment for the rest of my life, or I could indulge my fantasy. The hateful little voice in my head then told me I should fall onto the pointy end of one of my ski-poles and get it all over with right then and there. Too late. Before I knew it the chairlift had swept us off the ground… together, I should add. Oh, remember how I said I was shy? Yea, exactly: It occurred to me that I was going to have to engage in something called “conversation” if I hoped to prolong my fantasy. We’d already exchanged names on the ground, “My name is James. What’s yours?” “Don’t laugh when I tell you,” she had answered, starting to giggle at herself already, “my name is spelled L-i-e-y-a, pronounced Lie-ya, like the way a New Yorker says the word ‘liar’ without pronouncing the ‘r’ at the end.” We both laughed out loud. Meanwhile the little voice in my head was having a field-day: LIAR LIAR PANTS ON FIRE! DON’T SAY I DIDN’T WARN YOU! But my brakes had failed back at “Nice arms!” She had made me laugh so easily. And by laughing at herself, she was telling me that she didn’t take herself too seriously. She had put me totally at ease. Conversation came without effort. I don’t even remember what we talked about. It was much too soon that we were getting off the lift. We checked our bindings as we prepared to head down the mountain. Here comes the test, I thought to myself as my stomach tied itself up in knots wondering if she was going to ski with me or if she would drop me for the next guy who came along who had ‘nice arms’. “You want to go first, and I’ll follow you?”, I said. “Yea, that would be great. But do you mind waiting for a couple minutes? That’s my Ex over there,” she said, pointing to a guy in a bright yellow ski-bib who had his back to us as he started down the mountain. “I just want to make sure we don’t run into him on the slope or end up anywhere near him in line at the bottom.” “No problem.” We skied together for the rest of that day. We talked about all kinds of things; we laughed about all kinds of things. And we skied together again four more times over the next couple of months before ski season ended. She had this way of making me feel so good about myself whenever we were together. And I provided her with plenty of laughs too, at my own expense. She started referring to me affectionately as her “little dork” whenever I would deliberately do something silly. She had coaxed me out of my shell without me realizing it. We continued to see each other most weekends until her spring college semester ended and she returned home to Syracuse for the summer. When her college classes started up again in the fall, we made plans several times to get together, but something always seemed to come up, and we only saw each other a couple of times. Fall was usually the busiest time of year for me with work anyway. December came along, which had me booked for a Colorado ski trip during the Christmas/New Years holidays, while Lieya would spend the holidays with her family in Syracuse. At the last minute, however, something came up on my end, forcing me to bail out on Colorado. I would have to settle for a long ski-weekend at Killington, Vermont with my younger brother. I had thought of calling Lieya but decided against interrupting her during her family-time. My brother and I drove to Killington on the Thursday before New Years weekend, arriving just as a major nor’easter snowstorm was getting under way! Super excited, we were first in line for the chair-lift Friday morning! Snow was falling, twelve inches of fresh powder already on the ground with another eight inches forecast to accumulate by the end of the day. It was one of the best days of skiing my brother and I ever had! Then, Saturday morning woke us up to brutal conditions: clear blue skies, but a temperature of minus 5 degrees Fahrenheit and forty mph winds. We had come prepared, however, with masks and goggles designed to cover everything so that not even one little patch of skin would be exposed! We were still stoked from the day before, despite the conditions. At lunch time, the warmth of the ski lodge had us lingering after we finished eating, reluctant to head back out to the punishing cold. Several tables away from us, through the lunch-crowd, I noticed a guy wearing a yellow ski-bib. I was wondering why it looked familiar when suddenly, my brother blurted out, “Isn’t that Lieya? I thought you said she was staying with her parents for the holidays?” “Where?” My brother then pointed to where I was already looking. “Next to that guy wearing the yellow ski-bib. He’s got his arm around her.” As my brother was speaking, the crowd parted, allowing me line-of-sight to a face I will never forget. It was Lieya, all right. She was talking, laughing, and smiling with Mr. Yellow-Bib, carrying on and pushing her hair back with her hand the way girls do when they are interested in the person they are talking to. I bet she told him “Nice arms!” too. She had no idea that I was staring at her… until she did, and then we locked eyes with each other. I could tell the moment that recognition struck her; it visibly shook her to see me looking back at her; she obviously thought I was in Colorado. She recovered quickly, though, looking down to pretend at fussing with something in her lap, and then she proceeded to carry on with Mr. Yellow-Bib as if she had never seen me. I jumped up out of the chair I was sitting in, feeling hurt, betrayed, lost, unsure what to do. My stomach was in knots, and my heart was starting to ache. I decided to head over to their table. My brother jumped up, alarmed by my reaction, and grabbed me by the arm to restrain me. “What are you doing?? Leave it alone! She’s not worth it!” I turned back to my brother and told him, “I am not looking for trouble. I am looking for confirmation.” Upon which I continued towards Mr. Yellow-Bib’s table. The pain in my chest was building. I stopped in full view of both of them, ostensibly to check something on my phone. Lieya looked up at me then, or rather, she looked right through me, as if I wasn’t even there. How was that even possible? I had to get away; I hurried to the men’s room and found an empty stall. Her betrayal was so nonchalant, yet absolute. My heartache became an intense, crushing weight that made me want to cry out; I tried to scream but couldn’t; I tried to breathe, but couldn’t. I remember thinking: so, this is what it feels like to die from a broken heart.

And then I woke from my nightmare. The scream which had been trapped exploded from me as I jerked awake in bed. I was overcome by an intense feeling of relief when I realized it had all been a bad dream. I let out a muffled sob as I took stock of the familiar, comforting surroundings of the bedroom. “Same nightmare with Mr. Yellow-Bib?”, my wife asked me with concern in her voice. I didn’t need to answer. “Don’t worry,” she said as she snuggled closer and kissed my arm exactly where she had grabbed it from behind so many years ago, “I could never leave these nice arms.”


Lindy jumped for joy as she saw Grace extricate her lanky frame from her little car. Grace was attempting to carry multiple bags, which she promptly scattered as she swept Lindy into a bear hug.       “Still living up to your name, I see,” said Lindy, laughing. “Graceful as ever! Welcome, sister. So glad you could keep me company while Dave's away.”  A stocky man with a buzz cut and ear protectors suddenly appeared in the garden next door. With military bearing, he began marching up and down the lawn, wielding a leaf blower, blowing the leaves towards them.        “What?” said Grace, trying to lip read over the noise of the blower.        “I said you’re as graceful as ever…never mind,” Lindy yelled, scooping up dropped items. “Let’s go inside where we can hear ourselves think.” Grace scurried after her, covering her ears.         “Well, little sister, it’s very cute,” said Grace, shedding her coat and scarf and gazing around the cozy interior of the little house. “I must say I never imagined you two rebellious counterculture beings in a subdivision in the suburbs. How do you like it so far? And what’s up with Captain Courageous next door?” Lindy deposited the bags and poured wine. The noise of the leaf blower receded.         “Needs must,” she said. “I’d much rather be out in the country, but it’s what we can afford for now. I haven’t turned into a Stepford wife yet. Most of the neighbors are okay, other than Mr. Simpson, that old curmudgeon next door. We are currently engaged in the great leaf standoff. Cheers."        “Cheers,” said Grace, sipping her wine. “You’re engaged in what?”          “You heard the leaf blower. He’s fanatical about keeping the leaves off his lawn. It drives him nuts that we don’t worry about ours. If we keep the grass regulation length, there’s nothing he can do about it, so that makes him even crankier. He revs up that blower whenever he sees someone arrive here and blows all his leaves onto our side.”           “That’s petty,” said Grace. “Have you tried talking to him about it?”          “When he first complained about us not clearing the leaves off our lawn, we tried to explain that we believe it’s better to let the leaves decay naturally and that the leaf blower is not environmentally friendly. We probably did come across as a bit more preachy than we meant, but he exploded. He accused us of having no standards, no morals and no community spirit or words to that effect. It’s our generation’s fault that the country is going to hell in a hand-basket. You get the idea. Hence the leaf blower which greets our visitors and wakes us up early on weekends.”              “So, you’re just going to wait him out till leaf season is over?” said Grace.              “He cranks the blower up whenever he sees us coming now. It's impossible to talk over that racket even if we tried,” said Lindy. “It’s a stalemate for the time being.”          “Is there a Mrs. Courageous?” Lindy shrugged.          “No one seems to know. Neighbors say she’s been an invalid for a while, and no one has seen her recently. We’re not the only ones he’s argued with, so everyone’s been avoiding him.”           “So sad,” said Grace, shaking her head. “Never mind. Let’s do the grand tour.” After Lindy had shown her the house, they went out into the garden. There was no sign of Mr. Simpson. The yellows, reds, and oranges of the fallen leaves on Lindy’s lawn were bright spots in the slightly foggy dusk. Mr. Simpson’s immaculate green lawn looked almost garish in the soft fall light. Grace picked up a perfect sycamore leaf and was admiring its delicate tracery of veins when something caught her eye where the leaf had lain. It was a ring with a large, clear sparkling stone. She picked it up and proffered it to Lindy.                 “Is this yours?” she said.                  “Never seen it before,” said Lindy, examining it. “It looks like a diamond. It’s beautiful. If it's real, it's not something I could ever afford.” The ring glittered as she held it up to the light. She slipped it into her pocket.            “I’ll put it away safely. If no one comes looking for it, I’ll put an ad on the neighborhood list serve.”         Next morning, they were sitting in the kitchen sipping their coffee when Grace noticed Mr. Simpson. He was walking slowly up and down his lawn, minus the leaf blower and ear protectors, with his eyes glued to the ground. She pointed him out to Lindy.        “He must be looking for something,” said Lindy. “I almost didn’t recognize him. He looks so stooped and old compared to usual.”          “I wonder,” said Grace. “Do you think the ring might belong to him? We should ask him.”          “Do I have to?” said Lindy. Grace looked at her with mock severity. “Okay, okay, big sister, I’ll be the better person. As least he doesn’t seem to have the leaf blower to hand.”        They approached him cautiously. He nodded apathetically when he saw them. Usually immaculately groomed, he was unshaven. It worried Lindy more than if he had yelled at her as usual.          “Have you lost something, Mr. Simpson?” she asked. “Can we help you look?”          “My wife’s engagement ring,” he said gruffly.   Lindy held the ring out to him. Mr. Simpson gasped, his eyes widening.           “I don’t believe it. Where did you find it? Thank you so much.” To Lindy’s astonishment, he began to cry, tears trickling down his bristly cheeks. Grace gently gave him a brief hug. He sobbed for a moment, then regained his composure, roughly swiping his face. He cleared his throat.         “My wife hasn’t been well lately. She’s lost a lot of weight and the ring kept sliding off her finger. I was going to surprise her by having resized. I must have dropped it on the lawn. When I blew the leaves into your garden, it ended up over there. " "I'm glad we found it," said Lindy. "I hope your wife recovers soon," Mr. Simpson looked at Lindy, tears welling again.

       “The doctors say we shouldn't expect...we shouldn't hope, ah, damn it." He wiped his face with his sleeve, looking exhausted. He straightened up with an effort. "I am sorry, young lady. I haven’t been very neighborly to you and your husband. Since my wife’s been so ill, little things get on my nerves and I lose my temper for no reason. I'm not proud of it. My wife would be the first to say I’m being a jerk. Can we start over?”  He extended his hand. Lindy smiled as she grasped it.           “Of course. Please tell us if we can do anything to help. Grocery shopping, cooking, house cleaning, you name it. Just no leaf blowing!” He gave a brief chuckle and saluted as he headed back to his house, clutching the ring.


I pass a book on the side of the road every day when I drive home from work. It’s a hard-cover book, pretty thick, and from what I can tell it’s face down on its cover. The dirt and gravel are constantly keeping me from seeing exactly which side it’s on. For months I would see it. Some days the pages would be swollen with moisture from a recent rain, some days they’d have dried back down and it would look to still be in good enough condition, besides the slight warping of the pages from the water. Every time I saw it, I’d tell myself that one day I would stop and take a look, maybe even pick it up and take it home. Maybe just throw it away if it was in too rough a shape. Everyday I’d fantasize about what the book could be about. Fiction? An autobiography? A signed copy of the Bible? Whatever it was, the itch was in the back of my head every time I’d see it, but fade as soon as I was another block or so away. I never even told my wife about the book. She’d laugh and tell me to go get it. She’d probably drag me out of the house at any hour and go with me to get it. She was compulsive like that. She saw a certain beauty in the randomness of the universe. Running into an old friend right after she had been thinking about them? It was obviously the universe putting them together. Finding a coupon in her purse that she swears she has no memory of when she just so happens to be right next to the store she could use it at? Destiny. Then my wife died. A stroke while driving. She was at a red light when she went. It was quick, she felt nothing. But her foot came off the brake and she rolled through the intersection and got hit, spinning her car around several times before rolling off the road, being stopped only by a light post. The shattered glass and being knocked around made it look like maybe she had just randomly decided to slowly run a red. They didn’t find the cause for a while after she was dead. In that time before finding the truth, I was devastated. Was this a suicide? Did she really try to creep through a barrage of cars? Had she seen something that she thought was the universe beckoning to her? The autopsy results provided little relief, but something was better than nothing. It was almost a month before I went back to work. I had been blessed with a dream job, and a boss who defied all odds by being efficient, friendly, commanding, and, most importantly, empathetic. I used all of my vacation and sick time, but he gave me another week, paid no less, just because he could tell, deep down, that I wasn’t ready to come back just yet. He was right. My wife was my world. My everything. We had met in passing when we were both in our late twenties, and went several more years without seeing each other. But then, by ‘the Universe’ as she would always say, she became friends with a friend of mine who mentioned her ‘nerdy but kind of lovable’ single friend. We all ended up at the same birthday party for yet another friend and instantly remembered each other. We began dating immediately and were married less than two years later. We only got five years together. So, in my book, whatever the Universe was pulling, it was fucking bullshit. My wife didn’t smoke, didn’t drink, barely partied as a young adult. She volunteered at an animal shelter in her spare time and we talked often about adopting a child once we were both in a slightly more financially secure place. That and that she wanted as much of me to herself as she could get before getting a kid was the only thing keeping us from starting the adoption process. Now that she’s gone, I’m glad we never did it. My first day back at work was like swimming in a dream. So many stern faces and sympathetic looks. So many cards littering my office desk. Flowers, little succulent plants, fruit baskets. The kitchen was loaded with a varied buffet for my return. It was nice to be the center of attention for a moment, but the reason behind it was just a reminder of what I had lost. I think I only said the words ‘thank you’, during the entire day, but over a thousand times. I didn’t get a single thing done that day. I left a little early, to the surprise of no one. I drove the speed limit, maybe slightly over, but in no rush to get back to my empty home where I was surrounded by the memories we shared together. To the neglected pile of laundry that I would, unashamedly, poke through and press to my face, longing for her scent again. To the dishes that she had washed after our last meal we cooked together. Still on the drying mats next to the sink, amazing that they were still stacked, considering her haphazard way of laying the varied sizes over each other, yet allowing them to drain and dry easier. I would probably sell the house soon, but I needed more time with the memories before starting the selling process. Then I saw it. Or the lack of it. The book was gone. It was the spot, I was sure of it. I had passed it countless times. I perked up enough to get over to the left lane and flip a u-turn and then another one, slightly further than I probably needed to, but I wanted to make sure I wasn’t confused. But, no. It was definitely the spot. I slowed almost to a crawl as I drove past, craning my head to look out the passenger window to verify that it hadn’t been just covered or maybe finally demolished enough to look like it was gone. It was gone. The car honking as it flew by snapped me out of my stupor and I drove the rest of the way home fantasizing about what could have happened. Did someone do it? Did they finally see what I had seen so many times and stopped to satisfy their curiosity? I imagined that dozens of people, maybe hundreds, more even, had to have seen that book there on the side. A simple book, suffering in silence, the product of someone's hard work and dedication. Finally seeing print, maybe being a best seller, maybe being something self published online and only printed as a physical copy for themselves or a few close friends. Maybe it really was that signed copy of the Bible and Jesus was mad that no one ever picked it up, so he came down and got it himself. Maybe it was never there in the first place. I pulled into my driveway as my garage door slowly rolled open. The sun was starting to set, but I still had a few hours of daylight left. Looking through the scattered boxes on either side of the garage was enough to trigger another wave of memories. My breath caught in my chest and I found myself gripping my steering wheel with rage as hot tears rolled down my cheeks, onto my ragged beard and into my mouth through my clenched teeth. I had cried plenty since the day of the accident, but this was different. There wasn’t a racking sadness behind the tears now, it was a red rage. I felt my blood boiling, my mind furious and longing for someone to blame. Anyone to direct my rage at. Something to turn my hatred to. I don’t know how long I sat in the driveway, seething through my teeth and clenching my eyes until stars and blobs of lights formed behind them, but when I finally looked up, I was in the parking lot right next to the intersection where my wife died. I was parked and facing the same light post where she rolled to a stop. I have no memory of the drive, or even being aware of moving through the streets and following traffic laws, but a quick glance around showed no flashing lights or destruction that would hint to reckless driving. I was alone in the parking lot. The sun had gone down. I glanced at the clock and saw that it was 1:45 in the morning. How was that possible? I had gotten home before the sun had even set. Even if I had been taking the longest way possible, this parking lot was only three minutes from our house. ‘Is this you, Universe?’ I thought to myself. Working my jaw a little, I could still feel the tension from when I was grinding my teeth together in a blind rage. ‘Is this what you do for fun? Why the fuck do I need to see where my wife died? Why the fuck do I need to be this close to her death? It’s already all over the house, on the looks I get from her family, her coworkers, anyone who knew her. Who touched her. They are a constant reminder. So why the FUCK DO I NEED TO BE HERE RIGHT NOW?!’ With a blink, I was outside of my car, about twenty feet away from it. I looked down at my body, still feeling the rage that was slowly being replaced with confusion. I glanced back to the spot where my wife had rolled to a stop. I was about ten feet away. I looked at my watch, still 1:45. No time had passed since my mind had folded in on itself in a rage, screaming internally at the universe for doing this to me. Fear had started to creep into my mind when, with another blink, though I hadn’t closed my eyes, I was standing in front of the pole that my wife's car had been stopped by. I was standing in the street, but with the late hour and a quick glance just to be sure, I was alone in the intersection. From where I stood I could see a slight discoloration around the base of the pole. A slight dent from where her car hit, maybe going a couple miles an hour. I took a few steps to get a closer look. There was paint from her car rubbed off onto the dull metal of the post. The orange paint was definitely from her car. It was such a random color. They didn’t even offer the same color on any newer models of her car, as it apparently didn’t sell as well as they had hoped. I remembered being almost embarrassed by her choice of color. But it was her choice, and it matched her personality; random and bold. My watch still showed 1:45, even though the second hand was moving normally. The fact that I was popping through space without losing time was a faint worry in the back of my mind as I stared at the paint scrape on the pole. The movement in my peripheral vision was almost unnoticed. But then it was accompanied by the sound of pages fluttering. I looked to my right, and along the side of the road, near the storm drain was the book. I recognized it instantly. It wasn’t a book, it was the book. I took a step towards it, but then stopped. I looked at my watch. 1:45, second hand still flying by. I looked around me. The streets were empty. Not a sound but the wind in the trees beyond the parking lot where my car was sitting, still parked and waiting. I took another few steps towards the book and could finally see that it was indeed lying face down. The back of the book still obscured by dirt and grime, so I still couldn’t tell what type of book it was, the pages still warped with rain and neglect, pushing the cover of the book over. If I were laying down on my side, I could possibly see how the book ended before I even knew the plot. My hands hurt. I looked down at them and saw that they were balled up into tight fists, but I had nothing to fight. There was nothing around but the wind, the book, and me. Me standing near a drainage ditch, staring at the impossible existence of both the book and me being here with no explanation. I took the last few steps and picked it up. The weight was much more than I ever expected. Turning it over in my hands, it was quickly apparent that the weather and traffic had torn away whatever title and information used to be on the back and front. The book was not destroyed, however, and I could see vague depictions of stars and galaxies on the back and front covers. But the spine still had some information on it, and I could make out the writing that said ‘There it is’. I nodded. ‘There it is. The Universe.’, I said out loud, and turned the book again to open it. I was smiling to myself, as I opened the book closer to the middle, instead of the front like people normally do with books. It took a second to realize what I was looking at. It wasn’t words. It wasn’t an ancient script lost to the ages. Each page I looked at was clear and legible, but it wasn’t writing and it wasn’t pictures. It was the experiences of everything my wife had felt from the moment she met me, to the moment she died. Everything insignificant and casual and ignored and in-between, every fart and blemish and missed connection and racist encounter and unexplained or ill-advised act was there in full color to my entire being. It was as if I was my wife during those moments. I was there for the shame she felt when she made a social faux pas, but I was there when she sang like a rock star in front of dozens of people, culminating in a standing ovation by not only our mutual friends, but the strangers in the bar as well. I was her when the.. Oh god! I can see myself! I can feel her eyes on me over the years! I can see and feel her true feelings about me. I know how she really felt when she was presented with my… my … ME! With me! I know how ridiculous I was a lot of the time, I see how she felt when dealing with us… ME! She was so patient and understanding, and we were always so… Not ‘We’, just ‘Me’... ‘I’ was just so… I wasn’t there. I could have done so much more. I could have made us better, but I was always too afraid. I feel the book sliding from my hands as I fall to my knees. Are they my knees or just the knees the book wants me to feel like I’m kneeling on. It’s just me now. It wasn’t her. It was my subconscious projecting itself onto things. I’m kneeling in front of the pole. The book isn’t in the drainage ditch. It’s not right next to me where it just fell, or maybe fell in my mind. The book is nowhere. The pole in front of me gets brighter for a second before I turn my head. The headlights must have just turned on. I turn to see where they come from, but all I can see is the orange color of the car. Behind the glare, I see the silhouette of a woman limp behind the steering wheel. A beautiful woman. A woman the Universe sent to me. As she gets closer, I see her closed eyes open for a split second and gaze at me with recognition. Thanks a lot, Universe.


I just woke up in my bed and saw a door exactly in front of me. Wait, but this is my bedroom! And it never had any door except the one that connects it to the hallway. It looked like someone constructed a guest room overnight. I was curious to see what was inside. I got up and reached the door to open it. When I went inside, I saw that it didn't look like a new room at all. "Where am I? This is strange. Hello...anybody here..?" I looked around, there was no one over there. I immediately tried to unlock the door but couldn't. After all, how was l supposed to open the door that wasn't there at all! There can't be a door to an imaginary room. Yes, it was a dream. The door was gone. I thought I was trapped in there. I turned towards the room. It wasn't really big but there were very few things placed at the corners that made it look vacant. The old furniture and dim lights gave it a rustic look. In one corner there was a pile of clothes, I walked towards it, took one of the clothes in my hands, and realised that they were all mine. They were all oversized clothes which I used to wear when I was fat. But how did they come here? I had thrown them away. Just when I was thinking about the clothes, I smelled something, something so good that my stomach started growling. There was a table at the center of the room, a round table full of plates. I rushed towards it and observed all the plates placed on it, they were full of sweets and namkeen that I love. "Wow, this is a feast! So tempting but how could I eat this? I'm on this never-ending diet and everything here is what I'm not supposed to eat!" I told myself to gather all the strength and stepped away from the table. But I was starving. I felt like I could eat a horse. "I know I'm going to regret this but I'll regret it even more if I don't eat this. Anyway, I'm ready for the consequences." I grabbed a chair and started gobbling up the food. Everything was delicious. The sweets were literally melting in my mouth and the namkeen was perfectly flavored. Both were complementing each other. In no time my stomach was full, and I felt contented. My tummy wasn't flattened anymore. There was a bump due to the junk food that I ate. Across the table, there was a mirror slanting on the wall. I stood in front of it. It was just like the Mirror of Erised from Hogwarts. In that mirror, I was looking fat like old times. My face was full of acne and acne marks. I got scared and started trembling. I touched my face but there was nothing, I touched my body but it wasn't fat like the mirror showed. The mirror was magical, it was showing my past. The past from which I had run away. I couldn't stand there, I stepped aside. In the other corner, there was a side table. And the things on it drew my attention towards it. A strange device having only an on/off switch was connected to the headphones. I put on those headphones and pressed the button on that device. Some random people were talking about a girl as if they were passing comments on her. "She looks like a football", "She is too fat to wear such clothes", "Keep eating like that and you won't get married at all", "You look too old for your age", "You should be eating healthy food to stay in shape", "Oh, forget the body, look at her face that's not pretty", "Boy, she must have to photoshop before posting a picture with that face!", and it went on and on. "It was me! They were all talking about me!", I said to myself while taking off the headphones. My eyes were full of tears, I started walking back and forth anxiously. While walking, I noticed that the table with food on it had vanished. But that was not just it. I was startled by the sight before me. One-fourth part of the door appeared on the wall. Something inside me just clicked and I realised where I was. It was the room of my insecurities. And by eating the food that I denied for years just to stay in shape, I had won over one of my insecurities. I knew what I had to do. I went to the pile of clothes, picked the purple dress that was used to be my most favorite, and wore it. At first, I thought it will fit loose, but it fitted well. I loved the dress and felt comfortable. As soon as I smiled, the other clothes disappeared and another part of the door appeared making half of the door visible. Then I walked towards the mirror. I saw myself in that purple dress and it just changed my mood. I was happy, I knew it suited me well, and felt confident. Whether I looked fat or thin, my skin was clear or not, didn't mattered anymore. I smiled and admired myself and the mirror was gone. Yes, it was working, three-fourth of the door was visible now. The last thing was there to get rid of, the headphones. I wore the headphones, turned on the button, and before anybody could speak, I started speaking in the microphone, "I am strong, I am wise, and I am beautiful in my own way. That's all that matters." There were no voices. I took off the headphones, kept them on the table. Within seconds, it all vanished, and then the remaining part of the door appeared. I had done it. I had overcome all my insecurities. I opened the door and went back to my bedroom. It was a relief. The door had disappeared. And I knew it had disappeared forever. I had fought my battles and fought them well. When I blinked and opened my eyes, I was in my bed. It was a wonderful dream and I woke up to be a completely different person. What I saw in that dream were the things that I had buried deep down in my heart. Now, they were all gone. It was a splendid morning.


The office buzzed with the usual hum of keyboards and murmurs of conversation. George leaned back in his chair, eyeing his colleagues, Ed and Ahmed. "I'm telling you guys," George said, leaning forward, "there's no way that 'The Troll' is eligible for hiring here. She doesn't know the programs. Sure, she talks like she does, but she's just offloading her work onto her staff. I saw it firsthand when I asked to help. I would gather evidence through my assistance and expose her. When I questioned why she refused my assistance, she told me to mind my own business." Ed shook his head. "Going against the grain here is career suicide, but I wouldn't even let her feed my fish." Ahmed nodded. "She hasn't crossed any serious lines yet, unlike the Fallen One. But she's close. If she does, we'll turn her in." George chuckled. "Fallen One?" "Yeah," Ahmed said, "pure evil. A Lamia or the Devil herself." Ed agreed. "It's true." "This place has gone downhill since the regime change," George continued. "The new senior executive hires her friends, who're not even qualified. Human Resources should be all over this, but Thea has the HR guys in her pocket. This place was my career. Now it's just a job. How's the Fallen One treating you guys?" Ed sighed. "She lets the Troll run amok. It's like the Fallen One, the Troll, and Thea want people to be unhappy and leave. The Fallen One is also a racist." "It's a wonder the Fallen One hasn't been fired," Ahmed added. "She has thirteen Equal Opportunity suits against her." George shook his head. "How is she even eligible to be here? She bullies her subordinates. Yesterday, she told three young girls they acted like they were from the ghetto and said, 'This is my world now.' She pressures Howard every day, giving him tasks late in the afternoon with impossible deadlines. The man is past retirement age and still working. Give him the time to complete the tasks unless it is a rush job. Everything appears to be a rush job with her. Right?" "Right," Ahmed agreed. "Leave the man alone. He hasn't been the same since his son died." George's tone softened. "I didn't know that. That's tough. But we need to expose this abuse. This place has become hostile. Thea's cronyism is out of control. No agency would have hired Sarah Whitmore, the Fallen One, with unresolved Equal Opportunity complaints. It's unfair to other applicants." "Life's not fair," Ed said with a shrug. "Good point," Ahmed added. "The critical question is, if person A worked directly for person B in agency one, and person B gets hired here as the Director despite her record misgivings, how many planets would have to line up for person A to get hired in the same agency, same office, and working directly for person B again?" George asked. Ed looked at George. "We have some shady hiring practices here, like you said. Are you going to do anything with this information?" "I'll need to be subtle, and it will take some time, but yes. I won't be blatant like the last guy who got fired for going directly to the Inspector General's Office. Did you know the Troll used to work directly for the Fallen One at the Department of Agriculture? What are the odds of being hired here to work for the same person in the same office as you did in Agriculture? It's astronomical." Ahmed blurted out, "I want to know why we weren't considered for the position," pointing to Ed. "The Troll doesn't know our programs even today, six months later. She made life a living hell for people who work with her, especially those who must report to her." Later that day, George overheard a conversation in the break area and moved closer to listen. "Have you seen TO's work? It's impressive," Samantha said, her eyes wide with admiration. "Yeah, she's got some serious skills. I heard she's already streamlined a few of our processes," Mike replied. George's lips tightened into a thin line. It was a sin for the Troll to take credit for others' work. As the conversation continued, an idea began to form in his mind. Later that day, George chatted with a few colleagues in the hallway. The topic of the Troll inevitably came up. "Have you guys noticed how quickly TO adapted? Almost too quickly, don't you think?" George said. His tone was casual, but his words were laden with implication. "What do you mean?" asked Jenna, one of the marketing analysts. "Well, I'm just saying... adapting that fast, maybe it's not entirely her doing. You know, sometimes people take shortcuts or have a bit of... inside and outside help," George suggested, raising an eyebrow. Jenna frowned. "You're not implying she's cheating, are you?" George shrugged, maintaining an innocent expression. "I'm not implying anything. But how odd is it that TO worked directly for Sarah in the Department of Agriculture? Just looking at the situation, how incredible is it for someone who came from Agriculture as a Director to be hired here as a director in this office?" Jenna shrugged. "The odds would be high with the internal controls in place to prevent illegal hiring, but not impossible." George nodded. "I agree, but how astronomical is it to have someone who worked for you in another agency, in another office, apply for a job here and end up in the same office, working for the same person as she did in Agriculture?" An odd look came over Jenna's face. "That would be impossible." "That's what I'm getting at. It shouldn't have happened. Are you going to tell me that TO is the most qualified out of 100 applicants from around the nation? Just something to think about." As the days passed, George subtly fueled the rumor. In meetings, he'd make offhand comments about the unexpected ease with which the Troll handled complex tasks. In the break room, he'd speculate about her qualifications. The rumor began to take on a life of its own, morphing and growing with each retelling. The Troll, oblivious to the undercurrents of suspicion swirling around her, continued pressuring her subordinates for increased work and suggestions for improvements. She noticed, however, that some colleagues seemed distant or avoided eye contact. The camaraderie she initially felt began to erode, replaced by a sense of unease. One morning, TO was summoned to a meeting with the new HR manager, Linda. As she walked into Linda's office, she noticed George leaving, a satisfied smile on his lips. "Good morning, TO. Please, have a seat," Linda said, gesturing to the chair across from her desk. TO sat down, her mind racing. She had never been called into HR before and couldn't think of any reason why she would be now. "I wanted to discuss some concerns that have been raised," Linda began, her tone professional but stern. "Concerns?" TO echoed, her confusion evident. "There have been rumors circulating about your qualifications and how you've been handling your responsibilities. Some of your colleagues have doubts about your integrity, leadership ability, and knowledge base of the programs you manage. Whether you're truly capable of performing the tasks required of your position," Linda explained. TO felt as if the ground had shifted beneath her. "I assure you, Linda, I've done everything by the book. My qualifications are legitimate," TO said, her voice steady but laced with frustration. Linda nodded. "The perception among your colleagues is affecting team morale. I need you to address this directly with them and perhaps provide some reassurance." TO left the meeting feeling a mix of anger and determination. She knew she had to move fast and do something to cover herself. It had happened the same way at the Department of Agriculture. She thought, "I definitely have a way of using up a place." That afternoon, she called the Fallen One for a consultation.


She felt like a ribbon streak. A ray of light rich enough to give me youth yet I’m a cold. A shiver down her spine of fear after the sunsets with anxiety and every time she comes back up the fear seems to disappear but—how can she look at me like I’m velvet royalty when I’m just a midnight line of forgotten strength? I’m incomplete but when she smiles I feel heat. She’s a sunrise and I set– the world on fire… yes. How can she love me when I’m less than lavender and she’s gold? Many try to forget about the building beyond the hill. Days are more rainy there than sunny but when the first autumn leaf falls- it falls there. I only know because I packed my bag five summers ago, the last days of July, and left in the middle of the night. My travels led me towards the only bricked road outside of town. The trees covered the rural road blackening the view of ghosts whistling in the night. Perhaps they were trying to say something I couldn’t quite understand. I remember a sign lay on the road saying: “Beware of-” but the last words were covered in the overgrown red grass.

When I crossed the hill that put my home out of view, everything felt cold. The rain fell like hail and my breath was smoke out of my nose. There was a place I could rest in the distance. I parked my car on the abandoned street and stared at the tiny place, lit with a singular green lantern. Yellow hues line the calm wet street, as I watched a woman walk past the window singing a tune. Rain drops lined the glass, my body shaking with cold as I could only think of how warm she felt inside. The sign outside the building looked as if it was soon to fall off but I slowly creeped up. Grabbed the door, noticing that the rope on my leg was dragging from my car. It stained red like the mysterious irritation that inflamed my neck. I tucked it into my pocket while cracking the door quietly; I jumped when I heard glass shatter at my feet. A gray cat ran past me, out of the door, with a cracker in its mouth as the woman yelled for it to leave before meeting me with an unwelcoming gaze.

She wore a black apron over a velvet dress. Her eyes ran across my body as if my baggy brown overalls and hand knitted sweater weren’t professional enough to be welcomed in this place. Yet she was the one with white powder staining her face.

“I just hate it when that cat steals,” she groused, ignoring my presence, stepping from behind the long wooden table. It covered half of the front of the room. Candles lining the corners like she was summoning the dead. “May I help you?” I question, as she reaches for the broom.

She chuckled slightly, tossing it at me since I stood closer to the door. I had failed to catch it as it fell into one of the five pink bean bag chairs that sat on the floor. I ran my hand over my short curly hair, wiping the water off of my wet hands, nervously laughing. “That’s what I should be saying. You came into my store.”

She crossed her arms as I had let my eyes scan the room. There was sun & moon tapestry on the walls, lights hanging from the ceiling, and a purple chalk sign that had lists of foods on it as if she was meal planning for the week. Chalk was something I hadn’t seen in years since a child. People say it’s because the companies had shut down during the strike two decades ago, from today, that chased all the women out of the now male dominated town. I was only a child however and children are raised by their fathers here regardless of if they are born male or female. So, I couldn’t leave but I wasn’t the only one because this neighbor girl understood me too. I glance up at the women as my heart beats out of my chest. I try to play my nerves off by sitting in the bean bag. Putting my focus on the lavender candles burning against the long wooden counter.

“Would you like something to eat?” “Uh- just a berry scone and tea.” “Okay,” she nods, remaining still.

Her gray eyes pierced into my soul as I looked at her confused. She held out her hand. Maybe she didn’t understand me. “I’m sorry, I can get it myself if-” “Look I don’t give out things for free,” she interrupts. “I-I didn’t realize,” I apologized and quickly handed her the cash that I had on hand. She counted it unimpressed before staring at me hopelessly and just rolled her eyes.

While she was making my tea she couldn’t stop glancing at the dirt that stained my pants. She ran her sharp long black nails along the wood leaving scratches. She’d peek over her shoulder with dormant eyes like sleep was something she lacked. However she felt lifeless when she’d open her mouth to hum, the world around got dark. Crickets had danced outside and dragonflies passed by the window but when she’d start to sing, it was like every creature would stop to listen. Or run? I kept my hand in my pocket to hide my rope and constantly glanced at my car. Anxious about the amount of time that had passed with me having been there, I don’t remember anymore if I had further interacted with her after I took my sip of tea. It tasted like vanilla but was thick like mud, however, I enjoyed it. Burned going down my chest and made my legs feel weak as I walked to my car. Only thing I remember was just an hour before I walked into that store, I was shaking from the cold. I left feeling nothing but a wave of blazing heat rising in my body- did I burn alive? Maybe from the inside? Maybe in another life? Now, five years have passed and I now live ten minutes from the building everyone tried to forget. Left wandering in the rural roads with the darkened ghosts whispering to the townspeople who are curious enough to explore the building. The lady I met that night still wore velvet. She wore velvet while I passed out in the middle of the street before I could even drive off. She wore velvet when she pulled the rope out of my pocket and tightened it back around my neck, whispering to me that I was never going to escape. Back meaning that’s how I died once before when I was young. Burned like a witch for love. And she wore velvet when she drove me back down the rural road and tied me to a tree leaving me to die with nothing but the whispering ghosts who all told their own stories of the building beyond the hill. They said she was waiting on someone of the past to set her free. That sparked my new found curiosity of who that might be. I walk hidden to the light around me. The midnight gaze of those that pass by in their car don’t even show my existence, but one day a lady came into my store. She lit up the street like gold and maybe I was being too cold. Letting her in was my first mistake. I let the cat get the best of me that once it was time for the woman to leave I didn’t know how to ask her to stay. She stumbled out like she had been drinking, my second mistake of giving her that scone. I walked to her car knowing she was going to disappear soon into the air. I got scared. Before I knew it I tied the rope around her neck again and told her she won’t be able to escape. Oh amor, whispering that was my third mistake. All because I had remembered your darling face.

You can’t kill a ghost but can you remind the undead that their heart used to race. We fell hard for each other in a world that burned us alive because to them our love was a devils game. So I left to save her life, said I’d come back to another life but shortly died before I could ever say goodbye to her in that life. Trapped here as just another soul for two decades that I don’t know if my efforts ever paid off. Then five years ago a woman came into my store. Came and left just as fast but for a moment she felt familiar. Felt like I knew her from the past. I had peeked over my shoulder across the counter at her dirt stains and realized I knew her by last name but– she stared at me like she only wanted to get away. Pity. I’m just another ghost who’s heart no longer beats, making everyone too nervous to eat. For her I would have lit another candle. One that melts purple instead of blood red. For her I would have hummed a little louder. The tune she seemed to have not remembered I sang before we had to go to bed. For her I would go back and not get so distracted that I use deadly nightshade instead of blackcurrant. Even then I still managed to tie her to that tree because distance is better than letting her learn what I did when she walked into my store. Now every new year she manages to come back. She is stuck looking for her life purpose but has a memory so short that she doesn’t even know how many times she’s seen my face. Her soul can’t move on and neither can mine so she keeps wandering and I watch her pass by. Waiting for the moment that my cold words will go warm, and I can tell her that we once made each other whole.

On those nights we’d sit by the tree that was in between each other's house. Waved at each other from next door, hoping to see each other the next day. - I wonder now if my heart shall beat again when it seems to break every time you come in-


Metal scorpions fall on Stephen from above. He claws against the steel walls of the room, but they hold steady. The scorpions crawl on him; his skin shivers at their touch. The walls close in around him as the amount of steel scorpions increase. Stephen is now swimming in a pile of them. He struggles to keep his head above the rising tide, but the scorpions are pulling him under. He closes his mouth and eyes and descends into the pile. A few of the scorpions start burrowing under his skin. His limbs start to flail under their control. Stephen wakes up on the floor next to the bed. The sheet is tangled underneath him, and the pillow is several feet away. Stephen struggles to untangle the bed sheets and stand up. His head is throbbing, and he moves to the bathroom to splash water into his face. When he looks into the mirror, the oddness of the situation sets in. How did he get into this room in the first place? He lies on the bed to try to remember the day. The town could not have been real. It was a relic from an earlier time with its streets filled with cars and sidewalks filled with people. Yet Stephen and his friends, Tim and Velma, were driving through it with their mouths agape. Stephen felt self-conscious for how grimy his attire and body is. In spite of their depilated nature, the people did not stare at them. They went about their day as if this was a regular occurrence. When they drove by the city hall in the center of the town, they got their first reaction from a cop pulling them over. Stephen looks over at the brochure on the table, and he walks over and picks it up. The front page is a sunrise over a forested hill with a river at the base. In the foreground of the river, an idyllic town sits bathed in the sun’s rays. The cover could’ve been considered trite and cliche in another time, but Stephen cannot help but smile over what it represents now. Stephen opens the brochure, and a business card falls out. It reads Phillip Clark, Bass Creek Comptroller along with a phone number.. The cop didn’t kick them out of town. Instead, he escorted them within the city hall where they were placed in an office, and they were greeted by a man wearing a three piece suit and with a gray combover. He introduced himself as Phillip Clark, and he gave each of them a brochure with his business card in it. He said that they always love having visitors and new residents. Especially now, because they recently lost several people to a boating accident. Tim jumped at the opportunity to become a full time resident. Stephen responded by stating that he would never join. The two of them started fighting within Phillip’s office. Stephen starts to cry as he thinks about that fight. There has always been tension between Tim and Stephen. Stephen cannot help but see Tim as an idiot who would trust anyone after two minutes. Stephen is pretty sure he said that during the fight. Tim’s view of Stephen is that Stephen is pretentious, distrusting, and enjoys making others suffer. Stephen is sure that Tim said that during the fight. Stephen wishes that he could make amends with his friends. During the fight, Velma stood up and walked out of the office without saying a word. Tim followed, flipping Stephen the bird on the way out. Stephen slammed his fist on the comptroller’s desk and quickly apologized to Phillip for his behavior. Phillip chuckled and said that it was a common reaction for newcomers to be skeptical of the location, and Phillip encouraged Stephen to give the town a chance. Phillip made a call to the local motel and got Stephen a room there. He ensured Stephen that Velma and Tim would be given the same accommodations. Phillip even offered to drive Stephen to the motel himself. In an effort to prove Tim wrong, Stephen accepted the offer. Phillip had a nice van that had toys in the back for Phillip’s kids. Phillip told Stephen about his family and his life. He offered to take Stephen home for dinner, but Stephen refused. Stephen asked how the town survived the devastation. Phillip said that the town was noted for its grit. He dropped Stephen off at the motel after their conversation. When Stephen entered the motel, he was greeted by a clerk named Cameron. Cameron was extremely polite, and he said that he was new in town a few years ago. He couldn’t believe it was real either. He handed Stephen his key and told Stephen that he hoped Stephen would stay. The hotel room was larger than any room Stephen had been in his life to say nothing of the fact that it was cleaner. There was a set of clothes on the bed with a card that read courtesy on it. Stephen showered with hot water to match the cleanliness of the town and went to sleep in his bed. After recollecting his day, Stephen looks at the time on the bedside clock. It’s 3:00 AM. The sun will not come up for another few hours, and Stephen is not sure he can fall asleep. He wonders if he could get a home in this town that is nicer. He hopes that he could reconcile with Velma and Tim either way. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a blinking light in his window. It is far away, but Stephen is determined to investigate. He puts on his clothes and moves out of the hotel. He starts running towards the light. He runs for a half-hour, years of running have given him endurance. When gets close, he sees two people standing in front of a car with a small antenna on the hood. He ducks down to watch closer. The two people turn around and point guns at him. “Hands up, come down slowly,” a man’s voice says. Stephen obeys. When he comes down, he sees a man and a woman in nice clothes like the town. “Are you the guards of Bass Creek? I am a guest. You can contact Phillip Clark to confirm,” he says. The woman puts her gun and whispers to the man. The man puts his gun down as well. “We are not with Bass Creek, but maybe you could help us?” the woman says. “Help you how?” Stephen asks. “It is a long story, but we are going to have to run some tests on you first,” the man pulls out a separate gun and fires at Stephen. Stephen passes out on the spot.


"Hmm. You said you wanted another western…" The librarian scanned the upper shelves. "Ah. Here. Lonesome Dove . I think you'll enjoy this one." He pulled the book from its tier and handed it down to the man beside him.

"What's your name, again?" "Absalom." "Absalom. Always liked ‘Absalom.’ That's my son's name,” Mr. Danberg said, scanning the book. "Hm." He held it at arms-length and peered down his nose. His mouth hung slightly open as he scanned the blurb on the jacket's inner fold. Snapping it closed, he smiled up at the librarian. "No, thank you." Absalom’s shoulders dropped with his sigh–an oversight he quickly corrected.

“Alright,” he said, with a tight smile, as he re-shelved the volume. “How about Riders of the Purple Sage ?” “Read that one already.” “Da– Mr. Danberg, you’ve read most of these, I believe. Why not something new? We have some westerns that have only been on the shelves for a month or so–” “I don’t want no ‘new’ western!” The old man’s head quivered under the strength of his conviction. “I don’t like ‘em. More like scary stories than…adventure.” He scowled at the nearby table. “Heroes should be good , and villains should be bad .” He raised a trembling hand and slashed the air with it. “In that case, what about Dragon Teeth ? It’s definitely an adven–” “ Dragon Teeth ? That don’t even sound like a western! No. No!” His forehead furrowed as he squinted his eyes, pacing and mumbling to himself. Absalom paled and watched light reflect off wispy, silver-white hair as the man moved back and forth. His bowed head accentuated slightly hunched shoulders that held the echo of strength. He ambled stiffly, bones shuffling under the weight of a long, thin frame; scowl and mutterings firmly in place. “I’m sorry, Mr. Danberg. I believe I misunderstood,” Absalom swallowed. “I bet you’d enjoy a Louis L’Amour.” “Louis L’Amour?” the old man halted, face whipping up. “I like Louis L’Amour. Have you read Hondo ?” His eyes danced and a grin spread wide across his face. “Yes,” the librarian answered, his mouth turning up in a small smile, “...my dad loved that book. I wanted to know why he liked it so much, so I’d sneak his copy and read a chapter here, a chapter there, until I’d finished.”

“Good, isn’t it?”

“Ye–” “Remember when Hondo tells Angie about his wife that passed away? About her name?” The smile froze for a moment, “…My Evie passed away, too,” and it evaporated. “What’s your name, again?” Mr. Danberg asked. “Absalom.” “Absalom. That’s my son’s name.” Absalom clenched his jaw and swallowed. “It sounds like you’ve already read that book, too,” he said in what he hoped was a neutral tone. “Would you like a different one? The Quick and the Dead is another fan-favorite.” “No. It’s…good, I’m sure, but…I believe I’ve read it.” “Then how about Lonesome Gods ?” “No. No, thanks. I believe I’ll just take Hondo ,” he shook his head. “But you just returned it, Mr. Danberg,” Absalom said, gently. “You borrowed that one, last week. I haven’t even re-shelved it, yet.” Mr. Danberg’s brow drew in concentration, and he stared at the floor. At his sides, his hands pulsated into fists. “I bet I could find another adventure-western that you’d like. You can get a cup of coffee, bring it and the book to your room, and settle into your favorite chair to read. How does that sound?” “Young man,” Mr. Danberg said, finally, “I don’t want a different book. I want Hondo ."

Absalom opened his mouth to protest, but Mr. Danberg cut him off. “You know why I always get that one? Because I remember it. I remember that story. I…I can’t remember where my house is…or my family… “My Evie… I remember my Evie. She passed away a long time ago. And my son… “What’s your name, again?” “Absalom.”

“That’s my son’s name. …He’s tall, like you, but not as old: he doesn’t have any grey hair. He’s stronger, too. You’re too skinny.” He looked around. “My son would like this place. He reads all the time. Reads and works.” Mr. Danberg smiled. “He’s a good worker. A good boy.” Absalom clenched his jaw against the salt water that threatened his vision. The muscles in his face pulled tight as he smiled. “Mr. Danberg?” a female voice called from the end of the aisle. A woman in her late-thirties wearing fuchsia scrubs approached them. “It’s about time to go. Did you find what you wanted?” He opened his mouth, but the librarian saw confusion play across his features, stealing his words. “We were just heading to the main desk to get it,” answered Absalom with a nod. Behind the desk, he scanned the book and double-checked its information.

“I bet I know what that is,” the woman beside Mr. Danberg grinned. “You got Hondo , again.” “That’s right,” he said, eyes wide and mouth opened on a smile. “How did you know?” “Just a lucky guess,” she winked, as Absalom handed the book to Mr. Danberg. “Let’s go. They’re looking for us outside.” She cocked her head toward the glass doors where they could see a tall, white van waiting in front of the building. “Will we see you, this evening?” she tossed over her shoulder as she walked Mr. Danberg toward the entrance. “As soon as I get off work,” Absalom nodded, holding the door. “Is he your boyfriend?” Mr. Danberg asked as they exited. “No, no,” the nurse laughed, patting his shoulder. “He’s coming to see you .”

They continued to talk as they reached the van, but Absalom couldn’t tell what they said. He watched as she helped Mr. Danberg into the van, then held up a finger to the driver and jogged back to the building. “Was everything okay? He seemed to be having a good day,” she asked as Absalom opened the door for her. “Yes, I think so. The mood swings were minor. Very minor.” “Good. You looked a little upset when I came to get him, so I just wanted to check.” “Thank you,” Absalom nodded. “...He remembered me, a little. He didn’t recognize me; but he remembered me.” She offered a sad smile, but remained silent. “I know not to count on it happening again; but still…I’ll take it. Thank you for bringing him, every week.” “It’s my pleasure. I'm glad you set this up for him. I think it’s good for our residents to get out, sometimes, if they’re able.”

He opened the door for her as she walked back to the van. “Have a good afternoon, Mr. Danberg,” she called. “Mr. Danberg’s going with you,” he grinned. “Please, call me Absalom.” He watched as she closed the van door and it pulled onto the street. “Bye, Dad,” he whispered. “See you, soon.”