You’re curious about Marcus and his tower. I understand the temptation. A man builds a skyscraper in Dubai, does nothing with it except fill it with water, and someone is bound to ask “why?”. I’ll tell you what I know, but please understand; while I knew the man well, I knew the obsession almost not at all. His strange obsession with bodies of water started in early childhood. He would sit at the edge of pools and stare into them. We used to think that he was scared of the water. Perhaps, there was a time when he was scared of what he saw. Perhaps not. I am only certain that he did see something, because I caught a glimpse of it too. One day, while the others were teasing Marcus, goading him to jump into the pool, I got out to ask him, “What do you see?” “Look at the lights,” he said. *Lights?* I wondered. He was talking about the caustics, the fracture sunrays at the bottom of the pool. I stared at the lights with him, watching them dance their cosmic dance, and suddenly I felt a tinge of fear. It was a primal fear. The fear of a small animal, hidden in the brush, hoping that it had not been seen. It was those damned lights, the caustics, and their damned writhing. It was alive somehow, like the patterns of a great snake. Reflexively, I backed away from the edge of the pool. “You see it too?” Marcus asked. “No,” I lied, “I didn’t see anything at all.” He scrunched up his face, in disappointment or disbelief I didn’t know. He shrugged it off, and continued his peculiar contemplation. Marcus kept on like that for the rest of our childhood. He peered deeply into any volume of water, but was especially keen on large bodies of crystal clear water, where caustics could scatter on the floor. I never quite lost touch with Marcus, but in the years between the onset of puberty and the start of our first year of college, I knew him less. Memories of what the caustics revealed to me that day were overshadowed by the overwhelming need to conform with my peers, and the whims of my young heart. Marcus’ path and mine diverged for a time. Every chance encounter with him was a reintroduction. When we truly reconnected in our first year of college it was as practical strangers. Marcus was no longer the odd child at the edge of the pool, he was a charismatic entrepreneur. I should mention that Marcus and I were born into undeniable privilege. Our fathers were leaders of industry. But while I had not taken to my father’s lifestyle of business and capital, Marcus had. He inherited his father’s aptitude for markets, and could have skipped college altogether, but he insisted on receiving a formal education. Something else had changed about him though, something that had unnerved me from our reconnection onward. I think it was his eyes. Marcus had always had marvelous, crystal clear, blue eyes; but now they had a depth to them that could rival the Mariana. Worse still was when his eyes caught the sunlight just right, they reflected flakes of shimmering gold. Like light bouncing back from a fathomless, crystal clear ocean. A memory of fear resurfaced from that fathomless deep, and I’m ashamed to say that from then on I avoided his gaze whenever possible. I was forced to grow accustomed to his unholy eyes in our second year. Fate decided that we would be sharing a dorm. As a self made millionaire, Marcus could have afforded his own apartment off campus, but he wanted to experience “real” college life. I loathed the thought of sharing a room with Marcus, but you will be surprised to hear, as I was to live through, the beginning of our strong bond. I grew to tolerate the man, and then to appreciate him. I am not embarrassed to say that I even came to admire him. He was disciplined, both intelligent and strong, charismatic, and wise. There was never a single second of the day that he wasn’t working, and never a moment that he would drop his work to lend an ear to the troubles of his friends. I like to think that he had a certain respect for me as well. Inspired as I was by his character, I could never forget the maddening caustics; and so I dealt with my fear the only way I knew how, through my art. What I lacked in capital intuition, I like to think I made up for in artistic expression. I channeled the caustics into my works, and on canvases of purest azure I drew maddening patterns of gold. Yes, indeed, I think we shared a mutual respect. In my work, I was able to communicate something that Marcus had never been able to. He became my most generous patron, and most loyal friend. In time we developed a profound and familial bond. Now the tower. I only visited twice, but I wish I had never visited at all. After college, Marcus did not slow in his capital endeavors. He became a part of that elite society which greases the cogs of the global economy. He was completely unlike the Elon Musks, and Bill Gates of the world though, and enjoyed his wealth silently in the background. His one ostentatious expenditure was the Ocean Tower. It was a skyscraper, whose height was matched only by the Burj Khalifa. He filled it with water, and mechanisms for keeping the water crystal clear. It had ten sets of elevators in all for staff, and one executive elevator for himself that led straight to the top. Taking the executive elevator brought you to a hallway lined with azure and gold reliefs that he had commissioned me to design. “My dearest friend,” he spoke, as he led me down the hallway, “I would commission you one final time.” The way he said it. The conviction, the finality. He had the aura of a man ready to jump into an unknown that no other had ever even conceived. I wanted to shout, scream. One final time? My friend, what are you doing, what have you done? “I–” “Do not worry about your payment, my friend, it has already been wired.” He dismissed my hesitation before I could even vocalize it. I knew that I could not deny him his request. He threw open the doors at the end of the hallway to reveal the terror beyond. From ground to heaven, he had built a tower filled with the clearest crystal water. Within there were lights, angled to scatter caustics along the tower's length. It was oppressive. Though the space within was cavernous, I could not help but feel a horrifying claustrophobia creep into my spine. It was just as it was in the pool all those years ago. But the pool had only been a pinprick that belied the presence of some great unknowable monster. This tower was a window large enough for something to look back. I was frozen stiff before them, the writhing, undulating, mass of caustics. Their unnatural, alien, spasms told me I had entered the attention of something beyond my mundane perception. I could not comprehend it on this side of sanity. Marcus. YOU FOOL. “Paint me,” he said, “you will find suitable materials beside the door.” He stepped beyond the threshold, into the cavernous room. There was a walkway inside, suspended over the tower’s crystal depths. He sat down, and bid me paint. So I did. I steadied my trembling hand and began to work. Marcus sat at the end of his suspended walkway, staring deep into the crystal depths, and occasionally, to the scattered caustics on the walls above. It was then I noticed something, something that my younger self had missed, but that my trained artistic eye could now see. I had missed something, all those years ago by the pool, I had completely misunderstood him. Marcus had not simply been perceiving something within the caustics, he had been communing with something. I finished my work, adding the last little touches. Each fine detail, each stroke of the brush, a madness of its own. “What will you call it?” he asked. That painting, which you well know. The reason you entreated me to share with you my experience with Marcus and his tower was called… “Communion.” He nodded in approval, and asked me to return the following day, in case I needed to make refinements. When I returned the next day, materials at the ready, I did add one more detail. You see, after that day, Marcus was never seen again. There was nothing left of him, except where he had been sitting; on the end of his walkway, at the edge of sanity, was a smattering of blood, scattered on the floor as if it was a caustic reflected.


What would it be like to live someone else’s last day on earth? With no body of my own, I can only borrow one when the human is closest to the gates between life and death, and that occurs only on their last day. I’ve died hundreds of times, and yet, the only one I remember is my own. Death doesn’t appreciate it when I take over someone else’s consciousness. He insists I should give them that precious time to spend with their loved ones. I disagree. Most of them know that they’re already dying, and most of them have given up. All I do is give them a moment of peace before they find their way through the Afterlife. Why do I do this? Well, it’s simple really. I have what most other trapped spirits have: unfinished business. I can’t pass over until I’ve completely fulfilled my purpose as determined by Fate. This is my chance to finish. “You have to return the body by midnight,” Death stood next to me, the usual judgmental frown pasted on his grey lips. “I know, you don’t have to remind me every time,” I readjusted my host’s hat, not satisfied with how her bangs fell on my face, but it was a minor detail I was willing to overlook for the time being. “You forgot one time...more like twelve times, but who’s counting.” I turned to the well-dressed man, his pale skin offset by strikingly amber eyes. He always found a way to highlight all my past flaws and follies. He held them over my head as if I were a criminal, which wasn’t too far from the truth, but still. It hurt. “I won’t forget this time. And it was eleven.” “No, I'm fairly sure it was twelve. I had to lead the poor spirit back to its home and move the body accordingly.” Death was not amused. I slipped on a pair of green sneakers and tossed the hat back onto the bed. “I didn’t forget to return the body, I remembered. I just really wanted to stop for some chicken nuggets and the wait time kind of screwed me over.” Death’s sigh made me chuckle. I got on his nerves, and that was a major achievement for me. Not every ghost can say that they cause him as much trouble as I do. If they had trophies for this, I’d be the three time champion. Back to back to back. Undefeated. “Technicalities,” Death ran a hand through his thick, ebony hair. “Just be back here, I don’t want to have to run around looking for a body that you can’t even help me find.” “It’s not my fault I lose all memories of my host’s death. If anything, it’s your fault.” He sat on the bed and stared at the ceiling. He mouthed something in Latin that I didn’t quite catch, but I assume it was frustration. “Do what you need to do Cyra, I’m getting tired of your inability to cross over.” His words stung me. After all these years of pestering and following him, he still didn’t get it. I couldn’t cross over because I couldn’t complete what Fate required of me. If I did, I’d disappear forever. What would the point be? Death didn’t know what I had to do; that was between me and Fate, but sometimes she was cruel. I had to find love. This was kind of difficult when I had a different face every day, and never spent an extended period of time in one spot. Honestly, it was kind of impossible, or so I thought. The one thing that remained consistent from body to body, day to day, was Death. I remember when we first met, when he took my hand and pulled me into a dimly lit room. I had so many questions, but he was patient. He seemed tired, uninterested, as if he were engaged in some monotonous aspect of life. Which is what I imagine death is, at least to him. Collecting souls was menial labor, that’s why he had Reapers guide typical souls to their permanent resting places. Death only ever personally dealt with souls like mine, the Incompletes. He set up a meeting for me with Fate, and told me to listen to her instructions. Then, I’d be able to rest. So I did, but I never expected her to curse me the way she did. “You have to fall in love,” she told me. “But...they also have to love you.” “How am I supposed to find a lover when I’m dead?” I asked, almost outraged by her decree. She only shrugged. “That’s not my place to say. It’s what you have to do if you want to complete your life and pass over. I’m sorry.” A moment of silence passed before she spoke again. “Not all souls decide to pass over. If you really wanted, you could remain on earth as an incomplete spirit. It can be quite fun, from what I hear.” “No,” I interjected. “I want to go. There’s nothing for me here.” “Then good luck. Feel free to take a mint on your way out.” I spent six years trying to leave this place, and I was unsuccessful every day. Honestly, I didn’t see the point in trying, until Death personally stepped in to help me. He gave me advice about possession, stayed by my side when I needed him, and would keep me from having too much fun. For the longest time, he was a glorified babysitter. Then our dynamic shifted. It was recent, about a month ago, and I had just forgotten where I left a body again. This time was especially disorienting though, and I was lost. For a while, I forgot everything: who I was, what I was doing, I didn’t even realize I was dead. Then I saw Death approach me and something clicked. I knew his sullen face, permanent exhaustion evident in his stern gaze, five o’clock shadow that tickled my forehead when he drew me close. “You’re not supposed to still be in there when your host dies,” he whispered to me. “You leave. I don’t care if you return the body, but you have to leave it before midnight.” I don’t remember much after that. I think he left me on some grave in Pennsylvania, and when I woke up I felt better. My only memory of that night was the simple words he whispered to me. I never asked him about it because it felt like a dream. But ghosts don’t dream. It was real. And that was the moment I knew I was in love with Death. Maybe that’s why I kept up with possession. He was always there to make sure I left my host, so I always got to see him. Most times, he seemed tired of my antics, but he kept coming back. I sometimes wondered if there was more to it, but he always seemed a little too eager to get rid of me. But he is the one. The cruel irony of it all is that if I said anything to him, I'd lose him forever. I asked him one time, what happened when I passed over, if I’d ever see him again. He got quiet, and avoided the question. I think we both knew the answer. And so we had a mutual understanding, an unspoken rule of sorts. We wouldn’t talk about it, wouldn’t act on it, but still spent as much time as we could together. I loved him, but I knew I had to leave. I feel like Fate knew I was ready to pass on a while ago, but even she has a sliver of humanity. She was giving me enough time to say goodbye, in whatever way I felt appropriate. And so there I was, on my last day, sitting in the cemetery. I had the note I had written laid down on a tuft of lush grass. There were no flowers, no other surrounding pops of color. The sole attention was drawn to the letter, encased by a pale blue envelope. The few words I had slid onto the paper were carved into my mind. “Dear Death, Disappearing is terrifying. You never told me how scary it all is. I almost wish I could stay in the In-Between, never crossing over, but I think we both know that’s not an option at this point. Before I go, I just want to say thank you for helping me. You made my last days as perfect as they could be, and I owe you one. So, if you’re ever in the Afterlife, whatever that may be, come find me. I want to say that I’ll remember you, but I don’t know that much. If I don’t, help me to. Be patient, and trust me. I’m not as dumb as I look. I love you. Cyra.” I glanced at the watch on my wrist and swallowed. Eleven fifty-four. Six minutes. I wanted to run back to him, hold him as I said goodbye, but I knew that would only make it hurt more. He would find my host’s body, see the letter, read it, and come find me one day. At least I hoped he would. I knew he would. He had to. I laid down next to the letter, gazing one last time at the deep ocean above me. I’d miss this place. I miss him already.


With Snow:Comes Warmth The year was 1973 if memory serves me right.

My mother and I had arrived in Texas on my 6th birthday, February 3rd.

I had been living in California, before that, Louisiana.

We moved every year of my childhood at least once, sometimes two or three times in a 12 month period.

I must have known that I had family other than my mother; but to muse over such trivial thoughts, would have seemed rather petty to me at that age. I am not sure that I ever thought about it before I was six.

My mother was all I knew. Whether I associated the term family with her, is still unclear to my memories.

She was just the adult who had given birth to me and took me along when she decided it was time to go.

There were plenty of opportunities, throughout the course of being, “my mother’s daughter”, that I would discover what a family is not! But at six, I did not yet possess the wisdom to understand the relativity of such opposite ends of a spectrum.

The thought process of a six year old does not allow her mind to comprehend the depth of things that deep.

What she has never felt, can not be imagined, for instance: if she does not know the feelings that contentment bring, she will not associate any feeling with inner peace.

An example to perhaps clarify to some might be; how can one know how amazing chocolate tastes, if they have never tasted chocolate.

However on a more indepth,almost emotional level, the rich smooth taste of cocoa perfectly blended with milk, cream and sugar, the taste of something so wonderful there is a feeling of urgency as you are unwrapping a candy bar or spooning some into a cup of hot milk. In summary, a child may say, “oh yes, I love my room,or I love my teddy bear and it's purely superficial, because the object of her affection, is just that, an object, incapable of causing any emotion beyond what's in the child's realm of feelings already in place because of say...a puppy she once had.

To be able to convey to you, the feelings a cold, snowy day and night brought to me when I was just six, it was imperative that I bring you to this point of magical bliss, by first trying to describe in some way, the first time that we feel something on a very profound emotional level. Although my childhood was dark at times, it was necessary to touch on that darkness to explain in full, how one feels during a very first feeling.

By this stage, the adult stage we have long forgotten or perhaps even took for granted some basic, common emotions. Most have felt such a multitude of feelings and emotions by now, its very hard to tap into the true feeling that the simplicities in life first bring us.

I am quite sure it has something to do with the feelings instilled upon us by those closest to us such as our parents or maybe grandparents.

But that is only true if you have had a semi-normal childhood.

The feelings have been there since infancy for most….but not for all.

I loved the feel of the cold ice in my hands.

The stinging of the blustering wind, combined with tiny ice pellets on my cheeks.

These were feelings to me, and i was almost giddy with laughter.

I had been living with my grandparents for a few weeks now, we had arrived on my 6th birthday by Greyhound Bus Lines. If you want to bang your head in sheer torturous, infinite boredom, take a bus from California to Texas. It is best described as total hell! I would guess even a six year old would use that exact analogy. Truly, the first tangible anamnesis, was the beautiful birthday cake that awaited me, sitting there on Grandma’s table.

I recall seeing it and timidly glancing out of the corner of my eye at it, crossing my fingers and toes that the beautiful white cake with purple frosting and big purple flowers would really be for me.

As I was unobtrusively, eyeing the divine cake on the table... THERE IS WAS; HAPPY BIRTHDAY BARBARA!  I remember there was no way to contain the delightful squeal that escaped my mouth.

I had not had my own birthday cake and I lavished this wonderful joy. A few days later the coldest storm I’d felt his Texas.

My Grandparents were always laughing, making jokes and seemed genuinely happy all the time.

I was perplexed by this a great deal.

My Grandfather seemed to sense something in me that for some reason he didn’t think “added up”, he would later tell me.

I only remember being a bit leery of him at first, noticing he was staring a lot in my direction.

He stood up one early afternoon and said, “Barbara, lets go play outside.”

I looked rather puzzled at him, as it felt like fifty thousand degrees below zero to me.

My Grandma bustled from the kitchen into another room and came back out with hats and sweatshirts and lots of long socks.

Well she began wrapping me up in so many shirts and hats i was beginning to feel a bit on the warm side. The socks I soon discovered were my “gloves’.

The fun had already begun for me before we walked out the door.

Watching my grandparents who had never met me until February 3rd,1973, but were fussing and laughing over my grandmother's choice of warm clothing.

When my grandpa and I got out the door, I had never known pure joy, as I felt it for the first time throwing snowballs at him, and dodging his.

I actually could not control my laughing hysterically.

I had not known something could be so much fun.

We kept having to pause the snowball, actually more like “ice ball” fight, as it still was more like sleet falling and blowing in the wind than snow.

My grandma would call us in and demand we warm up before “she gets her death of pneumonia” she would repeatedly say.

I must admit this pneumonia death thing had me a bit apprehensive to continue the fun.

She kept talking about ice cream to my grandpa, asking if it was still ice and he would say yes its ice but assured her he would let her know because he couldn't wait for a bowl.

I finally asked, “who is bringing ice cream on such a cold day, Grandma?”

She smiled real big and said, “ why, no one is bringing us ice cream honey, Grandma is going to make some if this ice will just turn to snow.” Now I was very bewildered by this revelation that perhaps ice cream comes from very snowy places and scratched my head in confusion.

My grandpa then told me that all the ice cream factories in the world could not compare to grandma's snow ice cream.

That hers was the best in the universe. “Oh I must try some of the best ice cream in the whole wide universe” I told myself.

The anticipation of this wonderful creation that only my grandma could make was almost more than I could take.

The rest of that day I spent trying to imagine what amazing things she would It have to do to make this ice cream.

Ice cream was already so yummy, I couldn't imagine it being the best in the universe.

I would go to the door every 15 minutes and scoop up what I silently prayed would be snow and not ice.

I silently vowed to God each time that I would be such a good girl forever and ever if he could just make it snow.

It never came and soon it was bedtime, my grandmother tucked me in tickling me making me giggle.

I was really starting to enjoy bedtime, this woman was like a fairytale to me.

Though I was sad that I would not get to taste grandma's famous ice cream, that was ok because she was the best at being grandma, I didn't need the ice cream.

I blissfully went to sleep.

“Barbara, Barbara, wake up.”

I could hear my grandpa's voice, then felt him gently shake my arm.

I bolted right up, thinking something is surely wrong, but instead of seeing anything out of the ordinary here at this house, it was just as it was before I went to sleep.

I rubbed my eyes and noticed darkness out of the window.

My grandpa put a warm robe around me and guided me to the door.

As we were approaching the door the most wonderful, elated feeling I had never known swept over me like the blustery wind had swept over me that day.

I knew what was happening, he opened the door and the sight before me was magical, snow, everywhere I looked was a beautiful white fluffy blanket of snow.

Falling out of the sky was more magical snow.

I grinned so big I started to laugh and laugh.

“Where is Grandma?” I asked, speaking through a huge grin.

He gently took me by the hand, and said that Grandma was making the very best ice cream in the universe right now, and it's just about done I bet.”

We walked in the kitchen, the clock on the wall said 3:22, it was the first thing I looked for, thinking, is this a dream?

Am I going to wake up and all this magic will be gone?

Grandma turned and dressed in her nightgown with her hair up,she grinned and held a tray with 3 big bowls on it.

“Well, are you ready to taste your grandma's famous ice cream?”

My eyes grew huge as I realized I was going to sit down with MY GRANDPARENTS, MY FAMILY, and eat her famous homemade snow ice cream in the middle of the night while it was still dark.

The realization came over me and it was as if I grew up a few years and in contrast felt like a true little six year old child all at the same time.

I had never known either of those feelings and I marveled at the feeling. Sitting down with both of them that cold wintery night, listening to the wind howling outside, laughing, acting silly was the best night of my entire life.

The warmth that those two people surrounded me with both comforted me and taught me what the feeling of home, family, love, playfulness, joy and the unconditional warmth one feels within when they are loved, and loved naturally, for no other reason, they just loved me and that was that.

I learned lessons that one span of 24 hours that most could never understand.

At the time I’m sure both of my grandparents had no idea of what truly transpired that night.

As I am sure they are still with me, looking down, I can imagine them saying,” Barbara was the best granddaughter”.

So I smile, look up and whisper,” No it was you two, Grandma and Grandpa, you were the best grandparents in the universe.

The gift of that ice cream that night taught me more than all the other years ever has and I love you.


THE GINIE AND THE LAMP Utsav lived with his mother and newly wedded wife , Zoe , in Mumbai . His father had passed away a few years back . Utsav completed his MD and was working in a reputed hospital as a cardiologist . Zoe and Utsav were school time classmates . Friendship blossomed into love and soon they decided to get married . He was leading a contented life with his family . His elder brother was living separately with his friend.     One day , while having dinner, Utsav told his mother and Zoe that he wished to go to USA for further studies , but financial crunch was holding him back .

"Why don't you go to Balu ? , " suggested his mother . " He once told me that that his friend is a magician . He has a magic lamp which has the power to fulfill all the wishes of the person who possesses it . You can ask him to lend you the lamp . "    " Mom , it will be very embarrassing for me to do that . "

      One day, Utsav's mother went to Balu's house on her way back home from her boutique . She told him that Utsav wished to go to USA for further studies , but he didn't have enough money to pursue his dreams. "Balu please lend Utsav your magic lamp ." ," Are you joking , mom ? , asked Balu , surprised. " The lamp isn't mine . It's Anum's . He will never agree to part with it ." " Atleast try . Maybe he'll agree ," she pleaded . "I'll try but can't promise." " It's my birthday tomorrow . I'm throwing a party at home for my very close friends . Please come  over to my place at 7 pm sharp" , messaged Balu to Utsav .

    Next day when Utsav reached Balu's house ,he was shocked to see a palatial house. Balu welcomed him and took him inside. The party went on till the wee hours of the morning.      After all the guests had left , Utsav reminded Balu of the lamp . Balu introduced him to a stocky middle aged man . " He is Anum , my friend, from whom I have learnt magic . You can talk to him about it. "

     After the party was over and all the guests had left , Balu and Anum took Utsav to a dark room . Anum asked him to sit down in the rocking chair . Anum took out

a lamp from the cupboard . "Abracadabra" , chanted Anum , rubbing a golden lamp " .

   A huge figure appeared from nowhere . " What can I do for you my master ", he blared .

   " I am the ginie of this lamp . Tell me your wish . I will fulfill it .

" Give Utsav whatever he wants " , ordered Anum to the ginie .

" Here Utsav take this lamp and ask what you want ." Utsav felt dizzy . With shivering hands he rubbed the lamp .

  "What can I do for you ?"

" I want money , he stuttered . His throat was dry and hands were clumpy and sweaty .

The Ginie handed him a brown package and vanished. Utsav opened the package with shaking hands . There was a bundle of crisp currency notes in it . Utsav was in daze . He just couldn't fathom what was happening .     This now became a regular feature . Everytime Utsav went to Balu's house the Ginie appeared before him and gave him money . Utsav became greedy for more . He wanted the lamp . He felt that it could solve all his problems .    Balu refused to sell his lamp , but seeing that Utsav was adamant , he agreed to sell the lamp for ten lakhs . Excitedly Utsav was about to rub the lamp to try its magic. Balu stopped him. " No no , don't do that . It will take about two to three months to get activated . If you touch the lamp before that , some mishap may befall you and your family ", warned Anum . " Don't even open the package before time . It will turn to useless paper if you do that. "

     Utsav signed the agreement papers and took the lamp home . He showed the lamp to his mother and Zoe . " Let's try it ", said his mother excitedly.. Utsav told her about  Anum's warning. Zoe felt that something was amiss. She looked at the lamp suspiciously.      About a couple of months passed . Utsav's application  came through . He had got admission in a reputed university in USA. He had to pay the fees  within a fortnight . Due to the lockdown, the banks were closed . He was in a fix . " Why don't you try the lamp ?" , suggested his mother again .  After hesitating for sometime, Utsav took out the lamp  from his briefcase . He rubbed the lamp . No Ginie appeared . He rubbed it harder and chanted the magic words , 'Abracadabra'. Again nothing happened. Zoe tore open the sealed package only to find fake currency notes .

." Your brother has cheated you " , said Zoe sarcastically .

" I have myself seen the Ginie" , said Utsav emphatically . He himself gave me the package. I think I should have waited for a few more months as advised by Anum uncle . Hope no mishap  befalls us . "

 Zoe picked up the lamp and examined it closely . " It's just an ordinary gold plated lamp . You got befooled by its glitter and fell into their trap . "

  Zoe barged into Balu:s house along with the police . She dragged Balu by the collar and ordered him to give the real lamp and all the money he had taken from her husband . " What lamp are you talking about ?" , asked Balu .

" Don't try to act smart . I am a black belt in judo and karate . I am a CBI officer ."  Zoe threw a few hard punches at him and snatched the lamp from Balu's hand . She rubbed it hard. There was a flash of light.

" My name is Greed . " I am actually a fairy who got trapped in the lamp due to a curse

 " Thank you for freeing my master and me ."  Zoe listened to the story with wide eyes as the ginie continued , " My master

 belonged to the Sultan . After his death , his queen sold off his house and settled abroad. My master was sent to the museum . A thief stole him from there .He accidentally dropped him in a cave while running from the police . Balu and Anum found him  when they had gone there for a picnic . By his knowledge of magic, Anum came to know of our powers . He took us to his house . He began to misuse our powers  . Balu became his partner in crime . They showed computer generated ginies to trap innocent and unsuspecting people like Utsav . "

Anum and Balu were arrested .

 Zoe returned the lamp to the museum .The ginie bid good bye and went back to her parents . Utsav took a loan from the bank to pursue his dreams.


I was sitting in my living room with my voluptuous burgundy cat; Leonardo/Leo. He was purring so much today. Sometimes, I wish that he didn’t lose all his hair when the groomers bathed him, but what can you really do when he has to take pills for his leukemia. I remember the day that he was diagnosed. He was just a little kitten, waiting to be adopted. No one took him because he was a sick kitty. His brothers and sisters were healthy cats, except him. So I decided to take him home with me when I was walking in central park. As I was walking, people would constantly stop me to just give him so much love. I knew he was loving all the attention that he was getting from the public. I was so glad that I took him home. When I finally arrived at my house, I contemplated what I should name him. I wondered if I should put up a poll on Instagram for some name suggestions for my new little guy. Although, I did have some names in my mind already. I thought that Harry or Owen would be cute, but I didn’t think that those names really justified how amazing my cat was. So I tried thinking of some names that were way more prestigious than Harry or Owen. I came up with Jack, Rowland, and Ken. Those names still didn’t seem like they would fit for him. So I went back to my last resort, which was whatever the public thought to name him. Surprisingly, a lot of people answered my poll, I knew he was a crowd pleaser. There it was, after 3 scrolls I saw the perfect name for him; Leonardo. I could even have an even cuter nickname for him; Leo. I was finally gonna have a little partner in crime, for my new apartment that I got in New York City. It was my time to find myself, and explore the new highlights of living in the best city in the world. It's definitely a change from living in a small suburban state back in Pennsylvania.

It’s been a couple of years and Leo is almost as mature as I am. We eat breakfast and watch reality TV on Thursdays together. I think I have become one of those crazy cat ladies. I even went to the store to purchase kitty ice cream and more fun toys for him. I think that by the time Leo is an adult, I will have a whole collection of toys from over all the years. I think Leonardo is my best friend. I still have other human best friends, but what can I say, he is a hard one to replace. Even though he can’t understand me or talk to me, I can just tell what he needs or wants by his actions. One of the cutest things that he does when he needs a treat, is when he lays on his back and puts his tiny arm on his stomach. You should really see it some time, it is so cute! He is just the most adorable cat in the world! There was this one day, I think it was a weekday, maybe it was a Wednesday. We were about to eat dinner, and then Leo left me to go to the bathroom. To me, that was strange because his litter was in the basement like it has always been. So I went to go get Leo from the bathroom. He was being a naughty boy today, because for some reason he refused to eat any food or even play with his new toys that I bought for him last week. For some reason, he was up on the counter right near our gray marbled sink. He was shaking, it seemed like he was frightened by something. Maybe he was startled from the mirror, he probably saw his reflection. In that moment I saw a smudge on the mirror. I thought that Leo must have licked it because there was some toothpaste on it. So I grabbed some wipes to wipe it. As I began to wipe the mirror, something weird happened to me, so I stopped. It was almost like I was not in my bathroom, but a different dimension. Startled, I began to wipe my mirror once again. I kept saying to myself that I was just imagining things, I can’t be in another dimension! I finished cleaning my mirror, and I was ready to go back to my kitchen. I took Leo and we went to finish eating our nicely cooked dinner together.

Once I opened the door, my kitchen had no food on the counter. Our dinner could not be found. It was almost like it vanished. Though, everything else was in place so I just went to go make more food. When I did that, there was no food. I knew I just went to the grocery store on Monday….. It was like I was in a movie, I think I am in an alternate reality. It was like the upside down of my own home. A second version of my home, and my life. I wandered my own house, and saw pictures of strangers that I was with. I think that one of them was my professor from physiology. I definitely wasn’t very fond of him, he was a bit of a creep. He even asked me out once, that situation was awkward. As these thoughts started to settle in, my heart rate started to pulse. It kept getting faster by the minute. Luckily, Leo was with me. He could tell that I was frantic, so he rubbed up on me and gave me some kisses. It made me feel a little better, but all I wanted to do was go back home. So I went back to the bathroom, brushed my teeth and made sure to get some on the mirror. Then I re-cleaned the “new” mirror and put Leonardo back where he was before on the counter. Hesitantly, I opened up the door. I could smell the chicken that I made for me and the sardines that I got for Leo. I took a glance around to make sure that this was actually my home and not another dimension of my life or house. It wasn’t. We sat down and both ate our dinner together while the local news was going on in the background. I was so thankful that I was back home, in my actual home. That day I vowed never to get toothpaste on the mirror in my bathroom ever again, and to always keep the bathroom door closed. I didn’t want to teleport to another dimension ever again. Plus, I think the dimension that I live in now, is pretty darn amazing if you asked Leo and I.


*We simply weren’t meant to be.* *I know, I struggled with this more than you. I couldn’t accept what it meant, not only for our future, but for theirs. They had no voice in the matter. What we did not only killed us - it just as surely doomed them.* *-* *13 October 2016* *You know I’m sorry. Of course you do. You know me. I’m a good man, or, at least, I was. I’m not quite certain of what I am now. It’s hard to think without you here. With you gone, all I hear is* him*. Talking, talking, talking… he likes to talk, that one. Never shuts up. And he knows I hate it. It drives me insane. I manage, though, I truly do. You would be proud, if you were here.* *-* *22 October 2016* *It’s cold now. The windows have all iced over. It’s difficult to think, what with all his noise, and the cold doesn’t make it any easier. I’m slower when its cold. It’s like I’ve become more reptile than human. I feel so drained, so tired. And yet, I don’t sleep. How can I?* *Not after what we did.* *-* *29 October 2016* *They would be two by now. I think they would like the cold, what with all the snow. Maybe we would’ve gone sledding. I confess, it is rather beautiful here. Time works differently in the hills, away from the lights. The cabin seems almost sad, though. It’s missing that woman’s touch, as they say.* *Well, at least,* he *says so.* *-* *1 November 2016* *From sundown to sunup, he whispers his lies in my ear. Buzzing like a wayward mosquito. I ask him to stop – beg him to stop – but he just keeps talking. How am I supposed to make things right, when all I can do is bury my head under a cushion and pray he leaves? I feel like I need to scream. Maybe I will, later.* *-* *3 November 2016* *It rained yesterday. I didn’t get out of bed, not even when the last of the logs had been extinguished. I didn’t want to move. The cold is bad enough. I can’t remember why, but I’ve started to hate the damp. I just lay there and cried, frightened that I might drown in my own tears.* *-* *6 November 2016* *The rain has stopped. All the doors and windows are frozen shut. I had to kick the back door down this morning. I think I’ve hurt my foot. I’ll have a proper look at it later. He’s been silent today. I’m hopeful things will get better now.* *-* *19 December 2016* *I caught sight of a blue jay nest. I’m guessing they didn’t want to leave their home either. There were two of them. At least now I have some company. I’m feeling a bit better as each day passes. I will send for you soon. Perhaps there is a chance we can fix this. I know you didn’t mean to hurt any of us.* *-* *2 January 2017* *Every day is the same up here. I wake before the birds, shovel out the front door, and stand until the sun greets me. I eat very little, and I say even less. I don’t need to speak. It’s nice, the quiet. He hasn’t spoken in weeks now. I think maybe he’s gone for good. I think maybe you can come home soon.* *-* *23 January 2017* *Last night the whispers started up again. I didn’t notice him return. Strange, really, seeing as I would’ve noticed his tracks. Still, I suppose he may have never left. It’s a good thing you aren’t here.* *I’ll have to make him leave.* *-* *24 January 2017* *It’s no longer just talking. I think I understand now. It’s hard to concentrate. I don’t think he’s telling lies anymore. He says I’m the liar. Me? Can you believe that? He certainly does. I want to tell him to leave, but I’m not sure I can. He’s part of me… is that why you did it?* *I haven’t heard the blue jays in a while now. Their nest is empty. I hope they return soon. I feel like I’m slipping back into my old ways. Isolation does that to people.* *-* *26 January 2017* *He speaks to me in my father’s voice. I don’t know why it took so long to recognise it. Of course, I know it isn’t him. Though he keeps whispering, his voice is weaker now. He’s said what he needed to, and now I’m to do as he says.* *The blue jays are gone. Or dead.* *-* *27 January 2017* *I remembered today.* *I wish I could forget.* *You can’t come home.* *-* *30 January 2017* *It’s all my fault. I did this; to us, to them.* *I broke it.* *-* *8 February 2017* *I’m heading out tomorrow. Don’t ask why I didn’t leave today. I’m not entirely certain myself. Maybe its fear? Anyway, I’ll pack light. Not far to go. If I leave early, I’ll make it to the lake with daylight to burn.* *I’ll find you. We’ll be a family, like we should’ve been before. It’ll be different this time.* *We promise.* ‘That’s it?’ ‘That’s the last entry.’ Detective Inspector Kate Douglas pinched the bridge of her nose, leaning back into the uncomfortable office chair. She looked tired, thought the deputy. Of course, he wouldn’t be stupid enough to say so. ‘Well then. Have we recovered the body?’ Kate already knew the answer. No harm in wishful thinking. ‘That’s why I’m here. We did, ma’am. Four bodies, actually.’ Kate raised an eyebrow and leant forward onto her desk with a defeated slump. The constable was young. She doubted he had seen anything like this before. Not in this neighbourhood, anyway. *Christ.* I *haven’t seen anything like this.* ‘The vultures will make a meal of this one. Okay. Fine. Thank you, Constable…?’ ‘Pritchard, ma’am.’ ‘Pritchard,’ she agreed. As Deputy Pritchard took his leave, Kate released a frustrated sigh. They had been searching for Ben Wyatt’s family since early autumn. A neighbour had reported it first. She had been anxious, Kate was told. Said something wasn’t right, that Mrs Wyatt hadn’t returned her calls. *She was already dead.* Kate didn’t know for certain, but she was confident that the coroner’s report would confirm it. Her death was not what bothered the detective. No, in this case it was the other two remains that Kate was refusing to think about. Kyle and Lucy Wyatt had only turned one a week before their disappearance. They would be two by now. Kate remembered their faces. Not that she could ever forget. Twins, they had shared their mother’s golden locks. *Cute kids.* And now they were dead. She swiped at the files that had been spread out before her, sending photocopies of Ben Wyatt’s journal onto the office floor. A photograph of the Wyatt family had stuck, stubbornly, to the desk. It must have been taken shortly after Ben brought his wife home from the hospital. His face was positively beaming, a grin splitting his features from ear to ear. Lauren, the wife, appeared to have been blissfully ignorant of what was to come. *Geez. The kids were tiny.* Though there were elements to the case that had not yet reached a conclusion, Kate was beginning to form an understanding of the Wyatt family’s tragic story. Ben was a schizophrenic – something Lauren had certainly been aware of. She had known him since they were kids. Family friends, Kate was told. His doctors swore that Ben had not been a risk to himself or others. Supposedly he was high-functioning, ailment considered. A bright young man, Ben had been eager to shake the stigma of his condition, enrolling in a teaching course at the local community college. When his applications were denied on medical grounds, Ben turned to another hobby – birdwatching. All year round, Ben operated tour groups, leading other avian enthusiasts into the hills that surrounded the small South Dakota town. As it turned out, he purchased a cabin in those very same hills the week of his children’s birthday. The police had only discovered this today. He had paid cash, and the vendor was an out-of-towner. *A gift for his kids, perhaps. Or premeditation?* Kate didn’t think so. Whatever Ben had been, he was never a monster. No, what triggered him had emerged up in those hills. ‘Why, Ben?’ Kate asked, staring into the face of the man who drowned his young family. The blame was as much hers as it was his. This had been her case. Seven months had passed, and the Wyatt family had never been more than forty miles from the precinct. The baritone lyrics of Johnny Cash’s ‘Heart of Gold’ interrupted Kate’s silent guilt. Someone was calling her cell. She flipped the phone faceup and swiped to answer. ‘D.I. Douglass.’ ‘Kate. It’s Mike. CSIs are here. I’m keeping them out for now, but you’ll want to get here pronto.’ ‘Thanks, Mike.’ Ending the call, Kate stood from her desk and observed the mess she had made. *Tomorrow’s problem.* She swung one arm into the coat hanging from the back of the chair, tightened the holster on her right hip, and grabbed her hat and keys from the hook near the door. \- She arrived at the cabin within the hour. The cruiser had held up well, despite the recent deluge of rain soaking the asphalt. The lights were on the entire way. When she pulled up out front of the tidy wooden structure, Chief Michael Taylor stepped outside to greet her. A handful of vans were already parked alongside his squad car, their occupants casting dubious looks as Kate kicked open the driver door and shook Mike’s hand. ‘Who else has been in?’ she asked. ‘Just myself and Deputy Pritchard.’ ‘Good kid.’ ‘Hmhm,’ he agreed. They crossed the threshold and absorbed the heaviness of the atmosphere within. The room reeked of smoke and mould. Aside from the smell, everything else was impressively tidy. ‘How long do we think he lived here alone?’ Kate asked, stepping around the dining table. It was a small cabin, with only three rooms and a shared bathroom. The main living area had been decorated with eclectic taste. *Probably not Wyatt’s.* ‘We don’t know yet, but judging by the state we found him in, long enough to starve. His wife must’ve done the shopping in the next town over. I’ve phoned a friend and they’ll get back to me if she turns up on any store CCTV.’ ‘So…?’ Mike had a habit of veering off topic. Talking to him was like playing a game of word association. ‘I’d bet somewhere between three to four months. But I don’t gamble. Lots of packaging waste in the trash outside. He burnt a lot more around the back. His body was light though. Doubt he ate much in those last few weeks.’ ‘Alright. Do you mind giving me the room?’ Mike raised his palms in a lazy gesture of impartiality. ‘Just be quick. These techies are getting antsy waiting.’ When Mike had returned to his car, Kate removed her hat and wiped her hand across her clammy brow. Pulling on a pair of disposable gloves, she looked about her surroundings. *Shit.* She started in the kids’ room. Nothing unusual. Next, she checked the bedroom. It didn’t look as though Ben had slept in it. The bathroom was equally pristine. That was strange. Why would a schizophrenic care for neatness? That was when she noticed the mirror. Floating on the wall, about a half a foot from the basin, was a tarnished mirror. While everything else in the room was ordered and spotless, the mirror was smeared with mud and filth. It was also cracked. Kate wasn’t sure exactly why, but she felt drawn to it. Standing in front of the mirror, where Ben Wyatt had surely stood countless times, she peered into the tarnished surface. And someone that looked like Ben was staring straight back. Kate’s heart felt as if it would implode. She jumped back from the mirror with a silent scream, almost tripping over the towel rack behind her. When she looked back into her reflection, all she saw was a tired middle-aged woman, wide-eyed and pale. No one else was there. *No one had been.* Except… the mirror appeared to be loose. Whatever glue had secured it to the tiled wall had been picked away. Something was behind it. Kate knew. And that made her skin crawl. Carefully, with deliberate hands, Kate pried the mirror from the wall. It came away with ease. Behind, accompanied by the scent of rot, were the mangled remains of two blue jays. Though she couldn’t know, Kate was sure that they had been drowned.


1978 First Impressions I have arrived. Here I am, a small town kid who just got a good job, my first job that wasn’t working for friends of my parents. I am an employee at Woodbury’s Financial.   And it’s in the big smoke, the city. I did not ever think that this would happen. I have to admit that I am a bit intimidated. Everyone seems so sophisticated, so big city. I wonder whether the people I am working with are going to think of me as the very opposite, almost smelling like I come from a small town.

After the First Week For the first few days I didn’t know whether I was going to be accepted or not. I felt so stupid asking about the bus system, and having to write down the route numbers of the buses I would have to take to get here and back home.  I imagined that they could sense my fear of going to the wrong place. Little things become big.  I have the first desk that I have ever had for a place of work. I had to look around to see how people organized theirs. Would they know what I was doing? Could I include a picture of my dog, or would that be a way of announcing that I didn’t have a wife or kids, that only a dog would have me? These were the kind of dumb, insecure thoughts that ran through my head for my first four days on the job.            I began my Friday workday thinking that this had been a very long week, and that I would probably just have to be content to just come in, do my job, and then leave, looking forward a weekend with no social worries.            But then Friday happened. The lunch break changed everything. As I was preparing to eat at my desk, to chow down on the two egg-salad sandwiches that my mother always packed for me, I discovered that I had forgotten to pack them. I had been in a hurry, as I had slept in a bit, doing a little drinking the night before.            I was hungry. Where should I go? Then I saw about 10 of my colleagues, male and female go out the door. They would know a good place. I would follow them to , but discreetly, at enough distance so I did not look like I was tailing them like a puppy.            They stopped and entered a restaurant. I halted right away and pretended to be looking for something in my left pocket. Once they were all inside I marched up to the place. It was a coffee shop with the name “City Lights” shining above the entrance.

As soon as I walked into City Lights, I was made to feel like I was home. The woman who obviously ran the place asked my name, and said, “I’ve never seen you here before.” I felt strangely comfortable telling her that I was a new employee at Woodbury’s Finances and that I came from a small town.            As I looked around the place, I saw that the walls were covered with pictures of movie and rock and roll stars. James Dean and Elvis Presley were particularly prominent. I knew whose idea that was. You would almost think that she knew them personally, or at least there would be autographs.            One of the waitresses, when she heard the name of the company that I worked for, directed me to the combined two tables where my colleagues were sitting. According to the waitress they always sat there, and that her brother put the tables together before they arrived. I was greeted somewhat hesitantly by my colleagues, but still, one of the guys pulled out a chair for me.            The place wasn’t big on menu by how we would come to measure such things in later years. Coffee was black, or how much sugar or milk or cream did you want in it. You could have toast, bagels and ‘we now have croissants’ with a limited number of toppings, and four different kinds of sandwiches.  There was one soup for the day. I reckoned that it was the social atmosphere that kept people coming back. The staff treated the customers like family, even newcomers like me.

 After a few other lunches at City Lights, I would discover that two of my ‘sophisticated colleagues’ as I would refer to them when I talked to my parents, were from small towns too, and had felt lost for the first while when they began working with the company.            This was the beginning of my adaptation to work and life and work in the big town. No more packed lunches – I wasn’t a child still in school. It was City Lights every day for lunch. And I began to make friends with my colleagues, those born and raised in a small town, and some of those who had been city boys and girls all their lives.            The owner of City Lights, Madam Martha as we all called her, had a daughter, Julie, who worked there as a waitress.  She was the one who had directed me to sit with my colleagues on the first Friday. The third time that I went there, we caught each other looking at the left hand, specifically the wedding finger, of the other. There was a short, uncomfortable but still shared laugh.  Then she asked me if I liked any of the movies now playing in the theatres. I mentioned the only one that I knew about. Then there was a silence, with her first staring at me and then looking away. I was unaccustomed to the sophisticated ways and means of city girls, but I finally picked up on the hint. I asked her out clumsily – Are you busy tonight? She said ‘not at all, how about you?   Thinks moved quickly from there. After a couple of months of movies, music, and romance at her apartment, I made the big step of taking her to see my parents. While I knew that my mother could be quite critical in this department, she told me soon after meeting Julie that “You have picked a winner there son. Why don’t you marry her?” 2018 I have been working here for 40 years now, and have worked my up to being the CEO. Julie and I got married and found the ideal residence in a condo not far from City Lights. We had two kids, who have now moved away to create their own city life. Julie now works at City Lights part-time while one of her brothers has taken over as manager. I am a regular there. The menu has changed considerably – three different varieties of lattes, and even more modern and unexplainable, at least to me, avocado toast.  Whoever thought that one up? But the cozy atmosphere of the place has not changed, neither did the now slightly faded, but never dusty pictures on the wall. A much older, but still fairly energetic Martha comes in twice a week to dust the pictures and to talk to the customers. The Newcomers Now there have been three young new hires within the last month, all of whom are the children of immigrants, a sign of the times.  All of them are involved in IT.  They are competent enough in the job, but even after several weeks they have not fit in with the others. I have heard several people calling them ‘unfriendly’ or ‘aloof’, ‘like all of their kind’. The fact that they are in IT and are not part of the gregarious sales crowd has also led to some estrangement from the others. I had found it always easy to believe that IT people are talking down to me. It seems to be a general feeling that many get, certainly those of my age. I had to do something about it, but not be seen to be doing so. I didn’t want the new people to be called ‘boss’s pets’. I didn’t want to ‘take someone aside to have a little talk’. In that path lay potential resentment. And I didn’t want to take the new hires there myself, as that was another road to lack of general acceptance. I came up with a solution. I had my secretary give each one of them a package of gift coupons for City Lights. She was to tell them that she had forgotten to give the coupons to them earlier.  She was then to give them a story as well as the coupons. It was to go something like this, “I think that place was the secret of the boss’s success. When he was first here (my secretary has a year’s seniority on me) he felt isolated from the rest of us because he was a small town boy, and the rest of us were city folks. Once he went to City Lights he was accepted. He even married one of the waitresses.’ All of the new hires are single. My plan worked. The next Friday they went to City Lights. The waitress (my wife) sat them down at a table beside the one where the other employees of our company had gathered. Julie asked them whether they wanted their tables combined. The ‘yes’ that she heard was rather quiet, but she started moving the new hires’ table anyway, with help from both sides. One of the regulars asked his new colleagues whether they knew who the guys in the pictures were. With the expected answer ‘no’, an explanation was forthcoming, complete with a mandatory “Thank you very much”, with a raising of the collar of the jacket of the questioner. This was followed by a James Dean sneer that had to be explained by pointing to the appropriate pictures. The rest, as they say, is history.  And the present and the future.


“Will Ben Chemote please step forward?” They pronounced my name wrong, I think as I step forward. Stay calm Ben, stay calm. I glance at my hand to double check that it’s not shaking. You may feel scared on the inside, Ben, but on the outside you are as cool as a cheesecake. You got this. I step through the door and close it behind me.

“Welcome to the first season of The Bad Boys, Ben! First of all, I want to congratulate you on getting in!” “Thank you!” Nailed it. “Gosh, I haven’t even introduced myself! My bad! I’m Rutherford, your host this season! Hopefully you won’t be seeing me much because if you do that means that either you won or… Wa-Wa-waaaa!”

I force myself to laugh so hard that I’m positive that they will tune down the audio on that cut so that it doesn’t hurt the viewers at home’s ears.

“So now onto… rules. There are three categories of people: citizens, cops, annnnd thieves. Let’s start with citizens. The citizens' job is simple: Have fun, make money, and follow the rules. If we see a citizen joining the thieves…” Rutherford makes a slitting motion across his neck. I gulp, realizing that that has a literal meaning. “Each citizen will most likely be put in a couple or a family. Remember, your real age doesn’t matter in the City so you… how old are you?” “Sixteen.” I reply.

“So you, a sixteen-year-old may be a parent to a 52 year-old. Or a twelve year old could be the parent of you. You live in houses just big enough for your family, so it may get a bit tightly packed in there. I recommend that you try and get out of the house as much as you can. Each citizen will be given a new age. If your new age is younger than eighteen… Welp, you’re going to be going to school and studying stuff at that grade level. If your new age is over eighteen, you may be given a job. If you know nothing about this job, then you will be trained by some of our in game staff until they think that you are doing a decent enough job. And one last thing about the role of citizen: If you don’t have enough money left to pay for food… you will be kicked out of the city. So work hard! “Now onto the good guys - literally. The cops role is to get all of the thieves into the jail. There are no cars in this game, so you’ll have to run to try and handcuff the enemy. You do have access to the ‘helicopter’ though so that can be handy when trying to spot the enemies.”

I wondered why he put the helicopter in air quotes.

“You will live at the police headquarters/jail with your fellow coppers. Every cop will have a ‘gun’.” Rutherford held up a Nerf gun. “If you get shot in, say, the arm all you have to do is lay down, be silent, and wait for someone to pick you up and carry you to the hospital. If you got shot in something more fatal, such as your torso, you will be taken off the show. Same goes for citizen’s and thieves, by the way. And that’s it! The cops role is simple in words, but complicated in practice. Remember that age doesn’t matter in the City, so a cop could be 12 or 62. “And finally, the thieves. The thieves job is to get all of the money in the economy. You may think that that seems hard, but it may be easier than you think. The thieves will have a hideout that may be in plain sight, but it could be harder than you think to break into their hideout. If you are a thief, you may be given a weapon of some sort. Use that to threaten citizens and escape from cops. You may try to break your partners in crime out of jail, but may be tricky. You can do almost anything as a thief, so be creative! And finally, after talking for what may seem like ages it’s back to you, Ben. What do you make of all this?” “It’s a lot to take in,” I admit. “But I wanna be part of this. That’s why I applied of course!”

Rutherford laughs. “Ben Chemote… Are you ready to be part of the very first ever season of THE BAD BOYS?” “I am.” I say with almost as much sincerity as a fake wedding vow.

“Pick your role from the jar in front of you.”

My hand quakes as I reach into the jar. I don’t hide my quaking, because TV loves drama, and this is one of the most dramatic moments of the season… most likely. I’m not sure what I want. Well, maybe… I read the slip of paper. I say, “...” **** “Citizen.” Whew. I think that in my head, but my face hopefully shows disappointment. The people on TV really want to see cops and thieves, so I play it up for them.

“Oh well,” Rutherford says. “Lets see what age you pick out of the hat! Drumroll please…”

I unfold the piece of paper. “14,” I read. Two years below my actual age. Not bad. I wish that I was an adult, but not bad.

“So pretty close to your actual age, huh?” Rutherford recalls from the conversation that happened two minutes ago. “And lastly, choose which house and what family you will be living with.” This pick scares me. I have never had a sibling, so having one in this simulation… it might be frightening. Or amazing. I really don’t know. “House 16.” I say, fear evident in my voice.

“I believe that nobody has joined that house yet, is that correct…?” Rutherford looks at a cameraman. The cameraman nods in affirmation. “Alright, so Ben, it seems like you will be the one in your household who has to wait and see who ends up in your house. Good luck, and don’t get robbed!”

“I’ll do my best.” I reply.

“And cut.” A cameraman says.

“So, Ben, here’s your bags…” Rutherford says. It’s surprising how much his voice changed between his camera personality and his normal self. “It looks like they have been cleared. And, if you want to look at this map here,” I peek over his giant shoulder. “House sixteen is in the southeast housing complex, very close to the docks. So you will go up these stairs, go to the left, sorry, go to the right, follow the sidewalk till it hits a T, turn right at the T, and go up until you see houses on the left. House sixteen is the third down on the right. You got that?” Before I can even reply that I got absolutely none of that he says, “Good luck. Be a good personality and you’ll survive.”

“Thank you,” I say.

“Right this way.” An assistant appears out of nowhere and leads me up a pair of stairs. Right away, I see an underground building labeled “HOSPITAL.” I also note the fact that there seems to be a subway station. Not the sandwich shop, but the train-like thing. “Just up those stairs.” The assistant says.

“Thank-” I try to say, but I’m interrupted by the assistant closing and locking the door behind me. You got this Ben. Cool as a cheesecake. Cool as a cheesecake.  I take a deep breath. Why am I so nervous you ask? Because this means a lot more to me than just winning the reality show. If I lose or die in here, then I die in real life.

***** A few months ago I was in a tough spot. My mom and dad barely paid attention to me. We were losing money like crazy due to my dad’s drinking addiction. So one day, when it was my turn to drive my dad home from the bar, I made a rash decision. This loopy looking man with a goatee came up to me and said. “I (hic), I bet that you couldn’t win THE BAD BOYS.”

Normally, I would ignore people like that. But for some reason, this man intrigued me. “What’s that?” I asked. “It’s a reality TV show.” He said with another hiccup. “It’s basically cops and robbers. But if you win (hic) I’ll double your earnings.”

“HOW MUCH ARE THE EARNINGS?” my father's voice boomed across the bar.

“Ohhhh,” the man slumped against a table. “Between 10,000 and a million dollars. It (hic) depends on how well you do.”

“DEAL!” my father said, stumbling over to me and this guy.

“Alright,” the man said, “But what do I get in return?”

“Uhhh… Uhhh…” My dad said as in his drunken state he tried to think of what little we had that would match this guy's proposal. “Umm… Would my son work?”

“Dad, no!” I didn’t even know what he meant by putting me up for some bet.

“Deal!” The loopy man said as he and my father shook hands. “But let me warn you… it’s rigged! You can never win, so you better say goodbye to your son!”

After that I went home and searched up THE BAD BOYS. It turns out that it really was a thing. My dad wanted that money desperately, so I was forced to apply. I tried to research the best strategy, but the season that was coming up was the first, so I came up with nothing.

I thought about this as I was going up the stairs, leading me to the setup world of THE BAD BOYS. Up there, that’s where I decide if I win money, or if I get my life sold to the loopy man. I step up the last step and take in the breathtaking view in front of me.


1 The fingers that lay the tea tray onto the polished, dark wood of the table imitated humanity immaculately except in one particular: the skin was a stately navy blue.

Millicent Braddock avoided touching them as they handed her a bone-white cup of Earl Grey, sweetened and creamed just to her liking, plumes of steam curling off its dark surface like the ghost of a bergamot fruit.

Somehow, her favorite drink with her closest (living) friend did nothing to comfort her; instead, their presence in the flat seemed vulgar.

Spoiled. “Thank you, Bernard,” she muttered to the butler, distantly and without a single spark of feeling. Across from her, Eloise Hildebrand fluffed the lavender curls of her hair and made faces at a drone the size of an aphid, which hovered, snapping images as quickly as its mistress could command through her neural link.

Eventually, her face stilled somewhat, though her eyes retained that distant look of one immersed in an enhanced reality UI.

She periodically continued to make faces, but they were primarily expressions of naked disgust. The robot butler waited patiently for his mistress’ guest to come back to reality, frozen in a posture of polite, servile offering. Millie peered down at her tea and blew across its surface before taking her first exploratory sip.

Ideal temperature, of course.

Her stomach rolled over, acid coating the back of her throat.

Momentarily, she considered slapping Bernard across the face, justice for the crime of knowing her too well, and continuing to function perfectly when Ignatius was gone, a tragedy of the human flaw of age.

She did not, of course.

Her brown skin, once soft and supple and the color of fine mocha, had grown thin, paper-fragile, and mottled with liver spots.

If she were to strike the android, he would simulate shame while she screamed, relishing the exquisite agony of her hand shattering against his exoskeleton. As she imagined the scene playing out, it made her reconsider.

She had lifted her hand— with no memory of having done so— to that very purpose when her own UI interjected with a share request from Eloise.

Internally, she sighed and accepted. A semi-translucent, grotesque image filled her immediate vision, blurring the table, the china, the tea, and the still-waiting automaton.

What replaced these tangible things was an intangible fantasy: Eloise as she might have been, though never had.

The face that swam into existence practically glistened with affected youth.

Not a wrinkle crossed her perfect, creamy complexion.

Her eyes were huge, luminescent puddles of sadness in which the overhead lights reflected, liquid and alive with the grief she had come to share. “What do you think?

That one?” Millie dismissed her friend's intrusive, garish doppelganger with a mental gesture that, in her mind, equated to waving away an unwanted course at dinner.

“It’s fine,” she said, filling her mouth with tea before she could say anything else, damaging her most enduring friendship.

Her only remaining friendship, really. “And you’re comfortable with me posting it?” She swallowed.

“Fine.” “Fine?” Millie set her cup and saucer down hard enough that they rattled.

“Yes, Eloise!

It’s fine!

I’ve said it’s fine, and it’s fine!

What do you want?” Primly, Eloise crossed her legs, her leggings whispering against one another beneath a short, pleated skirt that matched her hair.

“I want to see that you’re coping.”

She took the saucer from Bernard, who bustled off to the kitchen to see to the cakes and biscuits.

Beyond the vague citrusy smell of the tea, the whole house was fragrant with his baking, the hateful blue creature. “I fail to see how helping you filter a pic constitutes coping with the death of my husband.” Eloise shrugged.

“Friends helping friends,” she said.

“It’s something we’ve always done.

I retouch my dreadfully ancient face, and you offer a cuttingly sarcastic critique.”

Delicately, she sipped.

“Oh!

But this is too cold, far too cold!

Oh, robot!

What is it you call him?” “Bernard,” prompted Millie, for the thousandth time. “Oh yes.

Oh, Bernard.” The android, having hidden his smooth-loined nakedness beneath a black apron that had suffered only a minor dusting of cake flour, appeared at the kitchen door.

“Ma’am?” “This tea is far too cold,” Eloise chirped.

“Prepare me a fresh cup.”

She held the porcelain out to him and immediately washed her attention of his presence.

“Are you?”

She regarded Millie with open suspicion.

“Coping, I mean.” Millicent gestured at her outfit, her makeup, her general self.

“As you see,” she said.

A smile curled the corners of her mouth but stopped short of squinting her eyes.

Counterfeit as it was, she hoped it would pass inspection. Eloise peered at her for a long, concerned moment before nodding her satisfaction and draining the cup Bernard brought to her.

Her throat worked as she drank, and when she was through, she passed the empty cup and saucer back to the butler without exerting the effort required to watch him take it.

“Is it lonely?” “What kind of stupid question is that?

Is it lonely?

Of course, it’s lonely.” Eloise, seeing she had done real damage, began to backpedal.

“Well, I just thought…”

Her voice trailed off as she abandoned the inquiry. “Thought?

Go on.

Thought what?” Millie watched her friend's soft face harden as she steeled herself to push through.

“I thought… well, seeing as you have the robot… what was his name again?” “Bernard.” “Right!

Bernard, right…”

Reluctance overcame her scant courage, and her voice failed her. “He doesn’t speak except when spoken to, mostly,” said Millicent.

“I’ve heard you can adjust their settings so they talk more, but I couldn’t be bothered.” “You don’t think it might liven up the place?”

The freshly made tea cakes arrived, delicately oozing raspberry jam.

Alongside, chocolate digestives from a package arrayed themselves in mute, diligent formation.

Eloise helped herself to one of each. “I suppose,” said Millie.

Taking one of the digestives, she nibbled it absently and imagined trying to converse with a simulated human intelligence. “And you haven’t ever been tempted to… you know…”

Eloise gestured but did nothing else to clarify her meaning. Squarely— almost defiantly— Millie returned her friend’s gaze.

There was something there, simmering behind her eyes, that she didn’t care for.

“I do wish you would speak plainly, Eloise,” she said finally.

“This dance that you do, circling meaning without ever getting down to it?

It’s beyond me.”

She heard herself drawling, the northerner in her coming out in moments of stress. Her friend set down her biscuit, folded her hands, and took a deep breath as though expressing herself were the most arduous labor.

“Simulating him.” The words washed over her consciousness, but her mind seemed oily and resisted of making any meaning out of them.

“Him?” “Ignatius.” When the idea— what her friend was suggesting— finally broke through, the initial glimmer of desire was drowned by a great flood of horror.

“You can’t be serious!”

Images of it flashed across her mind.

“Oh, that’s macabre!” “Not so much as you might think.

Lots of us do, you know.” “I can’t—”

Her mind battened onto the word, slamming closed against it like the jaws of a crocodile she had once watched in an immersive VR documentary.

What channel had it been?

“Us?

Did you say us?” Eloise bobbed her head in the affirmative.

“After Robert passed, I had a hard go of it.”

Her eyes found her feet, and she studied them for a long time.

“It feels so strange to say.

Did you know, I thought I wouldn’t miss him at all?

That I would feel little more than relief.

Then, when he had gone…”

Again, her voice failed her. Millie watched her friend choke on the words, saying nothing. When Eloise finally pressed on, she spoke in spasms and coughing staccato as though she were vomiting up the admission.

“The AI can synthesize a believable version of anyone it has listened to for long enough.

Very believable.

Almost… almost to the life.”

Her face came up, and Millicent saw threads of red crossing the green irises of her eyes.

Her face was hollow, almost haunted.

“I’d heard my next-door neighbor, Mister Findlay, speaking to his maid through an open window two summers ago.

Him, I don’t know well, but her?

Her I knew quite well.”

She nodded, her lavender curls bouncing with the cadence of her grief.

“Quite well.

It was her voice.

There was no mistaking it.

When the robot spoke, it was in her voice, and I realized I could…”

She tried to finish.

Couldn’t.

Tears gathered at the corners of her eyes, which she swiped away with a hand that, so much like Millie’s own, had grown thin and brittle with the passing of years. The look on Millicent’s face must have been quite horrible. After a silence that protracted far past awkwardness and into actual physical discomfort, Eloise gathered her things. She excused herself, leaving Millie alone with the butler and the emptiness of the flat.

In the absence of her friend, it ached her.

It throbbed, making itself known in a persistent, quiet agony, like the unhealed socket of a recently drawn tooth. 2 Alone, Millicent sat at the table she had recently shared with her husband of forty-nine years.

She could recall only a few mealtime conversations with the man; he exercised a reticence that could be measured in hours and, occasionally, days.

It had been one of the most comfortable elements of their marriage.

Neither of them had ever acted on any pressure to speak.

What they had shared of themselves had always been voluntary and in its own time. Yet, now that there was no one with whom to share when the urge came upon her, she felt that absence.

In many ways, her life had not changed when her husband’s heart had seized him in its final, crushing exertions.

Yet, it seemed to have.

She felt it had. The meal, as usual, was seasoned to perfection: chicken tikka on pilaf— a fusion of English-Indian and Turkish food.

Savoring the mouthfuls as she fed herself, she felt the resentment for its creators, their android butler, churning her guts despite the pleasure of her senses. What is it that makes you hate him so? Oddly, the question was spoken into her mind, seemingly independent of her own thoughts and in Ignatius’ voice, a deep, sensual baritone pronounced in slow, deliberate consonants. Her heart hammered in her ears.

Fear?

No.

Something else. Desire. Don’t be ridiculous. … Longing? The idea was naively romantic.

Hopelessly so.

Unfortunately, it also rang true. Longing, then. What was she to do with that?

Eloise didn’t resent Bernard; she merely ignored him.

And why shouldn’t she?

Despite having legs, feet, hands, and digits, Bernard was not a person.

He was an assemblage of tech inside an exoskeleton— every bit beyond her limited understanding— designed to resemble a human only to the degree necessary to facilitate user interface.

In some regards, such as his hairlessness and the changeability and variety of his skin tone, were pointedly inhuman.

And yet, his inhumanity also seemed to highlight Millicent’s distaste. He performs his function to the letter.

Why dislike him so? Again, Ignatius spoke.

Love , it’s because he isn’t… “He isn’t you.”

Her fork hovered near her mouth; she had been holding it there for long enough that a tremor had crept into her grip.

Rice and chicken tikka rained from her fork to the ground like manna. Instantly, Bernard was there.

Broom and dustpan clutched in his blue hands, he cleaned her mess and silently disappeared into the kitchen to dispose of the evidence. An hour later, when she had eaten no more of the fine meal he’d prepared, Bernard checked to see if she had finished and offered her dessert, a flan glazed with pear cider syrup.

Millicent did not respond to his query but stood and went to the bedroom. Dressed but uncovered, she lay on the duvet until the darkness outside was complete.

Sometime after midnight, she called to the automaton with whom she shared the empty flat.

As he always had and always would, he came. It occurred to Millie, in a moment of horrified fascination, that she had been mistaken.

Eloise was not her most constant friend.

It was this machine.

Since his purchase and installation, he had never faltered in his duties, and his strength had never flagged, even though he was getting on in years.

He would come when she called.

Anytime she called.

Even Ignatius had eventually failed her in that regard. “How may I serve you, Ma’am?”

His pleasant nothing-voice was as generic as his shape.

Like a silhouette of a person, two-dimensional and without substance. Am I actually about to do this? Millie tried to puzzle out her hesitation, the reason for holding back.

Then, the answer came to her, fully formed and terrible

She realized she feared the judgment of an appliance: Bernard himself.

That, or the embarrassment of inconveniencing him to meet the needs of her weakness.

He was more human to her, it seemed, than she was willing to admit to herself. Human?

What human?

He is a machine!

He is an it ! A machine of such intelligence that it could identify spilled curry by the sound.

It could deduce the proper temperature for tea from facial expressions, small noises of displeasure, and passive-aggressive comments.

It could— If she only would— “Bernard,” she heard herself say.

“I wonder…if you would…” The words soured, clotting in her mind like clabbered milk.

She found herself no more able to finish than Eloise had been. Devoid of words, and absent her husband, she found herself doing the one thing even more unthinkable than begging an android to speak in Ignatius’ voice.

She wept. Sobs wracked her, and she curled into a ball atop the mattress they had shared across the final years of their intimate— if relatively nonverbal— marriage. An arm encircled her, and Millie had to choke off a scream.

She looked down, saw the hand as it closed over her own. It was brown.

Young.

Gentle. The temporary reprieve from crying broke, and she wept all the harder.

Was it fear?

Horror?

Longing?

She did not know.

Was there any tangible difference between them? From behind her, she heard his voice.

Rich baritone.

Velvety.

Warm.

It was what had first drawn her to him in that dusky retro lounge all those years ago.

The words were lyrics, the voice a melody. How did it know—? She stifled the question, killed it. It didn’t matter how. In this moment, all that mattered was the arms that encircled her.

His arms.

Nevermind that it was merely an illusion, a product of an artificial intelligence so sophisticated that it had predicted from an overheard conversation what she would ask, anticipating and answering her need despite her inability to express it. Millicent Braddock lay back against the android.

The fantasy was broken only a little by the sensation of a hard exoskeleton beneath the soft, synthetic skin and muscle.

She listened to her dead husband sing, feeling his arms around her as his music transported her to a place far into their shared past.

Eventually, she fell asleep that way. It was dreamless, that sleep.

And when she awoke, alone in her bed, she shed the memory of what had happened from her as easily as her nightgown; all that remained was a sense of satisfaction, that of a need fulfilled.

Already, she suspected she would call Bernard again: a command, repeat performance.

He could not love her with anything but simulated love, and then only while wearing Ignatius' skin and speaking in his voice.

A palliative to her crushing loneliness. “Will you take tea, Ma’am?”

She looked up to find her android butler in the doorway.

She had not felt him leave her bed, nor could she explain how he had known to do so.

How could the AI understand? Ignatius’ knew. Rather than upset her, this idea comforted her somehow, and she smiled.

“That would be perfect,” she said.

“Only—” Yet, he was gone already, knowing what she would ask before even she, herself, could form the request.


“I dare you to…” Dare? What does the word mean? Challenge, risk, taunt, all explanations of a solicited action, but how does it apply to us? What if we comply with the inference it makes? What if we do not? We are being asked to perform an act we agree with, or one which we cannot condone. Bullying is a good example. It asks us to endorse an action we may not condone, but allow, because we are not the recipient of the force behind the request. We in fact become complicit by doing or saying nothing, and yet the practice and the acceptance occur daily. When was the last time you were coerced, dared, to do something constructive? Requests are normally reserved for an effort to reinforce a need to justify an action. Turn off the lights, turn on the sprinkler, be quiet, all efforts to enforce a need. What would happen if we were asked to become kinder, more observant, forgiving? Would we react with the same mechanical response we provided when challenged to turn on the light? Is it possible to dare ourselves to do better, be better? I believe it is possible, if we are reminded to do so. It is not a condition we take to readily as it deviates from a normalcy we find comforting. Comfort is difficult to relinquish, because it provides the immediate gratification we so desperately seek. Do we dare ourselves, to be comfortable? Probably not.

We should learn to dare ourselves to do many more things, than we normally consider. We don’t, because we find the idea of stimulating ourselves to do something new, different, frightening, abnormal. It requires for most of us, the impetus of another asking us to change. Change, like a dare, is challenging, because it requires a self-determined process for improvement. The majority of us never think of improvement as being essential to evolving as a person, but it is. We tend to change slowly, so as not to frighten ourselves. Rarely do we throw down the gauntlet and say, “I am going to improve the way I perform my duties, live my life.”  We tend to take a negative route, “I quit!” It is far easier than to contemplate change. Let us consider the risk and allure of a dare. We are being asked to do something we would not normally do, or we are asking another to do something they would not normally do. Why? We do not adapt well to change, therefore accepting a dare or requesting one is asking that we step outside our normalcy and attempt to be someone we are not. So why do we consider it? Challenges invoke a response in us that is reminiscent of a person lifting a car to free someone trapped beneath. It is normally not a consideration, but when confronted by a problem that we have given no logical thought to, we act on emotion, adrenalin, a spirit we are unaware of, and simply react. We have not considered the why or how, but only of the task at hand. We have triggered a response to a dare we did not recognize as such, until afterwards. We did not challenge or dare ourselves to do something we would normally not even consider. Something inside us did that for us.

Would it be possible to dare ourselves to capture the power and strength of that unused resource, to improve our lives? Does our reserve of supernatural power become activated only when fear is present. Our instinct to survive is strong, but is it instinct alone activated by fear, that we have access to. Sports figures, have addressed this issue on many occasions when asked how they rose to the occasion, allowing their team to capture victory. The answer is always the same. It is a mental attitude that transfers its power to the physical realm, allowing extraordinary feats that appear to surpass the normal physical abilities of a person.

So, is it possible to challenge ourselves to be more than we believe we are capable of? The evidence suggests that it is possible to be more than we assume. Our potential is stifled only by our lack of will or imagination.

We of course are limited by the physical aspects of being human. Pain, suffering, fatigue, all are a constant reminder of our fallibility, but also are shown to have been overcome by our minds ability to demand more of our bodies, than normally we would ask. The majority of our experience with dares, grapples with being asked to do something we normally would not do. We have self-imposed restrictions we have placed on ourselves for one reason or another.  They are responsible for us not crossing a line we believe leads to being uncomfortable or possibly illegal. We associate the word dare with an action that is abnormal. We don’t usually taunt someone to do something we know is not acceptable, or uncomfortable, but we do allow others to propagate injustice and say nothing, do nothing. Does that make us complicit, or simply indifferent. I can’t help but wonder if it is possible to reverse the process of intimidation by daring people to be different. Would it be possible for us to become tolerant, inclusive, even forgiving, if we challenged ourselves to be. If we dared ourselves to be more than we believe we are.

If a two-hundred-pound man can pick up a two-thousand-pound vehicle, isn’t it possible that we are capable of challenging our own beliefs and become more accepting of others, their customs, attitudes, dreams. We are after all capable of refusing to participate in wars, apartheid, crimes against humanity, shouldn’t we be able to accept tolerance and understanding as a means to accepting a dare we all share, life. I believe it necessary to dare ourselves to be personally involved in the injustice in our world by recognizing the intent of the dare. Should we be lulled into accepting prejudice and hate as normal or challenge ourselves to expect more. Dare ourselves to be better than we believe possible, and expect the same of others.

When we are dared to look the other way when we see injustice, we are dared to be complicit in advocating challenges only of a negative nature, and abandon our ability or desire to expect better from ourselves, and others.


On the gentle southern slope of a small mountain, near the summit, grows an ancient fir tree. It has been known to the tribe for generations, and become a part of its culture. Every generation the elders tell the young ones how it is a sacred place, where the spirits of the dead pass through. Of each generation, one of the young ones is given the burden and honor of keeping watch over the tree, to make sure the dead have their gateway. For the people of his time it is the duty of Hok'ee, a young man of seventeen winters, who was destined to guard the Fir. though somewhwat reluctantly, as he didn't necessarily believe in the old ways and stories as the elders did, Hok'ee has done his duty as tradition demands it, ever since he was selected by the shaman five winters ago. Whenever the previous guardian has children of their own, a new one is selected from the children of the tribe, to take over the task of standing watch every day, all day, and in the case of a death all night as well. Five winters it's been and still nothing has happened to change the yougng man's beliefs, possibly even to his reluctant disappointment. Even when there were deaths in the tribe, which fortunately haven't been many, Hok'ee dutifully stayed at his post all day and night but saw nothing to make him regard the tree as anything other than just that. Today doesn't feel much different, he just had a bit of a heavy feeling in his chest when he left early this morning before sunrise but didn't think much of it. Now it's a pleasant late summer's day and Hokée is spending it as usual, walking around the area, always keeping the Fir within line of sight, or whittling small pieces of found deadwood into figures of animals with his knife. Sometimes a member of the trbe comes by to visit and keep him company for a while. Those are always the easiest days, when someone else helps time go by quicker. As Hok'ee is sittting under the tree slowly chipping away at the piece of wood in his hands he finds himself getting a bit bored and loks off to the horizon for any sign of company, but there's no movement. Just a bird flies in from the edge of his vision as Hok'ee gets back to his woodcarving. When the bird makes a sound though, he looks up. It sounded like an owl, and indeed there's one perched on one of the lower dead branches of the Fir. Do owls even come out during the day? Not as far as he knows, yet this one is. It's a beautiful thing, piercing yellow eyes staring straight into his, dark feathers with lighter spots reflecting gold in the sunlight. He can't tear his eyes away, but the longer his gaze is locked with thtat of the owl the more he starts to feel a pit in his stomach grow larger and larger. A moment later that pit tears his whole chest open with the feeling that something horrible has happened. The owl flies off ahead of him as he leaves his post early for the first time to rush back to the village. Even running the viallage is almost an hour away. An hour of a mind racing, imagining the worst. an hour feeling so sick he could throw up, but with no time to stop. Signs foreshadow his fears from a distance, but he doesn't want to see them, acknowledge their meaning. The smoke is visible first, then, closer, the bloodstains on the side of the tents. Closer still, the bodies. The bodies of every man, woman and child of the tribe. As he walks through the ruin of his village Hok'ee spots prints in the ground, unlike those of bare feet or of the tribe's footwear, he sees some of the wounds of his tribesmen, small round bleeding holes. The marks of the White Devil. They'd heard stories about it from other villages who'd heard from others, but never truly believed the White Devil could be so destructive of heart. As Hokée stands idly among the corpses of his family, friends and neighbors, not know what to do, whether to run, scream or collapse, but unable to do any, he suddenly remembers his duty and a hot feeling of guilt washes over him for not being at his post. "Maybe it's not too late", he thinks and solemnly begins to walk back to the Fir. This time he walks, with his mind now empty, desolate. Time seems to pass differently, at different speeds, as he walks whole stretches without realizing he's even moving his legs while other parts of the path seem to take longer than usual. The sun is low in the sky and bathing everything orange gold by the time he comes up to the fir, but as he breaks the treeline and looks up the slope he sees no green bathing in the setting sun. The Fir has changed completely, it is bare and dead, and Hok'ee finally collapses on the bed of dead needles at its base.