This story alludes to the loss of a child.

My father sits at the piano playing “Piano Sonata Number 14” by Beethoven. It’s a slow song, a heartbroken song for a heartbroken man. God seems to know what’s happening this morning as a light rain falls dutifully on the windows. It keeps a steady rhythm like a metronome. But the time my father played to a metronome is long gone. His long, angry fingers crash into the keys as thunder roars in the background. I stand, lingering in the doorway. His body sways and rocks, a man lost in the song. Lost in his own devastating grief, unaware of the child who needs him for arguably the first time in her whole life. Instead, he crashes into the keys. Louder and louder as the crescendo dictates. I see his right foot, shielded in a black loafer, gently pressing on the golden pedal. The notes linger in the air and I want to rush to him like we did in the summertime. When Mama plaited my brown hair in a long, mermaid’s tail down my back. He lifted me onto his lap and let me touch the most valuable item in our whole home. Mama, stood where I stand now, watching with a joy on her face that at the time seemed indescribable. Papa’s calloused fingertips dancing along my infantile ones as he taught me scales. His laughter filled the parlor room with love, joy. I could swim in that laughter.

Now, I depart from my father’s grief, watching as the laughter was broken down into tears. I step into her sanctuary, her bathroom. Mama always said, “It takes more effort to frown than to smile, my love.” She’d pinch my dumpling cheeks and mumble something about wrinkles before turning to face the mirror. Her face was like a painting, stuck behind the glass. Her blue eyes sparkling as she applied rouge, a little mascara, and her signature red lip. My little fingers reached up to grab at the perfumes, delicately housed in crystal castles. She’d smile down at me, her little dumpling. Her long, elegant hands, nails perfectly polished in pastel pink for Easter, vivid red, white, and blue come July, burnt orange in the fall, and a deep green by Christmas, would grasp the castles and release a cloud of love into the air. “Choose your perfume wisely, my little dumpling,” she’d say. Sometimes, I would get to mock her. I’d crane my neck up high and dab some lilac essence onto my neck. The bottles stand haunted, untouched. My little fingers still reach for them. I pull and let out little sounds of frustration as my hand flaps on the counter. I successfully feel the hard tube of one and grab on tightly, pulling as I go. I don’t notice as it edges off the counter and I gasp as it falls. I have destroyed a crystal palace. Tears rush forward as I hear my father’s heavy footsteps crash up the stairs.

He’s set me on my bed in a new, black dress. My little feet dangle off my bed. My father sits at the piano playing “Piano Sonata Number 14” by Beethoven. My first dress lies crumpled in the corner of my room and I tilt myself back onto my pink comforter. I can smell Mama as I do this. So I sit up and throw myself back again, inhaling her as I do. I can see her face, bright as she clutches one of my dolls. She’s waiting for me. She says, “Let’s take a walk,” so we do. Mama reaches out her fingers and I grasp at them with mine. We walk down the wooden steps. She holds me up so I can skip one every so often. We walk out the big, red door, out into the front garden. Mama smiles at the rose bushes, coming into bloom in the spring and summer. She shows me how to kneel down and smell each of them. Her pearl earring brushes my cheek. It’s cold and it sends me into giggles. Mama smiles back at me. We walk to the Big Tree, just a bit away from our garden. I tell her all about Tilly, my doll, and how she is a princess and so am I. “Right you are, my little dumpling, a princess for the red of your days,” her lips press into my forehead. They leave a red scar of love.

I awake to the soft song of a violin. Violet must be here. I brush my curls back from my face and smooth my dress. Downstairs, a shaft of bright, afternoon sun cuts across the wooden floors. I am an international spy as I plop down and dangle my stocking covered feet off of the balcony. My hands grip the wooden banisters out of habit as I poke my face down and peer. I can see Papa, playing the piano. His broad shoulders sit straighter now. Violet is indeed there with her violin. Mama used to watch them play. She would sit back on her warm, leather chair, with me in her lap. When I was too small to silence myself, she’d shush me softly in my ear. I can feel her warm breath as it breathes comfort and safety into me. Her arms would wrap around my waist as the violin cried or laughed or stomped in anger. However, her belly grew too big to hold me in the chair. She told me she had swallowed a watermelon seed and that made Papa laugh, even as the song crescendoed into joy. Violet laughed, too as she took a break to bounce her bow off of Papa’s shoulders. “Our home shall always be filled with music, my dumpling,” promised Mama.

But now, Violet does not stand tall with her violin. In fact, she sits in Mama’s chair. That does not sit right in my tummy. I stand and rush down the stairs. My stockings make the journey slick. Papa doesn’t look up from his work. Violet plays deep, long notes as Papa crashes along with her. I rush to Mama’s chair and tug at Violet’s dress. The music stops. I see tears in Violet’s green eyes. Papa doesn’t turn to me. His right pinky reaches out and lets loose a high pitched note. Violet begins playing from Mama’s chair. I tug on her black lace at the bottom of her dress. She stands. I take my seat in Mama’s chair. It feels warm. I decide to make Mama proud and keep myself quiet. I button my lips. But music is boring. And Papa’s shoulders seem to slump down low, low, low like the lowest branches of the Christmas tree which brush the tops of colorful bows and boxes. I unseat myself, my stocking covered toes scratching at the leather. I wander into the kitchen. Juliet is there. She stands with her broad back against the white counters. Wisps of red hair escape her bun. I march up to her and she lifts me onto the counter, an act of rebellion against my father. “Cookie?” I ask. She doesn’t correct my speech. I am handed a chocolate chip cookie and crumbs soon fill my dress. I offer a bite to Juliet who refuses. My brow furrows in confusion; Juliet always enjoys a bite of cookie with me. She isn’t wearing her blue dress with white apron today. Just a long, black one. Like Violet. Like me, I realize.

The door opens. I hear some adult speech and reach for another cookie. My father sits at the piano playing “Piano Sonata Number 14” by Beethoven. Juliet slams a glass of cold milk beside me before returning to the counter. I swallow it in three gulps. She lifts me off of the counter. I return to Mama’s chair. Papa does not look up, his fingers slam back into the keys of the piano. I am bored. So I stand and try to clamber into Papa’s lap. He doesn’t permit me. His music does not stop wailing. I huff and stomp my foot. Juliet comes in and mumbles an apology. We sit in Mama’s chair together. Juliet does not feel like Mama. She’s not as soft and she doesn’t smell like perfume or roses. Her hands are rough and unpolished. Juliet does not wear any earrings. I turn so I can whisper in her ear, “When is Mama coming home with the baby?” Juliet pushes my head to her breast. I can smell a new scent on her. It’s clean. Frustration echoes in my heart as I demand the question once more, “When? When is Mama coming home?”


Vampire movies make me laugh. In the movies, we can’t see our reflections in the mirror, which is absurd. You can’t kill us by stabbing us through the heart with a wooden stake. You can only kill a half-breed vampire with a wooden stake. My favorite myth is we burn up in the daylight. Why do they put these myths in movies? Oh, I’m sorry for not introducing myself. My name is Nina Vegas and I’m a vampire. I just moved into a lovely neighborhood with my husband and son. We purchased a nice four-bedroom home that has a glorious backyard pool. It’s sunny here all the time, and it’s perfect beach weather. I’m a financial adviser and my job pays well, but I have a second job that pays me another six-figure salary. I would say that my second job is morbid. It involves visiting funeral homes. I bought a new home in a suburban neighborhood that has plenty of funeral homes in the surrounding area. Sometimes funeral directors pay me to visit at night. Most of the time a loved one pays me to resurrect a family member. I can come out in the day, but I let people believe the myth that vampires can only roam the streets at night. You would never guess I was a vampire by looking at me. I look like a CoverGirl. I’ve had funeral director men flirt with me, and I have to tell them I’m a married woman. They see my curvy body, my scantily clad dresses, and my expensive jewelry. I’ve been told that I look like a runway model, which flattered me. Sometimes I wear a dark veil over my face whenever I visit a funeral home. I wear the veil to protect my identity and my family. There are people out there who want to kill me. I have a 4-year-old son and I don’t want to put my baby’s life in danger. We, vampires, are not completely immortal. We can still burn up in a fire. I’ve caused some funeral directors to lose their job and they’ve hired hitmen to come after me. I get paid mostly by the bereaved. A mother who lost her baby would gladly pay for the resurrection of her child, instead of a funeral director, since funeral directors make their business off the dead. If you resurrect too many people, you put a lot of funeral homes out of business. I’m not the only vampire who gets paid to resurrect the dead. There are other men and women vampires out there who resurrect the dead so they can flash their cash. It’s a great way to make extra money, but you gotta watch your back. Some vampires don’t just use their gifts to resurrect the dead. They also use their gifts to heal the living. An ounce of vampire blood can cure any disease. Doctors know this, yet they keep it a secret from the public because they don’t want to lose their job to an immortal. I’ve heard of vampires mysteriously dying after getting hired to do a few jobs at hospitals. Healthcare companies would lose money if they allowed every vampire to donate their blood to the sick. There would be no need for Medicare. Everyone would be immortal and free of disease, but the good old government won’t allow that. The government has investments in healthcare companies. They want people to stay sick so their investments can thrive. I know what it’s like to be paranoid. I’ve fought people sent to kill me. That’s why I’m always moving my family to a new area. You can’t be a healer or a resurrectionist vampire and live in the same neighborhood for a long period. Eventually, a paid reaper will come after you. I had to realize that concealing your identity can’t always save you from an assassin sent by an angry unemployed doctor or a mortician. A month ago, a man tried to shoot me while I was in my car. The bullet went through my windshield and it grazed my left ear, shattering my earring. My baby was sitting in his car seat right behind me and the bullet struck the headrest an inch above his head. I was taking my son to daycare when this happened. All I saw was a man on a motorcycle and the nozzle of a semi-automatic pistol aimed at my face. Only one bullet went through my windshield and I didn’t give this asshole a second chance to shoot into my car. I rammed my car right into his motorcycle. I drive an Escalade, which is an enormous SUV. So when I drove over his body, my tires squashed him. I heard his bones snapping beneath my car. I drove away after I saw that his body was flatter than the road. Later on, I found the funeral director who sent the hired gun. I executed him in his home. His wife was at work, so she stayed alive. Before I killed the funeral director, I made him apologize for sending a hitman to kill me. I forced him to get down on his knees. You should’ve seen the look on his face when I showed up at his house. He kept asking how I knew and I wouldn’t tell him. Vampires have a sixth sense. This guy didn’t know that because he was stupid. I made him pay for his ignorance. He died in his living room wearing nothing but his fucking underwear. I had no mercy on him, because the hitman he paid to shoot me, almost killed my child! I tortured him by biting off his fingers one by one. And then I sunk my fangs into his throat, putting a hole in his windpipe. I ripped out his throat, and I chewed on it. He had time to see my face before he died. Sadly, I’ve killed other funeral directors and the hitmen they paid to wipe me out. I killed a man who was twice my size. He thought he could surprise me by sneaking up behind me in a parking garage. I felt a needle pierce the side of my neck and I knew it was a tranquilizer. My body went numb, but only for a minute or two. When my attacker whirled me around, I saw that he had a black bandana covering his nose and mouth. He had a skullcap, and he wore a gray tank top. His arms were the size of boulders. Wow, you’re beautiful. It’s a shame that my boss wants you dead. This is what he whispered in my ear while pushing me against my car with his hand up my skirt. I told you the tranquilizer lasted for a minute. Sedatives do not affect a vampire. He made his mistake when he leaned his ear next to my lips, thinking I was trying to say something. I chewed off his ear and I spit it in his face. After I did that, I sunk my fangs into his nose. First, I ripped out his nose ring with my teeth and then I gnawed on his nostrils. I swallowed his nose, and it had a slight saltiness to it. He begged for his life, but I told him to stop talking. He didn’t, so I stretched his mouth open and I used my fangs to tear out his tongue. I dug my long nails into his throat and I lifted him off his feet. Yeah, he was a big guy, but a 6 foot 4, 240-pound man is no match for a vampire woman. I watched the life in his eyes disintegrate after I crushed his throat with my bare hand. A funny thing happened. My husband called me after I killed my attacker. We were discussing our anniversary plans. I kicked the hitman’s body away from my car and I got in, driving away while still talking to my husband. It was so nice to hear his voice. Later that day, I killed the funeral director who sent the hitman. It was a 42-year-old soccer mom and I hated killing her. I know you think my life sounds like the typical Hollywood vampire thriller. Let me tell you something, sweetheart, nothing is thrilling about paid hitmen coming after you and your family. This is my reality and I hate looking over my shoulder every time I'm out in public with my husband and son. I thought about purchasing a gun, but vampires don’t use guns. It's a dishonor to our ancestors. The only upside in my life is resurrecting dead loved ones. It’s not about the money. It’s about making people happy during death. Last week I went to a funeral home to resurrect a woman’s son who the police wrongly killed. The mother was African-American and I could see all the pain in her beautiful face. I understood how she felt because I’m a black mother myself. Well, I’m half black and half Latino. I knew how this woman felt because I almost lost my son. She told me that the cops shot her son when he reached for his phone in his back pocket. These idiots thought he was reaching for a gun. He was 17 years old and scared for his life. The police stopped him because he fit the description of a suspect. He wasn’t the suspect they were looking for, but instead of letting him go; they told him to get out of his car. He panicked when one officer tried to put handcuffs on him. The mother told me he reached for his phone to call her, and that’s when one cop shot him in the back. She wanted to know why God let a group of racist cops kill her only baby. The only thing I could tell her was that God sent me to bring her baby back to life. On this resurrection job, I told the mother to keep her money. I walked into a refrigerated room where I saw her son’s body lying on a table, dressed in a dark men's suit. I closed the room's door and locked it. When I saw the woman’s son, he was so handsome and young. I stroked my fingers through his short, curly hair while leaning over his face. I kissed his forehead, and I took a deep breath before sinking my teeth into the side of his neck. He had a beautiful lion tattoo on the side of his neck and I hated messing it up. If you bite a person longer than twenty seconds, you’ll turn them into a vampire and I didn’t want to do that. So I had to time myself. I reached into my purse to get my phone, and I set the timer on my phone to fifteen seconds. I gave myself enough time to resurrect him but not transform him. I do this with every human I resurrect. It’s euphoric for me when I feel a cold body turn warm. It’s like reviving a dead rose. I smiled at the young man when he opened his eyes and looked up at me. The sunlight coming in through the window made his eyes look like hazel colored diamonds. He had gorgeous eyes. He asked me who I was, and I told him that I worked for his mom. I took him by the hand and I watched him stand up. He was tall and slender. I told him how handsome he looked and he told me I was beautiful like the singer, Rihanna. That made me giggle. The best moment was taking him to his mother and watching her throw her arms around him. She cried so hard while kissing his face. She thanked me for what I did and she tried to pay me, but I refused to take her money. I messed up that day because I wasn't wearing my black veil, but I didn’t care. The funeral director was an elderly white woman who had a German accent. She had her silver hair tied up into a bun and she had a pinched up mouth. She rolled her eyes at me from behind these ancient-looking eyeglasses. She called me a freak under her breath and I gave her the finger before turning my back on her and walking out of the funeral home. I knew she’d send a hitman after me, but I didn’t give a damn. After I resurrected a young woman who died from leukemia, I packed up, moving my husband and son out of the neighborhood. We moved to a quiet little town in West Virginia. A few days ago, I went to a funeral home to resurrect a guy named Frankie Venza. That resurrection job didn’t go too well. I found out that Frankie was a gangster who had a lot of innocent blood on his hands. He had three sons, and they wanted me to resurrect him, but I refused. They offered to pay me 10 million dollars, and I still turned them down. All three of them pulled out their guns, and they aimed them at my face. They told me that if I didn’t resurrect their father; they would load my pretty face up with bullets. I never gave them a chance to pull the triggers on their guns. I was a small woman surrounded by three strong, armed men in black suits. These boys didn’t know who they were dealing with. I devoured them. Bullets tore through my body, but my vampirism gave me regenerative healing. I felt like I was killing the Backstreet Boys. All three of them looked like they belonged in a 90s hip-hop boy band. One boy wore a backward cap, and it amazingly stayed on his pretty little stupid head when I sliced it off using my fingernails. Blood soaked his black turtleneck and his suit jacket. To my surprise, I found out that these boys were human-vampire hybrids. One of them bit my shoulder and I saw he had 24 karat gold plated fangs, which matched the gold bling around his neck. Amazingly, I kept my cool when I saw their father rise from his casket, pulling a small-caliber machine gun from beneath his suit jacket. I realized that all of them were hitmen. It didn’t take me long to annihilate Frankie’s three boys. I wore their blood on my face and dress. There was nothing like executing three young men in their prime who were all part vampire. My hardest moment came when I had to kill their fat ass father. He looked like a Mafia Godfather. He had slick back white hair that touched his shoulders. His suit was impeccable, and he had diamond rings on each finger. I stood my ground when he started shooting at me. Bullets kissed my face and my neck. They ripped through my breasts. I could feel their steel jacketed tips piercing through my liver and my other internal organs. I played dead after Frankie emptied his clip on me. He had no more bullets in his machine gun and I knew his ass was mine. I had the advantage because I was one hundred percent vampire while he was a half-breed. Half-breeds are much more vulnerable. I kept my eyes closed, remaining perfectly still while lying on the floor. Frankie lumbered over to me and he walked with a limp. He kneeled over me and had the nerve to put his hard, truck-size hands on my breasts. I let him grope my boobs for a minute and then I bolted up, sinking my teeth into his double chin. The blubber in his neck impeded my teeth a little, but I finally reached an artery after three, agonizingly long minutes. He tried to sling me around the room, but I didn't let go. He punched me a few times in my ribcage, but I still wouldn’t let go. I wrapped my legs around his fat body and I dug my high heel sandals into his lower back. I had my arms locked around his neck with my fangs buried in his throat. I forced him to carry me in his arms like a little girl as I drained every ounce of blood from his body. It seemed like it took forever to suck him dry. He finally fell to his knees. I had a 300-pound gangster lying on top of me. It took all my strength to push his body off my chest. I was in an abandoned funeral home, so there was no director. It was just Frankie and his three sons. Somebody paid them to assassinate me. My sixth sense told me it was an old German woman, and I was gonna kill this stupid bitch. While I was lying on the floor gathering my breath, I thought about how I resurrected a woman’s 3-year-old daughter. Thinking about this relaxed me. I thought about how adorable the woman’s baby was. The baby had on a wig because her chemotherapy treatments caused her hair to fall out. She looked so pretty in her little black floral dress. Her name was Keisha. Keisha's mom almost fainted when I came out of the room holding her daughter. The baby’s hair grew back after I resurrected her. She had beautiful, gold curly locks. I could tell she was half white and half African-American. I stood there watching the mother hold her daughter while crying and thanking God that she was alive again. She thanked me and kissed me. I was still lying on the floor beside a 300-pound dead body when my husband called me. I told him the plans I had for our son’s birthday party next week. I also told my husband what happened to me at the funeral home, and that it was time to move to a new neighborhood.


Silence is deadly. Asmund puffed his smoking pipe as he marched through the snowbound forest, his eyes darting to and fro as they scanned the pristine taiga around him. Several men had gone missing in these parts several days ago - a normal facet of life here in the monster-infested Northern Province, but because they were members of the Ecclesiarchy he was ‘volunteered’ to find the clergymen. Or what was left of them at least, as his friends at the tavern had jested. The chirping symphony of birds danced across the frigid winter air as Asmund trekked onwards, mulling over what manner of beast might have done the priests in. Perhaps a particularly large Snowsnapper, tunneling beneath the snow with its serpentine body and striking from below with a powerful pair of extending jaws? Or maybe an imposing Northpaw did them in? Those urcine wolverines were preparing for hibernation around this time of year, and a group of lost priests from out-of-town would have been quite the preparatory feast. Asmund stopped for a minute to stuff more dried smokeleaf into his pipe, taking note of the slowly lowering sun barely peeking out from between the trees. He’d have to set up camp soon, get a fire going. Smoke repelled all manner of awful night terrors, but even then he wouldn’t sleep easy. Not here. Small beasts don’t make carriages go missing, after all. After a solid half-hour of making sure the local area was devoid of tree-dwelling Pine Vipers, Asmund decided on a small clearing that offered him a solid twenty feet of open space in most directions. It was the best he had found so far, and he wasn’t going to find a better location before the creatures of the night began prowling about. The chirping of insects buzzed just beyond the treeline, a comforting ambience alongside the crackling of firewood. Asmund sat next to the fire, pouring a little water and scooping some snow into a small metal pot and hanging it over the flames. Fishing around amongst the many pockets adorning his winter coat, the hunter retrieved a rune-marked thermal stone and set it down beside him. Reaching down into his collar, Asmund pulled out a shimmering blue crystal connected to a chain necklace via metal wiring. Tapping the thermal stone with the glowing crystal, Asmund watched as magic flowed into the etched runes and filled the rock with purpose. Returning the crystal to its place around his neck, Asmund picked up the now-humming thermal stone and felt a wave of heat wash across his hands. Although his was rather rudimentary, the otherworldly energy of a glimmerkey was important for those who couldn’t manipulate mana by themselves. Like himself. Asmund watched the embers drift upwards, wafting above the looming pine trees and disappearing into the pristine night sky. This place had a haunting beauty to it, marvelous at a distance but teeming with death up close. A log split open, sending a host of embers flying out and renewing the crackles of the flame. Asmund jumped, caught off guard by the sudden noise. Shaking his head, the hunter grumbled to himself. It had been practically deafening in the silence of the night that had settled in. His hand hovered over the thermal stone he had dropped when the realization hit him. It was quiet. No insects chirping, no birds hooting. Nothing. Pure, unadulterated silence. And silence is deadly. Asmund gulped, his eyes shifting around the treeline to see what had caused the forest to fall so silent. His hands shifted as well, reaching to the rifle laying at his side with an expedient yet gentle grasp. It was a rugged implement, the furniture crafted from the same stern wood that surrounded him. But whereas a mage had a wand and a priest had a staff, he had this. It lacked the theatrical finesse of those more natural magical implements, breech-loading and then firing pre-packaged spells wrapped in enchanted paper as opposed to simply channeling raw mana, but it got the job done and packed quite a punch. Aethercasters like the one he was loading were notoriously expensive - Asmund only had his as a souvenir from his time in the military - but their effectiveness was what allowed him to hunt the otherworldly beasts like the one skulking around the edges of his camp. Asmund’s heart began to pick up its pace, and the hunter sprung up to a kneel as he looked about with an increasing unease. Flicking the lever around the rifle’s trigger forward, Asmund reached a hand into the hardleather pouch on his waist containing the spellfire charges and slid one of the paper packages into the open breech as a small cloud left his lips. The lever slid back and the breech closed, a satisfying metal click telling him it was ready to cast. Each thumping heartbeat, each bated breath, each snow-crunching step - all were deafening in the silence of the forest. Asmund turned around once more, and his figure froze as he finally saw what it was that had drawn so near to him. A great white stag was standing at the edge of the clearing, a pair of large and ornately-curling antlers hanging above its head. Asmund tightened his grip on the caster, an icy dread seizing the back of his neck. The animal stood several heads above him, larger than any other stag he’d seen. Its thick white fur was matted in places and stained in others, and a set of strong pillar-like legs supported its massive frame. But what made Asmund the most uneasy were its eyes. They were human. And they were staring back at him. The two stood there, flame-licked shadows dancing around them as they looked at one another. Asmund’s finger inched towards the trigger, his breaths slow and anxious. The beast watched, unblinking and unmoving save for the occassional snorting from its nostrils. If he pulled the trigger, in an instant the glimmercrystal in the rifle would slide forward and tap the spellfire cartridge, bringing it to life and sending a burst of arcane hatred flashing out of the barrel. But he only had one shot. And at this distance, it’d be his only shot. The stag’s gaze shifted ever so slightly, as if sizing up the hunter standing in the clearing. Asmund shouldered the rifle and leaned forward, preparing to raise the caster to bear if the beast decided to step out beyond the treeline. No words were exchanged between them, a tensely quiet conversation not breaking the tense silence of the night. A hoof raised somewhat, ploughing the snow-covered dirt beneath it. The campfire continued its crackling, unperturbed by the standoff occuring only several feet away. The snow was steaming now, slowly sinking into a rising tide of freshwater bubbling with excitement. With a loud and final huff, the stag turned its head and vanished back into the darkness of the trees. Asmund let out a huff as well, lowering his rifle and taking several deep breaths as the adrenaline stopped pumping through his veins. Looking around, Asmund kept the caster in one hand he wiped several beads of sweat from his forehead. Slowly, the sounds of life trickled back into the air as the night progressed, heralding the departure of his midnight visitor. Whatever it was. Asmund sat by the fire, gnawing on a jerky stick as he ruminesced about the encounter. He hadn’t seen such a creature before - was it responsible for the missing clergymen? Asmund shook his head. The carriage was a much larger target with several more people than just him on his lonesome - if the stag had killed them it could have easily killed him . But it didn’t. And those eyes … Asmund felt a shiver run up his spine. Whatever that thing was, he hoped he wouldn’t have to see it again. He’d have to ask the guys about it back at the tavern - with such a uniquely dreadful description, he’d either get answers or volunteers for a hunting party. Maybe both. Nonetheless, though, he couldn’t return with nothing but chatter about strange beasts in a forest full of strange beasts. He had a reputation to uphold, and nothing less than concrete answers would do. When the morning came, he’d set out all the same and search for the missing clergymen until he had something to bring back. Reaching into his winter coat once more, Asmund procured a small pouch containing a handful of coffee beans and popped several into his mouth. He wasn’t going to be sleeping tonight. Not that he had been feeling particularly tired, anyways. Asmund had been dozing off when the sing-song symphony of morning birds roused him from his half-slumber. The fire had gone out some time ago, but Asmund spent little time worrying about how long he had been exposed as he covered the ashes and pocketed the thermal stone. Taking several gulps from the steaming water, Asmund spent several minutes packing up before resuming his journey. There was a large lake not too far away from where he was that had several rivers and streams feeding into it, with the lake itself flowing into a waterfall that continued downhill. That was where he was going. The crunching sound of boots on snow filled the air as Asmund strolled through the forest, one hand resting on the strap suspending his aethercaster from his shoulder. Puffing his smoke pipe, Asmund watched a pair of four-winged snowdoves twirl about overhead before flapping off deeper into the forest. Those birds were quite tasty when cooked, the hunter thought to himself. Especially when they were mixed in with some garlic, rosemary, thyme, a sprinkle of sage… His stomach rumbled loudly in protest, reminding Asmund of how long it’d been since he had had a proper home-cooked meal. He’d been out here for the better part of a week; and although the rations he’d brought with him weren’t bad, they weren’t good either. Most of the big game was gone too, so he hadn’t been able to bag any big helpings of meat like venison. The only large animal he’d encountered, Asmund thought to himself, had been the large stag last night. Other than that, the forest was oddly deserted wherever he went - not even a cursory glance at some unsuspecting wildlife. The rumbling quacks of rusty bluebills signaled that he was almost to the lake, and Asmund welcomed the idea of seeing a flock of the little feathered dragonfowl swimming about. Following the sounds, they grew louder and eventually became accompanied by the sounds of splashing water and flapping wings. But before he broke the treeline and made his way to the bank, a loud crash rung out as something big broke the surface of the water, causing an uproar of quacks and flaps that eventually fell silent. Silence is deadly. Whipping the caster off of his shoulder, Asmund held the rifle at the ready as he stepped out into the open bank bordering the lake. It was a gradual, snowy slope ending in a conglomerate of weeds and reeds and other coastal plants that broke up the waves before they hit the soil. It was a beautiful sight, really - a lake several miles in circumference framed by picturesque evergreens and standing at the foot of distant snow-capped mountain ranges. But the only thing he heard was the gentle lapping of the waves and the gentle roar of the waterfall halfway across the water. Asmund scanned the treeline, wondering if some beast had jumped in after the bluebills, but saw nothing. He puffed his pipe, uneasy at the fact that it was so quiet. Lowering the caster, Asmund took a minute to pop some more coffee beans in his mouth before his gaze meandered back up towards the lakefront where a small modicum of commotion seized his attention. A bluebill was sitting among the reeds, bobbing up and down with the water, pecking intently at something. The creature’s uncaring disregard for what had caused the noise relaxed Asmund somewhat, and he walked over to the dragonfowl to see what it was pecking at. The sight of a severed forearm was not what he was expecting. The flesh was in some degree of decay, largely fought off by the sheer cold of the climate. Asmund puffed his pipe, the sense of calm retreating to the back of his mind. There was a torn and tattered sleeve around the forearm, whose elaborate trim and symbolic eye embroidery identified it as belonging to the robes of a clergyman. Or belonged to, actually. Asmund came to a stop at the edge of the water, watching the bluebill peck and tear at the arm. The limb’s hand, clad in black leather gloves, was holding a chained and ancient-looking medallion in a tight death-grip. He was tempted to reach for it, but he knew better than to get between a bluebill and its food. Fortunately, he had something in his packs that bluebills loved: blue-banana nut bread. The iconically-colored loaf was a provincial staple, made using the hardy and nutrient-dense Musa-Cenizo banana. Unwrapping what was left of the loaf he had brought, Asmund ripped off a chunk and tossed it several feet to the bluebill’s left. The dragonfowl took a moment to turn its blood-stained beak towards the disturbance before splashing over to the floating chunks with a surprising speed. Asmund took the moment to use the butt of his rifle and nudge the frostbitten limb within arm’s reach. Setting the loaf down beside him, Asmund pried open the frozen hand and hung the odd medallion around his neck. He had his evidence. Time to head back home. Asmund slung his caster over his shoulder and picked up the arm, wondering where he was going to store the limb as his eyes analyzed the damage. Near the end of the arm, where it would have connected to the elbow, the sleeve was pinned to the limb by a large white tooth. Pulling it out as the bluebill hopped up onto the bank and zipped towards the unguarded loaf, Asmund realized why it had gone so quiet. This was the tooth of an ursinus orca . A Black Pilgrim. Twenty-foot long, several-thousand-pound amphibious sea bears that lived in groups called congregations and made annual pilgrimages across the continent to terrorize new feeding grounds. Possessing a striking black and white coloration, four powerful, clawed limbs, a jutting spike of a dorsal fin, and a large tail, Black Pilgrims were a nigh-unstoppable natural disaster to everything they came across. Like the carriage. Asmund looked out towards the lake as the bluebill waddled up to him expectantly, a cold sweat running down the hunter’s back. A loud huff startled Asmund, causing him to drop the arm in surprise and frantically shoulder his rifle. The stag from last night stood at the treeline, staring at him with its unnerving gaze. Asmund pocketed the tooth, staring back at the stag. It blinked, huffing out another cloud of vapor and gesturing its head towards the lake before quickly turning around and galloping off. Asmund turned his head towards the lake. A tall, black fin was rising out of the water. And then another. And another. Heading straight for him. A shocked “ Oh, ” was all Asmund could muster before the bluebill’s expectant quacking snapped him out of his daze. Taking several hurried steps backwards as the fins gained speed, Asmund practically threw himself up the bank and broke into a desperate sprint through the forest. Behind him, the trumpet-call of blowholes sounded off accompanied by the noise of large beasts charging up from the depths. Their footfalls were fast and heavy, their jaws open and their breaths hungry. Asmund didn’t look back. A tree cried out as it was forced aside, and the shrill hunting calls of the Pilgrims haunted his ears as he ran, the monstrous creatures shouting to one another as they pursued their quarry. His head start was small at best, and the Pilgrims were much faster than he could ever hope to be. Asmund ran nonetheless, hoping to come up with some last-minute plan with the few extra seconds he had. And then he came into a clearing. Unslinging his rifle, Asmund got it to his shoulder just as the first Pilgrim ran into view, leaping out from the treeline like an instrument of divine judgement. Asmund pulled the trigger on his caster, sending the glimmercrystal in the rifle’s mechanism flying forth into the rune-laden paper wrapping of the spellfire cartridge. In an instant, bouts of arcane energy came crackling out of the barrel as an imposing fireball burst into existence. The flaming orb surged forth, colliding with the Pilgrim and causing it to come to a halt with a shrill shriek of pain. Hurriedly sliding in another cartridge, Asmund brought his rifle back up as a pair of Pilgrims came into view on either side of the burned one. The three beasts looked at Asmund with a hesitant hunger, primal gears turning in their head. The burned one stared at him, seared flesh marring the right half of its face. Several minutes passed before the Pilgrims called to one another, slowly taking several steps back. Asmund exhaled, taking a step back himself as a set of thundering footsteps to his left announced the presence of a fourth Pilgrim bounding up on his flank. Asmund barely had time to aim his rifle at the gaping maw of the predator before it was slammed to the side by the great white stag. Their attack routed, the Pilgrims retreated back into the forest with the rest of its congregation, leaving just the hunter and the stag alone in the clearing. Its eyes glanced down towards the medallion before looking back at him. The guys at the tavern weren’t going to believe this.


With a loud clunk, the last light was extinguished and the room blackened.  I waited for the clicking of the librarian’s heels to fade before I risked emerging from my hiding place in the rarely visited encyclopedia section of the library basement.  The dust bunnies under the shelves were as large as my hand and also my only companions for the last two hours I had spent waiting for the library to close. The dank, musty smell was clinging to my clothes. My excitement matched my anxiety as I was never one to break the rules, and staying here after closing time was regrettably one of the most rebellious things I had ever done in my twenty-six years.  My adventure was about to begin, and how challenging could it be? What, you might ask, would prompt me to be here in a cold, dark, dusty library instead of home in my own comfortable room full of my books, comfy pillows and my two orange tabbies, Watson and Holmes? As it turns out, I accepted a dare from a mischievous octogenarian named Abigail in a game of Truth or Dare. Scoring an apartment amidst the residents at the town’s senior living community had its ups and downs. Employed as the Activities Director, I spent many a night among the senior residents coordinating and participating in various games and projects, which could be equal parts entertaining and frustrating. Historically, I am much more of a Truth person in the Truth or Dare realm. I have very little to hide, being quite strait-laced all my life.  My elderly neighbors have had many laughs at my expense, as they seemed to all have led pretty scandalous lives based upon their “truths”! They each now generally chose “Dare” in the game, as they had few secrets left from each other. Some of the dares, such as who can fling his dentures the furthest, held little appeal.

Nonetheless, I had one wine cooler too many the night in question, and decided to throw caution to the wind.  Abigail, my favorite at the senior center, had long been wanting to shake up my life, so jumped at the chance to assign my fate- “You will spend the night in the Eastbrook library basement!” she declared.  Abigail, a retired guide for the Eastbrook ghost tour, always believed the library to be the most haunted site in the town. She maintained that her own decades-deceased Aunt Edna, the first librarian in Eastbrook, traveled its halls to this day looking for mis-shelved books and shushing loud patrons. Not being one to worry about ghosts, and having fantasized about being uninterrupted and surrounded with thousands of books at my disposal, I decided that this would be a good chance to prove to them that I wasn’t just a stick-in-the-mud. I also believed that I would enjoy a night when I didn’t have to wear headphones to drown out the Bingo caller. This felt like a win-win situation for me. Now however, being in the dark, quiet, and unnaturally chilly basement, I was rethinking my decision.  Ghosts aren’t real, I was sure, and how bad could one night be?  I had my handy flashlight and sleeping bag hidden in the back of the stacks, and I readied myself to hunker down for the night. As I spread out my quilt, I was startled by a noise that sliced through the silence.  A loud thud followed by a barrage of clops and bangs came from upstairs. It sounded like a horse was galloping through the fiction section! My knack for keeping calm in a crisis kicked in as my brain sought to imagine a reasonable explanation for this development.  After all, I had never been in the library at night. Maybe the furnace was really loud or maybe workers were cleaning (the absence of light did make this less likely).

 I was torn between cowering in my corner and investigating the unexpected sounds, when the noises ceased and a creepy silence once again overtook the building. A small shiver worried up my spine as I slowly crept up the creaky library stairs, the need to investigate winning out.  The building was inky black, and my small flashlight did little to illuminate the large space.  As I inched along the library wall, feeling cobwebs brushing against my cheek, my foot kicked something hard on the floor.  A small book,

Things that Go Bump in the Night  lay at my feet.

Admittedly a little nervous, and with my blood pounding in my ears, I shone my flashlight around me.  All I could see from the fine beam was an empty hall and imposing book-lined shelves.  I listened for sounds of life, but there were only stillness and my own rapid breaths. Did I imagine the noises? My senses were on high alert and I wanted to stay hidden until I could investigate further.  From behind me, though, another thud made me jump, and another book landed near my feet. The offending noises were starting again now as books were leaping from the shelves onto the floor in front of me.  I spun my flashlight, desperately trying to see what was causing this, but saw nothing but what appeared to be the books alone, launching themselves off the shelves. I was torn between the desire to run for my life and the overwhelming urge to reorganize the messy, unshelved titles strewn on the floor.

The Shining  grazing my forehead in its rapid descent hurried my decision and I spun around to escape the attack. In my haste, I dropped my flashlight and heard the battery fling across the floor as it crashed down. The room again was draped in black and now I was surrounded in the darkness by a cacophony of books sliding from the shelves and dive bombing the ground.  I felt the hard covers scratching my ankles as I ran from the section.

I dove under the nearest desk as more books launched themselves at my head. I heard screaming which I realized was coming from me and the thuds were joined by a loud whoosh as a strong breeze began to blow my hair.  It sounded like “Shoooooooooosssshhhh” as it rang past my ears.

I tried to make out where the door was so I could escape this nightmare but I was unsure of where I was in the darkness.  The books continued to hit the desk, leaving what I imagined to be brick sized divots in the ancient wood. The thought of Aunt Edna seemed like less of a joke now and I scrambled to figure out what I might have done to prompt a ghost’s wrath? I had kept to myself while I waited for closing time, and I had passed time by thumbing through some encyclopedias. Had I accidentally left one open, or, worse, put it back in the wrong place? Convinced that this must be it, I resolved to brave the book attacks to try to right my wrong.  I grabbed the desk blotter to use as a shield, and plunged myself back into the tornado of flying books. I made my way to the stairs again and threw myself down them, trying to get back to the encyclopedia section.  I did hesitate when I imagined those tomes coming at me, but all still seemed quiet in the basement.  It was harder to examine the area as I was without a light, but remembered my cellphone in my pocket.  I shone the phone light where I had been hiding and discovered that the S volume was left open to Supernatural Events and was set away from its shelf mates.

I quickly slammed the book closed and re shelved it properly, just as the surrounding volumes were beginning to tremble. I braced myself for the onslaught, but the hurricane stopped as quickly as it had started.  I was afraid to open my eyes for a time and remained crouched in the corner in the fetal position for what seemed like hours.  No more loud thuds were heard, and the whistling wind quieted.  I thought I heard some quiet scraping from above, but the air was calm in the basement. The hours passed as I sat frozen in place, not daring to open my eyes or move, for fear of angering Aunt Edna any further.  Had this been a bad dream?  Was I going crazy?  Did the ghost of Abigail’s aunt try to kill me for improperly reshelving an encyclopedia? I didn’t move until I was startled by the lights popping on. Not wanting to be found in this state, I unfolded myself from the floor and gathered my belongings. Inexplicably, my now intact flashlight was resting on my sleeping bag.  I waited until I heard more activity from upstairs, expecting there to be shouts of horror at what the main floor of the library likely looked like.  When these did not manifest, I crept upstairs, intending to mix in with the other patrons. I stopped dead in my tracks at the top of the stairs.  The library was in pristine condition. All books appeared to be in proper order on their respective shelves. The desk where I sheltered from the book attack appeared unscathed. Not wanting to tempt fate any further, I quickly exited the building and hurried home. Met at the door by a group of curious senior citizens, I knew I could not escape to my room without filling them in on my night at the library. “How was it?” Abigail asked.  “Did you see my aunt?”  “It was fine, Abigail.  I had a nice, quiet evening reading myself to sleep.  It is amazing how relaxing it was,” I lied.  Abigail and the others looked disappointed, but satisfied that I accomplished my dare.  They exchanged money among the 5 of them, apparently having bet on me reneging on my side of the deal.  Maybe now they would leave me alone when I chose Truth in the next game. As the hours ticked by at home, I started to believe that maybe it had all been a bad dream. I started to question my sanity and struggled to come up with a reasonable explanation for what I witnessed. Ghosts aren’t real, and books don’t dive bomb your head, I told myself. I got up and glanced at my reflection in the mirror.  Surely the blossoming bruise on my forehead was from me running into something and not from some book ambush? A bit reluctant to turn off my lights and go to sleep, I lay awake that night.  Just as I shut my eyes, my door shook in its frame as something struck it loudly.  With an inward groan and a rush of adrenaline, I tiptoed to the door and peeked out.  On the ground was a copy of

Casper the Friendly Ghost. As I leapt over the book and took off down the hall with a shriek, I could barely make out the snickers of the seniors from around the corner and could almost swear out of the corner of my eye that they each held a book in their hands.


I was working in my shop as a Chemist when a woman walked in with a gun and shot me. My bulletproof lab coat deflected the six.44 Magnum shots, but it still felt like getting pummeled. Bullets ricocheted, breaking beakers, vials, and other glassware. I winced, verified my body was not Swiss cheese with a glance, then gawked at my assailant. She was young, maybe in her twenties which meant she was born into the apocalypse. She wore a black tank top with black polymer pants and a clear visor with a digital display over her eyes. I heard the gun’s hammer striking the empty chamber with a click, click, click that seemed like punctuations to the woman’s screaming. Since I deal with these assassination attempts at least twice a week, I recognized her as a novice, not a Scientist like me. “Die, World-ender!” the woman shouted, then threw the empty gun at my head. “Hey!” I shouted and ducked as the handgun flew past me. She then ran at me with a knife. I guess I wouldn’t be making any sales today after all. I extended my hand, palm up, toward the woman and said, “ Aeris .” The oxygen and nitrogen gas molecules in the air were beckoned by my will to concentrate and expand in an instance. The shop's interior shook as a wind flowed from my hand with hurricane force. Vials and bottles rattled, a few more breaking on the concrete floor. Tables pushed to the sides of the room from the gale. The charging woman covered her face with her arm as debris and dust whirled in a vortex around her. The wind’s force stopped her charge by pelting her with billions and billions of molecules. She strained to push toward me, but her foot slipped and fell to the floor. She tumbled as the wind pushed her to the shop’s exit, but she held onto the door frame. “I’ll stop you from doing it! I’ll save the world!” she screamed as her grip slipped. I redirected the wind to the shop’s metal security door with a flick of my wrist. The wind caught the door and slammed it shut with a clang, and I replied, “Yeah, well, take a number.” My name is Dr. Henry Ion Fischer, and I destroyed the world. Well, not technically me. My future self will be the one to destroy everything, you know when I go back to the past to do it. What I mean is that I am destined to go back in time and destroy the world. Nothing can stop that. If something could stop me from going back in time and destroying the world, then the apocalyptic world I live in now wouldn’t exist. Confusing? See, this is the reason people keep trying to kill me. No matter how publicized it is, people still didn’t get it; they can’t kill me. It’s not like I’m immortal or something. I can die, just not yet. And why? Because you can’t bend time; time bends you. Let me start from the beginning, er, maybe present is a better descriptor.            I have traveled from the pre-apocalyptic year of 2025 to the post-apocalyptic year of 2049. In this future, the population has been decimated, governments have been obliterated, survivors live in cities run by gangs, and it is perpetually night. Blocking the sun was what I did, er, will do, to destroy the world.            It’s an odd feeling to know what you haven’t done yet. I didn’t know how I filled the sky with clouds so black that sunlight couldn’t break through them, but I assume it has to do with my abilities as a Chemist, a type of Scientist. Scientists live long lives and have extraordinary powers related to our discipline. We call the ability our nous , and sometimes the power feels like an actual noose more than a gift. I don’t know why I destroy the world. I’m not an evil Scientist. If anything, I am an apathetic Scientist, or maybe an aloof Scientist, but not an evil-doer bent on world destruction.            When I first arrived from my jump in time to 2049, I had a bit of a freak-out month. I’ve since resigned myself to my fate as World-ender. How I came to be thrust into the future is a story for another time but suffice it to say that a Physicist specializing in time travel launched me into the future to materialize in the dark, dilapidated streets of future Boston. I was jumped by fanatic body augmenters, but a group calling themselves the Remnants rescued me. The Remnants escorted me back to their base at Fenway Park but didn’t tell me I destroyed the world.            In 2025, I had a friend named Melody Kenzie, and we often worked together on her cases as a private detective, especially when she suspected a Scientist was involved. However, in the future, I found myself in now, Melody was the leader of the Remnants. It was Melody who told me I was the cause of the world being destroyed. She said I died when it happened, and I heard loss in her voice that implied we had something more than friendship when I returned to 2025. Melody said she never knew I went to the future and back until 2030, right before the apocalypse. I was relieved to know I would eventually make it back to my time, but as I saw the devastation of this future, I became fatalistic. I contemplated suicide in hasty thoughts meant to preserve the world I once knew instead of this futuristic hellscape. When I told Melody, she put a gun to my head and pulled the trigger. No shot was fired. She then turned the gun away from me and fired again. The deafening shot jolted me with the realization that I wouldn’t be able to stop the world from ending. I was the World-ender. That’s when she told me, “You can’t bend time; time bends you.”            Melody’s demeanor differed from the hotheaded seeker of justice from the past. She was now much harder, militarily shouting commands and keeping what she knew about me close to her chest. While I remembered conversations Melody had with me just a few months ago, for her, our friendship had been buried under years of strife.            Like I said, after that, it was a hard month. I drank a lot. I slept even more. I explored the expansive area in and around Fenway Park. People lived in hovels and slums, barely surviving on the resources gathered from scouting. My shop was one of several in the market district, and people traded necessities there. A few Scientists were in Fenway, and they used their abilities to help keep everyone’s head above water. In my time, Scientists were to remain hidden, but now they were society's leaders, caretakers, and soldiers. Within a few days of arriving, everyone knew who I was. Some Remnants started calling me World-ender when the assassination attempts began. Melody had to put up signs telling people how they couldn’t kill me and shouldn’t try.            There was a banging on the door to my shop, and my reminiscence ceased. I shouted, “Go away. I’m closed for today due to excessive attempts on my life. Thanks, please come again.”            I heard a key turn in the metal security door. There was only one person that had the key. Melody Kenzie walked through the door and closed it behind her. She saw the smashed vials on the floor, and her eyes met mine.            “Typical day?” she asked.            “For this dystopia, yeah, it’s about the average day I expected,” I replied. I grabbed a dustpan and broom from the back of the shop and swept the broken glass from the floor. Melody walked around the broken glass and said, “At least it wasn’t a Scientist this time.” “Yeah, I guess being shot at is better than having another Chemist hurl fireballs at me, or my mind attacked by a Psychologist trying to make me kill myself, or being thrown into a portal by a Physicist to who knows what place. Oh, and remember that Biologist who could turn into that werewolf-lizardman creature that almost clawed my face off? “Yeah, but I got there before he could,” Melody said. “And I’m thankful for that, of course,” I said, “and thankful for you helping me set up my apothecary shop. You pulled me out of a bad place when I first got here. Despite some Remnants trying to kill me, I enjoy synthesizing medicine for them. Makes me feel like I’m alleviating the pain I’ve caused or will cause. At least it gives me something to do besides drink myself to death, er, well, you know what I mean.” Melody said, “Henry, you know you don’t have to stay here.”            “It’s not like it’s safer anywhere else,” I said. “The only place left with a shred of normalcy is the society you have made here. It’s bleak, but I can still see hope when I look for it. Because of you, there are businesses, children can play, people still fall in love, and—”            I stopped myself short of saying more. I loved Melody once, in the past. Maybe I still did love her. I locked eyes with her and felt my heart skip as I saw her push a strand of red hair over her shoulder, and she adjusted her form-fitting body armor. Melody was a Scientist, a Chaotician who could see through the chaos and use her nous to predict a few minutes into the future with incredible detail and accuracy.            I shook my head and broke my gaze into her eyes. If I still loved her, it was the Melody I remembered from the past, not this one. How could I love anyone without loving myself?            “Why are you here?” I asked.            “There’s a mission—”            She paused there, already anticipating my interruption. “Let me stop you right there,” I said. “I don’t go on away missions. I tried my hand as a scout before you helped me establish my shop and most of the away missions were like I was some Red Shirt in Star Trek. There was always one crazed Remnant that lost their shit and tried to fight me, kill me, or just make the whole journey a pain in my ass.”            “It’s not like they can kill you,” she replied.            “Uh, yeah, but it still hurts,” I said. “Sure, I can’t die, but I can be maimed, beaten, and put in a coma. So basically, as long as I’m still capable of destroying the world, anything can happen to me.”            “It’s just pain,” Melody said under her breath. I didn’t reply, and we stood silent except for the broom's swish and glass clinking in the dustpan. I glanced at Melody to see her back was to me, and she was standing tall and straight. Then, after a while, she said, “What if I said this was ‘ the’ mission.”            I jerked my head toward Melody, but her back was still turned. I gathered myself, anxious about what she meant, but calmly placed the dustpan on a table.            I said, “Do you mean—”            “Yes,” she said, interrupting me. Stupid nous always telling Melody what I would say. She turned to me, her hands behind her back, and stood to attention. “We all have our part to play in this future. As the leader of the Remnants, I command you to join this mission. We depart tomorrow morning.”            The broom dropped from my hands and clattered to the floor. I wasn’t sure if I was glad or terrified to be going back to my time, but for the first time in a while, I felt excited.            “I accept,” I said, suddenly surprising myself.            She looked at me and shook her head. “You don’t have to accept. You don’t have a choice. Time bends you.” Melody turned on her heel and exited the shop before I could say another word.            The following day, I heard a knock on the shop door. I rose from the cot in the back room of the shop where I slept and said, “Hello?”            “Officer McCreedy here to escort you to the launchpad, Dr. Fisher,” said a scruffy voice from the other side of the door.            I cautiously opened the door. I recognized McCreedy as one of Melody’s lieutenants, but I didn’t know much about him.            “Are you ready?” he asked.            I nodded. McCreedy then escorted me to the launchpad atop a platform on Fenway. Word must have spread because everyone came out of their homes as I walked the streets to watch me. A few people heckled me, and a group of kids threw garbage at me, but fortunately, no one tried to kill me. When we reached the launchpad, I saw Melody in the cockpit of an airlift, a vehicle like a helicopter but with no rotors and flies using magnetic levitation.            “Hey, so now that we are all here, does someone feel like telling me what we are doing?” I asked Melody and the four officers on the launchpad.            No one said anything, but then Melody spoke from the cockpit, “Remnant scouts found an anomaly outside the city. We’ve been analyzing it for a couple weeks and determined the origin to be from the past. 2025 to be exact.”            “What is it?” I asked.            “You’ll see,” she said, and then, “Ready for takeoff?”            Her team gave the affirmative then we were in the air. Seeing the destruction of Boston from above was like swallowing a stone. A city I loved was in ruin. I thought of the other cities around the world that shared the same fate because what I did, er, will do.            When the airlift landed, the officers jumped out and scouted the area with their rifles held at the ready. I stayed in the cockpit with Melody until we heard the all-clear.            “The anomaly is this way,” Melody said, walking into the forest, the officers following her. We walked a while before reaching a glowing two-dimensional, circular portal. I froze. The portal’s center was black, and the edges ringed with blue. It looked exactly like the portal the Physicist forced me into last year.            “At least I won’t have to worry about my tensing anymore,” I murmured. Then louder, I asked, “So what do I do now?”            The officers shuffled their feet. They seemed anxious too.            “There’s nothing you can do,” Melody said, drifting off as she spoke.            “Well, how about I just don’t go into it!” I said. “If I don’t go into it, the world doesn’t end.”            “And then you wouldn’t be here to say that,” Melody explained warily. “Just like you can’t die until you destroy the world, you can’t stop yourself from going through this portal.”            “Then tie me to a tree or something. Nope, not going to do this. Living in this hellish future is one thing, but there’s no way I’m going into the portal to willingly destroy Earth.”            “Then we’ll make you,” Melody said and eyed me. She was serious.            With a nod, two officers grabbed me by the arms while the other two put their rifles to my head.            “Whoa! Back-off!” I shouted as they pushed me closer to the portal. “I’m warning you,” I said.            “Throw him in!” Melody shouted, and the officers forced me forward.            Most of the last year was spent wishing I was in the past again. Now, with it so close, I couldn’t do it. Not if it meant things would end like this. I reached for my nous, and black clouds stirred above me, sucking down to ground level until no light could be seen. My nous flared, and molecules consisting of the air pushed a spherical wave of pressure around me, knocking back the officers holding my arms and clearing the blackness. One of the rifles went off, and the bullet sliced my cheek as it went by me. All four officers were on the ground around me, and I said, “Now, how about we just talk calmly about this?”            “Officer down!” McCreedy shouted, and I spun to see that the stray bullet had caught Melody between the eyes. Blood oozed from the bullet hole in her forehead.            “No!” I shouted. Even though Melody was going to force me through the portal, I still felt our friendship of the past. The love I had for her back then and now.            “Why didn’t she move?” an officer asked. “She knew that would happen, right? Her nous lets her see a few minutes in the future.”            Then it hit me. The world's weight crushed me, and I felt myself take a step forward. Then I took another step. And another.            Melody did know. She hadn’t told me much about how the apocalypse happened. It made sense now, though. She would have gone back to the past with me if she could, even if it was just to look up at a blue sky together. Maybe she hadn’t told me about when I returned from the future because those were happier times for us. Perhaps she was trying to give me what she had already experienced. But at what cost? The world? No, it was because we can’t bend time; time bends you. So, we might as well make the best of it.            I stepped forward into the portal and returned to 2025 to become the fated World-ender.


I call her, the phone rings, and rings, and then suddenly, voicemail. "Weird." I mutter to myself. I check her location and once again the technology of Apple has failed me. Why does this thing always seem to glitch out when I get worried? I tend not to bother her with multiple calls at a time, but this time I am just really worried. I know that she doesn't like it when I blow up her phone, but I need to know she's okay. If anything, at least maybe she will appreciate how much I care about her. I call her again. The phone rings, and rings, and then suddenly, voicemail. "Damnit..." I say to myself again. Now I am genuinely growing worried. It is 11:30 P.M., and I know she has been off work for an hour now. Why is her location off? Why isn't she answering? Maybe she got into an accident on her way home. Maybe she got carjacked and they tossed her phone into an ocean or something. Maybe she got picked up off the street and God forbid anything happened to her. Or maybe... I call again. The phone rings, and rings, and then suddenly, voicemail. I don't say anything this time. Instead, a feeling of fear begins to wash over me. The last time we spoke on the phone, she answered so frantically and hung up in such a rush. I can tell she is going through a lot right now. We haven't seen each other in about three weeks. She told me she has been going through a lot with her job and her mother and her living situation and that she just needs some time to sort everything out. Still, as far as I know, everything is good between us. I have afforded her some space for the time being, but tonight something has just come over me. I can't deal with the thought of her stressing, worrying about everything too much like I do. Seeking comfort in unusual places. I only hope that it all didn't become too much for her. Maybe she adopted some bad habits to cope with the stress. Maybe she is strung out in some drug house right now, in danger around those animals. Maybe she had a mental break and hurt herself or worse. Tears begin to well in my eyes as once again I call her. The phone rings, and rings, and then suddenly, voicemail. "Please" I plead with myself, or whoever may be listening. At this point I just miss her so much, I really just want to hear her voice, to know that everything is okay. She has gotten so distantly lately, she seems strained anytime I talk to her. Her stress has mounted to a point where I am lucky to get an "I love you too." I just feel so bad for her. I wish she was here so I could hold her in my arms and tell her everything is going to be okay. I want to relieve her stress in every which way and let her know that as long as we have each other, everything is going to work out. I call again, the phone rings, and rings, and then suddenly, voicemail. I know she has been spending a lot of time at her friend's house, staying there to unwind and get away from her mom. I'm not sure what exactly it is her and her mom are arguing about, she hasn't bothered to tell me. I only hope she is safe in the company of friends. The thoughts start to creep in, but I know my beloved, and that she would never betray my trust. The bond we share is far too strong, true love doesn't come often, but when it does, you can just feel it. I love her with all of my heart, and nothing could ever change that. When she answers the phone, be it today or tomorrow or whenever that time comes, I am just going to spill my entire heart to her because I want her to know what she means to me. She is my everything. I call again. The phone rings, and rings, and suddenly, voicemail. "Fuck" I blurt out through tears. They now stream down my cheek uncontrollably as my mind churns in a whirlwind of doubt and discomfort. I am hardly thinking straight at this point. I call fifteen more times, and fifteen more times, the phone rings, and rings, and suddenly, voicemail. I have no thought in my mind other than to keep calling, and keep calling, and to not give up until I hear her voice. I am close to calling the police just in case she is in danger or dead somewhere. So many intrusive thoughts race through my mind, each more disgusting and vivid than the last. I call again, the phone rings, and rings, and suddenly, a voice answers! Momentarily I am relieved, but quickly I realize, this is not her voice. "Hello?" I say. "Who is this?" A man's voice responds. "This is Katherine's boyfriend" I respond, it's strange, she never mentioned her friend was a boy. He lets out a soft chuckle, he pauses for a moment and says "I'm sorry dude, she's asleep, and I don't think she considers you that..." "What?" I respond. My heart falls to the floor. Surely he misspoke, or perhaps I misheard him. "She's been here for a week bro, and this ain't the only place she has been. I don't got time for this shit, I'll let her explain." He says as he hangs up the phone. A tremendous feeling of grief washes over me. For a moment, I am absolutely floored by these comments. Quickly, I come to my senses. This must just be one of her friends fucking with me. Maybe the friend she was staying with has a boyfriend and they just thought it would be funny to play a trick on me. Maybe she was just off to the side, finding a quick laugh in my discomfort. It's the least I could do for her in her time of need. I'd like to say she would never embarrass me like that, but it wouldn't be the first time. Whatever the case may be, everything is going to be okay when I get her explanation tomorrow. Hopefully I wake up to it, I love the sweet messages she used to leave me every morning before all of this stress was put on her.


# The Writer **How far would you go to tell the perfect story?** *Written by Gregory Patrick Travers* My therapist, Dr. Raymond, has cleverly deduced that I suffer from mild paranoia. But what the simple doctor does not understand is that I am not paranoid, I am prepared. You see, it is all a matter of perception. Dr. Raymond’s reality was a linear one; he saw things in the first person, subjectively, in a straight line. I, on the other hand, saw reality in the third person, objectively, as the narrator, with a birds-eye view, scanning the entirety of reality’s infinite depth and possibilities. And that being the case, along with the knowledge of the sins in my past, my fear of being tracked down and plotted against was not one of paranoia, but of sound logic. Much of that fear drives from guilt, I am sure. It is the little bit of human feeling left in me that clings to man’s etiquette, believing I should answer for the crime I committed. I saw a priest who told me that feelings of paranoia are signs of the guilty soul screaming for confession. But God has seen what I have done and on my day of judgment if He cannot see the reasoning to my actions, well, then He is just as short-sighted as Dr. Raymond. Until that day I remain, Grant Hull–New York Times Bestseller. The author of “Held Up”, critically praised as, and I quote, “The most realistic depiction of the life of a bank robber in our time.” My book has given me literary recognition, public praise and wealth beyond my wildest expectations. Does this not prove even as we punish and imprison the thieves, rapists, and murderers that society secretly has a passionate yearning to swim in the dark thoughts of society’s most evil creations? The publishing industry knows this and year after year they publish weak attempts to capture the life of society’s darkest. The books are penned by authors who pull their research from dramatic fiction or Hollywood movies. But when these “authors”, if that is what they choose to call themselves, draw upon inauthentic sources like Hollywood they produce an inauthentic story. Then, the game of broken telephone begins and author after author draws upon the inauthentic stories before him, creating an even more far-fetched attempt to capture the essence of the bank robber, the rapist, the murderer. But those books will come and go, making a small profit but quickly forgotten in the collective consciousness of society. I wished not to be just another waste of paper but one of the great writers of our time–Of *all time*. If you look at the great authors of the past, such as Charles Dickens with *Oliver Twist*, or George Orwell with *Down and Out in Paris and London;* two undeniably honest commentaries on economic, social and moral abuses of the ruling class–these works only achieved such high levels of authenticity from the authors actually *taking* to the slums and *living* with the down and out characters they would eventually reflect in their books. To write great literature it is imperative that you know your characters *intimately*. When I first created my protagonist, he was so far from my country boy persona I couldn’t relate to the character. Jimmy, my bank robber, was a down and out kid from the Bronx who could no longer stand his bottom-of-the-list place in society, and so, turns to a life of crime. I didn’t know a thing about city life or desperation–so I researched. I read every book on bank robberies I could find, I watched every heist movie there ever was, I listened to every gangster rap album I could get my hands on. I learned much about the topic and it helped me to create much more depth and authenticity to Jimmy and the characters around him. For example, I had originally intended Jimmy to burst into the bank guns blazing, wearing a gorilla mask and telling everyone to, “Get the fuck on the floor!” while shooting off a couple rounds into the ceiling. In the movies, this seemed pretty standard, but in real life Hollywood’s portrayal of the bank robbery is heavily flawed and out of date. Bank security has come a long way over the years. Maybe in the 1920s John Dillinger and his gang could burst into a bank with guns drawn and stick around long enough to shoot it out with police, but not today. In today’s banks each teller has a panic button under the desk, so it was imperative that at all times throughout the robbery the only person who knew the bank was being robbed was the single teller, and only when Jimmy was close enough to her to monitor her hand and knee movements. The best way to achieve that would be with a simple note handed to the teller once he was called from the line. Do you see how much research helps create authenticity? But these were things any and every author would do in preparation for their story. I didn’t want to be just *any* author. I knew I needed a more aggressive approach if I was to be remembered with the likes of an Orwell or a Dickens. Over a scotch in a hotel lobby, I came to terms that the only way to capture the raw energy of a bank robbery was to actually rob a bank. I chose a Royal Bank across town as the target. At first, I just stood in the lobby and watched. I watched the customers, I watched the tellers, I watched the cameras–I even watched the half-dead security guard habitually putter about back and forth before he eventually found peace in a plastic seat next to the front entrance. Nowadays, banks don’t carry much cash in the drawers and I did not have the equipment or the manpower to try and successfully take the vault. But again, from my research on bank security measures, I knew that most tellers kept a “robbery bag” around that they were to give to the robber if ever faced with the situation. That’s what I wanted to leave with. I knew the bills were marked but I didn’t care, I wasn’t going to spend any of it. It wasn’t for the money; it was for character research. I needed to witness the look of fear in the teller’s eyes when I handed her the note threatening to kill her if she did not co-operate. I had to document the doubts and second-thoughts that would race through my head just before handing her the note. I needed to experience the pounding heartbeat and surge of adrenaline I would feel as I walked out the front door with that heavy bag of bills. And so, on a chilly day in September, I walked into that Royal Bank on Main St. and stood in line. I wore a hat, sunglasses, and a fake mustache to disguise myself from the recording cameras. One by one, I watched the person in front of me break from line and approach the teller until, all too quickly, it was my turn to step forward. I kept my hand steady while handing her the note that warned her I was armed and would shoot if she made any signals or reached for the panic alarm. It instructed her to give me the robbery bag and everyone would be safe. The moments from when I handed her the letter to when she gave me the bag under her desk were the most intense. The fifteen or so seconds it took seemed like an eternity. I thought my heart was going to beat right through my chest and land in her lap. It was not so much the *teller* that had me so on edge, she was scared and I knew they were trained to co-operate. It was the customers behind me. I was sure one of them had seen me hand over the note and would attack me from behind, but I couldn’t look behind me without arousing suspicion from security and I couldn’t risk taking my eyes off the teller’s hands. Finally, she reached over the kiosk and handed me the unmarked bag, holding in her tears to the best of her ability. I turned and, bursting with elation and disbelief, quickly walked through the front door, passing the senior security guard who may or may not have been taking a quick midday nap. I couldn’t say for sure, all I could see was the street outside–complete tunnel vision. Once outside, I walked around to the back of the building where the taxi I had arrived in waited for me on a back street, completely unaware of what had just happened. He dropped me off at a McDonald's a few blocks down where I disposed of my disguise in the bathroom garbage before hopping on a bus back to my neighborhood to count the score. Now that I had experienced the rush of criminality I was ready to translate my recent enlightenment to paper and bring Jimmy from the Bronx to life. I understood him now. As I wrote the novel I was constantly expecting the police to come to my work, or come to my home, and take me off to jail…but they never came. Three months after the book’s completion, with a little luck and a great agent, “Held Up” became a New York Times Best Seller and I had hit the big time. I did not need to spend the cash from the robbery; I was selling millions of books. Why? Because readers recognize authenticity. They really do. I had trouble during the book tour though. I was forced to grab a pushy fan by the throat to remind him of who he was disrespecting. I don’t deal well when dealing with the *readers*. The ones who read my story, living my experiences vicariously, never having enough guts to go out and do what I did. They used my experiences to escape their dreary, safe, and pointless lives. How I loathe them. But it was this incident, during a book signing in Los Angeles, that my publishers came together and decided I needed to see a therapist, throwing Dr. Raymond, uninvited, into my life, to accuse me of this paranoia. Things are better now that the book tour has ended and I am back in the comfort of my writing studio. Just the other day I received a call from my agent letting me know the publishers green-lit my next novel proposal. With the recent popularity of the murder mystery genre, I have decided to create a story from the point of view of the killer. Genius, is it not? I am happy to say, I have already begun my research.


You’ve read this story before. By: Timothy McGuire

He woke up at the same time every day, though he didn’t have to. He walked into the bathroom, had a good morning pee, started to head out into the kitchen when he stopped and looked at himself in the mirror. Was that a permanent line in my forehead now, he thought. He was 47 then.          He went back into his bedroom and lied down, thought about his position in life and the sweat started beading on his brow almost immediately. He grabbed his cell phone and performed the now daily ritual of checking his bank account. The numbers just kept getting lower. He pulled his eyes away from the screen and thought that even his phone would soon become a luxury he could not afford.          He walked into the kitchen, to look what he could eat for breakfast. Not much, a tiny bit of milk bordering on expiring and some not yet stale store brand cereal. He sat down to eat, once done he looked up and said to no one ‘I don’t know what I’m going to do’ and the tears instantly came. This also became a daily ritual.          By the time the crying stopped, the sun was usually fully up by then, a year ago at this time he would be getting ready for work. A place that he no longer wanted to be at, with people who no longer wanted him there. He would always promise himself afterwards that if things didn’t change by the age of 50… he would never quite finish the thought, though dealing with one’s own brain, there’s never an unfinished thought. One day they called him into the office and fired him, for things that have been done the same way for years. Ironically, he had to wait to get fired for the ‘witness’, the number 2 in charge, he was usually late 9 times out of 10, casually apologizing with an $10 coffee in his pudgy little hands. Once the deed was done, he felt relieved, and panic all at once.          Now, driving to the local coffee shop, another daily ritual, waiting in the long line to pay for a drink he really shouldn’t be buying, but it’s worth it for the 20 to 30 seconds of flirting with the girl at the window, Ana Beth. She’s memorized his order by now and flashes her smile. He feels special for those few seconds, it quickly fades as he hears the her state the name of the next customer behind him at the drive thru.          As he drives home, he’s about to pass the library, that he’s passed hundreds of times before, but today for whatever reason he stops. The place is quiet as libraries usually are and he just started looking up and down the rows and rows of books, not knowing what he was looking for when he eyes just stopped on one title: You’ve Read This Book Before By: Fran Siss          He borrowed it and headed home.          He zombied out in front of a screen watching videos of people watching videos of people hurting themselves and reacting to it. It was a good waste of time while he drank his coffee. He was about to pick up the book when the urge to nap came upon him and he quickly gave in.          When he awoke, he noticed the sun was going down and figured it was almost dinner time, but he wasn’t too hungry just yet, instead he turned on his side and almost dozed off, when the cell phone on the night stand chirped saying it needed to be charged. Instead of going back to sleep he grabbed the library book and started to read.          It wasn’t exactly a mind blowing story, boy meets girl they fall in love and more than likely live happily ever after, he hadn’t gotten that far yet. It was the title that struck him, it was just strange, and nothing in the book seemed strange at all. It felt familiar, right from the first line, ‘He woke up at the same time every day, though he didn’t have to,’ felt comfortable.          After a little while of reading, he finally did feel hungry. Knowing there was no food in the house he’d have to go out. Found a bookmark and was about to save his place when he noticed the page was torn. It bothered him for whatever reason. He went about finding a scrap of paper to tape to the front to inform the library of the damaged pages, he noted the page number.          He went out to the nearest taco shop, getting one hard, one soft and headed back home. Ate in front of a screen watching videos of people reviewing other peoples reviews of movies. He glanced down at the book and noticed the author’s name Fran Siss, it didn’t sound real to him. It was his own middle name. He finished his meal and returned to reading.          The character in the book, who had a similar name to his own, met the love interest, a fairy tale sounding name Anagelina Elizabethe. It was predictable and boring and when he decided to turn in, grabbing his bookmark, again the page was torn, the number missing. He penciled the new number down as well. He fell asleep.          The next day, being exactly the same as the day before, he found himself in line for his daily dose of caffeine facing Ana Beth, giving her his order for the millionth time. The computer is taking longer than usual today, but she keeps smiling making small talk he doesn’t really seem to hear. His eyes wander from hers to her lips to her neck to her chest, and stay there just long enough for her to notice and give a good clearing of the throat. ‘Your change.’          Out of character he mentions that her name is similar to the name of a character in the book he’s reading. He says the name with a slight made up accent which she smiles at and says, that’s cute. And wishes him a good day. Back to the comfort of home.          He sits in bed and reads more of the book, each time he stops for whatever reason, the page he stops on is torn, there are 5 torn pages before he hits page 100. He was actually thinking about giving it up. Despite its interesting title, the beautiful love interest, and the calming effect the story had it was boring, even when the book presented a twist, the main character, the guy with a similar name, gets killed in a random robbery. That was page 100 actually, and he closed the book and thought about that is something that would probably happen to himself. He decided to return the book.          It was the middle of the night and he couldn’t sleep, he looked down at the book with the note on the front informing the librarians of the 5 torn pages and decided to return it. He drove to the night drop off box and was about to throw it in when he noticed the note was gone, this angered him a little bit, but also thought to himself, ‘figures.’ He threw the book back into the passenger seat and drove away.          Headed back towards home, he passes one of those 24 hour gas stations advertising gross oversized frozen drinks, decides to stop in to get one. He checks out the candy aisle maybe get a candy bar as well. He heard giggling voices and noticed at once, the beauty from the coffee shop Ana Beth looking at which six pack of beer to drink, she notices him and gives a half hearted smile and seems to be relived when someone comes up next to her, she whispers something to him, they both look at him, and he hears only a few short words ‘…staring at my chest.’ He turned away instantly thinking to himself that she had it all wrong, but he knew it didn’t matter.          He strolled up to the counter to get his drink, forgetting about the candy bar. The cute cashier, Beth, gave him a genuine smile and a friendly hello. He wasn’t feeling to friendly at the moment and went to pull out the money to pay, and the note from the book came out stuck to the cash, it fell to the counter. As she reached for the money he noticed on her wrist a little tattoo of a stack of books, smiled and thought it was cute. His attitude brightened a bit and once again out of character said out loud ‘cool tattoo, on my way to return one now.’          Beth smiled and handed him the change, and picking up the piece of paper she asked ‘oh, did you still want to play your lotto numbers?’ He turned and started to say they were not lotto numbers, but changed his mind, smiled and then nodded.          He became a millionaire that Friday, asked Beth out on a date Saturday night. Two years to the day, they welcomed baby Frances. He never did return that book to the library, the late fees must be outrageous!


You look out the window and, not for the first time, thought about how wrong the weather forecast had been. You have to rub your eyes and pinch yourself to make sure that you’re not dreaming and that this is in fact real. To be honest, you didn’t even realize the weather forecast could be this wrong. Sure, there was the occasional sunny day when the forecast predicted rain, but nothing could have prepared you for the purple clouds gathered overhead and the sizzling rain splashing on the sidewalk.

It had been three days since you had seen normal weather, if snow in August could even be considered normal. You typically wouldn’t consider that normal, but compared to the weather this week, you’d give anything to see a gray cloudy sky instead of the mauve gathered overhead.

Donning your raincoat (like that would help anyway), you step outside. By this time, the sizzling rain has thankfully ceased, leaving the sidewalks peppered with small holes, but strangely damp. You shake your head, letting out a sigh before freezing in your tracks. Even the weather forecast could not have predicted the large mako shark that lands not even a meter in front of you. You jump back, startled as the shark stares back at you, apparently as confused as you were, before it flopped over, rolling down the hill, tail over fins. You hear the loud honking and squealing of tires on the road as you shook your head, wondering what other sea wildlife has fallen from the sky.

As you head into work, you walk by an angry-looking porpoise and a sea lion who scampered toward you, whiskers twitching. You eye them cautiously as you skirt around them.

“Don’t look at me,” you mutter. “I don’t know anything either.”

The porpoise snorts. It would have rolled its eyes and cursed, you swear, if it could. The sea lion sniffs you again before waddling off, flippers smacking on the sidewalk that should be soaked with water. Then again, you admit. It’s decidedly not the strangest thing you’ve seen all week. With the strange weather this week, you admit that you should have seen it coming. Yesterday, it was the nor'easter of tiny elephant figurines that swept through town. You barely got a wink of sleep that night, with the pitter-patter of what should have been snow on the roof. The day before, you shake your head as you recall the nightmare cleaning up had been, it was a torrent of fluorescent green slime, cold and slippery, that poured from the sky, the clouds a glowing turquoise above it. It had taken hours for you to scrape up the sticky goo off the windows, and even then, you hadn’t even made a dent in the green goo still plastered over your roof. Hopefully, you huff, the sizzling rain from this morning will have washed the remnants of the goo away. The rest of the journey is mildly uneventful. You give silent thanks that a great white shark doesn’t land on your head, chomping you in two, or a giant squid does not careen into you, tentacles wrapping around you. When you near your building, you do notice several tuna fish flopping on the sidewalk, flippers tangled in sticky green goo, probably residue from yesterday’s storm.

“Strange weather we’re having,” Bob remarks as you hold the door for him. You nod, following him in, shutting the door in the face of a curious narwhal.

“What’s going to be next?” You ponder aloud. “A tornado of furniture? A hurricane of toys?” Bob chuckles. “That would be a nightmare,” he comments, staring pointedly at an orca whale rolling down the street. “Very bizarre,” you snort as you watched the orca’s tail hit a car, smashing the windshield in on the belligerent driver. The elevator dings and you and Bob head separate ways. You to your office, Bob to the front desk. If not for the odd purple-tinted lighting, you could almost imagine it is a normal day. Just an ordinary summer, blue skies, mosquito bites, grills in the backyards. Not any of this nonsense, with squids coming from the sky or sweeping figurines off the sidewalks. If you were a child, you would have been amused and in wonder of the strangeness of what was going on. Certainly, you remarked as you watched two children run by on the street below, chased by a fur seal, you would have had much fun.

You have to admit, you’re mostly adjusted to this strange weather. The day goes by without much thought to the weather. You’re too busy with phone call after phone call and meeting after meeting to be preoccupied with the sight of leatherback sea turtles lying on the roads or the walrus sleeping in the fountain, unbothered by the flashing of cameras around it. In fact, it’s almost three by the time someone raps on the door and you look up to see Bob’s smiling face. “Weather’s on soon,” he says. "I'll be there," you answer, following Bob into the common area where you joined your co-workers watching the large screen.

“Welcome to the weather forecast. Tomorrow’s forecast,” the weather reporter sounded flustered. “Temperatures should be around 10 degrees Celsius and cloudy. Well, folks, as you are probably certain, we’re not quite sure what we’re dealing with. All over the country, strange weather phenomena are being reported. With a bean storm in Manchester, yes you heard us right, a bean storm, and it’s literally raining cats and dogs in London. We have Dr. Johnson, a famous meteorologist here to tell us more.” “Thanks, Josh,” the voice switched to a smoother and deeper one. “We’re not quite certain what we’re dealing with, with the aquatic sea life coming from the skies or the elephant figurines.” It sounded as if Dr. Johnson is trying not to laugh. “The strangeness of it all is perplexing, we have to admit, but we think that the weather has been caused by a change in the jet-” You sighed, turning away from the screen, letting the report drop into the background as you stare out the window, watching a few seagulls tussle with a giant squid. With the strange weather patterns, you only knew one thing for certain. It was going to be a long, and very bizarre, week.