To say that the void stretched on forever would be subtly incorrect, as it would imply that the void was a thing, which had dimension and volume, which it did not. Likewise, it was not white, which would imply the existence of light, but it was also not black, which would imply the absence of that same light. The best analog for our minds would be gray, and yet even that would be wrong, because it was not some blend of light and darkness, but rather the total absence of both. We lack words for such ideas, or even the ability to truly comprehend them, so it will have to suffice, for now. They sat there, at the table, alone in the not-gray nothingness that seemed to stretch on for infinity and yet did not even exist. She did not know how many eternities had elapsed since they'd arrived. She’d forgotten. It was mostly irrelevant anyway, as She was outside of time, as was He. “The Others have not yet arrived,” He said, stating the obvious. But then, there was little that was not obvious, after countless eternities of nothing. Only one thing could ever surprise Them, and it was never about conversation with the Other. She sighed in response, the simple gesture a grander statement of Her ennui than anything She might *say.* She paused a mere decade, almost imperceptible, and then shrugged at Her companion. “They said They might be late,” She repeated, for the infinitieth time. After that, there was silence as they sat. The silence was not uncomfortable, they were accustomed to it, but this time it seemed an expectant pause, nonetheless. His face was a mask, still inscrutable to Her mind after all the aeons. Nevertheless, She knew from experience precisely what He would ask, when He finally got around to it. After what felt like an eternity (it was, in fact, two eternities), He finally replied with the inevitable question. “Do you want to play again?” There they were. The words were gentle, a mere subtle suggestion, and yet their invitation was irresistable. Her face displayed the same mask as His did, and yet like Her, He knew exactly what Her response would be. She cocked her head to one side, raising one brow quizzically. "Again?" She tapped Her fingers on the table, pretending to consider the offer. “This time I’m playing The Pure,” She demanded, despite having played The Corrupt for the last several thousand matches, prior to which, well, even They didn’t really remember. It all evened out in the end. When you've played the game an infinite number of times, such streaks were inevitable. He spread his hands in acquiescence and then gestured to the table so She could set up the universe, this time. She looked down at the table, then up into His eyes. For another eternity, what passed between them was expectant, eager, and utterly non-verbal. One corner of Her mouth turned up ever so slightly as she stared at Her companion. She inhaled deeply, then gave a sibilant, seductive whisper on the exhalation. "*Let there be light.


Birds singing. It’s the only thing you hear when you first realize that you are returning to the state of consciousness. You try with all your might to open your eye lids, but they prove to be more resilient than you would think. Eventually you open them. Waking up was always the worst part of your day. I use the word “was” because it isn’t anymore. The little sleeping angel that’s residing in deep slumber besides you makes waking up the most beautiful 5-minute period in your day. You think to yourself how lucky you are, as you contemplate every single little detail about the most beautiful creature to ever walk this earth. You try to comprehend her sweetness, but to no avail. You cannot understand how these distinguished beautiful features came together to make the most innocent being ever. You take a glance at her admiring her perfectly black hair that with her brightingly white skin make the most aesthetically pleasing contrast your eyes have ever laid upon. You shift your view from her hair to her small lips. The lips that when are pulled by her perfect cheek muscles make the most charming smile ever to be made by a human being. The same lips that hide her pearly white teeth and her small tongue that only speaks in the purest of voices. Your hand makes its way to her face to swipe the little strings of hair that are dangling in front of her. Your fingers touch the tissue engulfing her flesh. The euphoria that you feel when you do that is unfathomable. Your fingers have never touched anything as silky smooth or as crystal clear as her skin. You now feel overwhelmed as you cannot handle such dazzling beautiy for too long. So, your view shifts yet again as your corneas make a tiring battle to attain a glimpse of her eyes. Although they are completely shut you make an effort to recall them from your memory. Ah you perfectly align them, now you can rejoice in the picture of the most magnificent, fascinating, exquisite, clear, pristine brown eyes. There’s something that you find rather odd with her, it’s a really really nice thing, but still, odd. Her eye brows seem to be drawn by an artist. You find that weird because eye brows always seemed to you like something that will only make a human being uglier. They never seem to be symmetric and always have a few hairs sticking out here and there so you always took eye brows as an ugly facial feature. But hers… hers changed your view about this. The same way she has changed your views about a lot of stuff. You end this train of thoughts when you look at her small cute nose to which I might add that it resides utterly well with the rest of her face and think to yourself that you must get closer to her divine beauty. You take your right hand slip it under her head and then you move it down. So now her head is calmly resting on your right shoulder and your right hand is covering her back. As you do so you take a moment to admire her ominously black hair. Her body was always ideal for you, as her small body mass allows you to fill your needs and desires of protecting someone special to you. When you wrap your arms around her or when you hug her your superior size always gave you a feeling that you are doing a good job in saving and protecting her from the horrors of this world. A feeling that always put you in a state of ecstasy because it makes you feel special to someone you hold dear such as her. As you two fall in position you feel the heat between your bodies being exchanged. This feeling ignites a reaction in the pit of your stomach. You only get this reaction when you are near her. You can only describe it as the feeling that you would get after an angelic touch, after all that was what happened, wasn’t it? When you two finally reside in your places you feel the flesh of your partner slightly tickling yours, which releases another wave of feelings that overwhelm your existence. You take her right hand with your left and put it on top of your chest exactly above where your heart beats. Touching her small, delicate fingers puts you in a new state of trance. You play with her tiny fingers admiring the gorgeous, marvelous structure that they were made by. As you think to yourself you are the luckiest man on earth, you finally pay attention to something weird. Well actually it was the first thing that you noticed today but still you hadn’t checked it yet. So, you decide to do so. You hear birds singing. You get closer to your significant other, but still you hear birds singing. You come closer and closer until your face is inches away from hers. You still hear birds singing. That is not what’s scaring you. It is the absence of the voice of her breathing that is.


As the faded black quilt of the night masks out the everlasting intense flare we call luminescence, And the harmonies of all blissful things fall prey to the mournful music of the ever obfuscous vault. The quiet mellow wind will drift, consuming the ones who shiver in the rawest of frost. And then, when all the voices of the world remain unspoken,

That's when, the eternal deepening pained souls, The beaten. The discouraged. The crippled The broken... For them, it will come.

That which threatens the presence of suffering and grief, Of torture and pain. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Kritanta was alone as they shuffled down a large hill in the freezing cold. Their face felt as if it had been touched by the very fingers of winter itself. They let out a shuddering breath, watching as the carbon dioxide they huffed out formed a small cloud in front of them.

They chuckled at the absurdity of this situation.

They had been sent to go pick up halloween decorations on their own. And at the ripe age of thirteen no less! They honestly just wished their mother would take care of her own problems sometimes. But no, Instead she sent her “useless” youngest child out on their own to deal with her issues. The street was slowly growing quiet the longer Kritanta walked. By the time the sun began to set, the store was still a few blocks away. Having their only form of warmth taken away so suddenly only made the frigid child shake and shiver more.

“C-cold…” they muttered, wishing they had at least grabbed a jacket on their rush out the door.

After a minute of sheer icy-dry temperature drops, something fell from the sky above them and tickled their arm. It was small and fluffy. White. Wet.

Cold. Kritanta looked up at the darkening sky, only to get a faceful of white flecks, which soon melted away into nothing but water. It was snowing.

“D-d-dang mom.” They hissed as the snow surrounded them. “If only you’d just driv-v-ven here… on your own.” They sat down on the edge of the large sidewalk, feeling tired and clumsy. “You're almost 14 now,” their mother had said. “You can do the errands on your own.” But she had been wrong, for here her child sat in the freezing cold, Unable to move any further.

Kritanta took in a slow shallow breath of bitter, icy air as they curled up into a ball to hide from the snow.

They shivered. But suddenly they realized that the cold had disappeared. It had been replaced with thousands of pins and needles, poking their way into their delicate skin.

Kritanta screamed and shrieked to the snow covered stars as they laid down in the soft snow that had been piling up below them. After a moment, the pain seemed to recede as Kritanta’s body began to numb over. They let out a small, nervous chuckle and took in a shaky breath,

Too weak to do much of anything else. Knowing what was coming, Kritanta shed a tear. They weren't ready, they knew that. But a person was never really ready for something so sudden and frightening as death. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Their body wasn't found until a week after they actually died. It laid there for days in the icy weather, only freezing more as the seconds ticked by.

But that didn't matter much, for it was just a body.

Kritanta’s mortal body was no longer alive, so it didn't matter much to them anymore.

Now all it could do was serve as a painful reminder that they had once walked the earth, as alive and brilliant with life. They would never feel that exhilaration again. All they could feel now was the remorse and melancholy cries they had left behind. They couldn't even cry, for only people with real bodies, and fluids could do a thing like that. Kritanta often wondered why of all people, they had been chosen for this particular role after life. It was a question left unanswered because there was no way to answer a question like that.

It was just the way things had turned out, and now Kritanta was left to suffer as they watched people live and thrive without them.

They had been left behind, bitten by the jaws of death and subject to suffer the punishment for themselves.

It had been nearly a year now since Kritanta’s death. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Kritanta stared at their Mother from across the dimly lit room.

Today was Halloween, the day her own child had died, and she was still out throwing parties, not caring about the people around her.

Kritanta let out a snarl. At least that woman was no mother of theirs, for the Kritanta their ‘mother’ had known was buried six feet underground. Had her mother even cared enough to attend their funeral? Probably not. They wouldn't know since they had been in a drifting haze for about a month after the cold had taken their life.

Kritanta stood in the dark corner for most of the party, watching all the people around them abuse the little life they had left for far too long. Eventually people started to stagger out of the house one by one. Kritanta frowned. 11:30 was definitely an early time for a party to end at their mother’s house, but they didn't care much. At least it was quiet now.

They made sure to keep their eye trained on their mother as she cleaned up the trashed house and sat on the double sofa with a sigh of relief. “Have you forgotten me?” they wanted to scream to her face as she relaxed there, not a care in the world. “Have you forgotten the day you sent me out to do your bidding?! The day I died.” With a groan, Kritanta began to leave, not even knowing why exactly they had stayed here to begin with. It wasn't like they would suddenly be able to be heard.

Even if they were, there was no way their mother would listen to them. A small sniff from behind forced Kritanta to stop in their tracks. They turned back around to face their mother. To their surprise, her face was streaming with tears and she was holding a small picture. They moved in closer to get a good look at what their mother could possibly be crying about. But before they even saw the image, they knew what it had to be. What it must have been. What they desperately wanted it to be.

“My Kritanta, why did you have to leave us so suddenly,” their mother mumbled through tears. “You were so young, I shouldn't have made you take care of my problems that day. Th-that was m-my responsibility... I-” Their mother broke down into uncontrollable sobs, the miniature picture of her and Kritanta posing together drifting to the floor in a swoop.

Kritanta approached their mother and smiled. They rushed into the awestruck arms of their mom, feeling peaceful and free from what could only be described as her attachment to their life. “It’s okay mom,” Kritanta said, shedding a tear for the first time since that cold night on the sidewalk, “I forgive you. I really do. Live your life in peace knowing that I'll be fine, and you will too. I love you mom.” Their mother returned the hug, still somewhat in shock. “I love you too honey.” she said, still crying. “And I always will.” Kritanta laughed joyfully as their mother spoke the words they had longed to hear for so long. They drifted beyond, blissful and calm, still feeling the warmth of their mother's embrace as they left the living world behind.


“I’m coming!” Sheri sprints through the house while narrowly avoiding tripping over the unkempt floor with garments and beer bottles on the way to the door. She swings it open to see that a man who looked about 6 feet tall, dirty blonde hair, hazel eyes that looked more green, was standing there. “Can I help you?” “My name is Jared Smith. I’m a detective for the case of your missing son.” He holds out his hand for me to shake it. “Oh! I was told you wouldn’t be able to come till later to discuss the case.” I shake his hand and open the door more. “Come on in.” “Sorry about the mess, I would have cleaned up if I knew I was having company,”

She says awkwardly. As he walks through the house, she kicks the clothes and bottles under the couch in an attempt to make the room look tidier.

“It’s alright. Let’s sit somewhere to talk.” He walks through the house and sits down on a chair in the dining room. I take a seat in the chair across from him. “Alright so, I need to get some things figured out. First, when was the last time you saw your son?” “Yesterday, when we got home from the grocery store.” “Your son was with you, when you went to the grocery store?”

“Yes.”

He writes something down on a little notepad. “Will the cameras confirm that?” Did he think I was lying or something? I cross my arms and reply, “Well unless I’m a vampire, they should.” He writes something else down.

“What are you writing?” I try to glance at the pad on his lap but he covers it with his hand. “Just information you tell me. This is all going to be a big help to us.” “Um alright then. Anything else you want to know?” “Yes. What was your son wearing?” What was he wearing? What does that have to do with anything? “He was wearing a blue superman shirt and tan khakis with Velcro shoes.” The image of him that horrendous day was permanently stuck in my head. He writes that down on his pad. “On the day he went missing, how long did it take you to call the police?” “Well, I’m not sure when exactly he went missing, but when I noticed, about 30ish minutes or so later is when I called.” “Around what time was this?” “9PM.” “How about relatives?” “What about them?” “Does he usually go see them?” “He’s never met them before.”

“Alright last question then I’ll be out of your hair.” “Okay.” “On the last day you saw him, where did you see him?” “In his room playing with his legos.” He stands up from the chair. “I will call you later to further discuss everything. Thank you for your time.” I stand up and walk him over to the door. “I appreciate you helping me out.” I open the door and he walks onto the porch. “In my 28 years in this business, I’ve never failed to solve a case.” He waved me goodbye and got into his car and drove off. I walk back inside the house and walk through to his room. His legos were still laid out on the floor and his bed was still left untouched. I walk over to his bed and sit down. The bed still felt warm from when he was last on it. I pick up his teddy bear and hold it to my chest. He never went anywhere without this thing. It was stuck to him like glue 24/7. I place the teddy bear down on his pillow and stand up. “I love you,” I say. I blow a kiss toward his room and walk out. I walk into the kitchen and pop open a bottle of beer. I didn’t like the taste of it, I just liked the fact that it temporarily got rid of my pain and achiness. I gulp the beer and wipe my mouth. Most people would consider me to be an alcoholic. How does one even determine that? I take another gulp of the beer. I’ve never thought of myself as an alcoholic because I can handle my alcohol. I take another drink.

“I should order some pizza.” I place the beer bottle down and walk over to the house phone. I dial Pizza Hut. “Hi, I would like to order a large cheese pizza, with banana peppers, black olives, and mushrooms on it.” “786 Laney ST.” “Alright and about how long will that take?” “Okay sounds good, thank you.” I hang up the phone and place it back on the table. Now it’s time to play the waiting game. I walk into the kitchen and continue drinking my beer. I wonder how someone even came up with beer? Like, were they like “We need a drink that makes people feel good, but also bad at the same time for drinking it.” And how did they convince the buyers in the beginning? Well, whatever they did, it worked so cheers to them. I finish drinking the rest of the bottle and toss it into the trash can.

I walk into the living room and turn the TV on. The first thing that comes on is the news. “The little boy, last seen in his room, has been missing for 24 hours,” The news reporter said. I turn the volume up. How is this already on the news?

“The little boy, last seen by his mother, looks like this.” The TV shows a picture of her son. How did they even get that photo? “Unfortunately, the mother has not been fully cooperative.” “Wait what? I’m not cooperative?” I lean towards the tv. “How have I not?” “The mother has been ignoring the police whenever they try to ask her questions about the disappearance of her own son.” My mouth drops open in shock. Damn. I mean I know I ain’t no Megan Fox or Celine Dion, but I’m not that bad. The TV shows an old mugshot of me from when I got pulled over for being 3x over the legal limit. “Oh come on!” I pick up an old bottle of beer sitting next to me and take a big gulp of it. “At Least show them a photo of me that doesn't make kids frightened and feel the need to check under the bed for me!” I take another drink. “The police are doing everything they can in order to find the missing boy.” “And I’m not?” “If you have any information, please dial the number on your screen or call 911.” “Or dial me.” I go to take another drink, but the bottle was empty, so I threw it on the floor. I get up from the couch and turn the TV off. “I don’t need to listen to this crap.” Stupid media always thinking they know someone when they don’t.

“Tsk.” I walk into my bedroom and get undressed. I’ve been wearing the same clothes for two days now. I open up my drawers and start tossing shirts around. “Nope.” “Ew.” “Nope.” “Nein.” I pull out an old camouflage shirt. “Hmm this might work.” I put the shirt on and go look in the mirror. “Not bad.” I take my pants off and throw on some old basketball shorts that used to be my ex husband’s. Well, deceased ex husband’s. I walk back into the living room and turn on some Spongebob. My son loved this show, even though Spongebob’s exasperating laugh always gave me migraines. Yet, here I am, watching it. As I’m watching it, I hear a knock on the door. “Finally!” I grab my wallet from my purse and skip to the door. I pull it open and a smile creeps across my face. “Yay. And you said it was $6 right?” “Yes, $6.” He moves the bag to his other arm. I open my wallet and pull out six crumpled ones. “Here is the $6.” He takes the money and puts it in his back pocket. “Oh wait I forgot the tip!” I pull out a ten and hand it to him. “Here.” “Thanks.” He hands me the pizza box and leaves.

I open the box and say, “Not a single piece of you is going to survive.” I take a big sniff. “Mmmmmm.” I walk back inside and place the box down on the island in the kitchen. I walk over to the cabinet and grab a paper plate.

“Which piece should I eat first?” I look around at the pizza. “This one.” I pull up a piece and plop it down on the plate. I walk back into the living room and continue watching Spongebob. Out of all the characters in this show, I would have to say I relate to Squidward more. Especially the way he hates his neighbors. I grab a beer bottle on the floor and take a drink of it. I wasn’t sure how long the bottle had been here, but I didn’t mind. Beer is beer. Pretty quickly I get to the last piece in the box. “Awww man this is the last one,” I say grumpily. I place the piece down on the plate and walk back to the living room. “Planton, the secret formula is crabs.” As I eat the last piece, I notice a cat sitting on the outside of the window. It’s fur was a mixture of orange and black.

“Hey kitty.” I wave at the cat, then it jumps down. “Well, I didn’t like you anyways.” I take the last bite of the pizza. “Welp guess my dinner is done.” I walk into the kitchen, grab the pizza box, and walk outside. “I really need to change the light bulb out here.” I walk around to the side and lift up the trash can lid. I throw the box inside. “Mommy.” I freeze. Did someone just call me Mommy? No, it’s not possible.

“Mommy.” I could sense someone behind me. A ghost maybe? My imagination? Maybe I had one too many beers? I slowly look behind me and my jaw drops in utter shock. “H-how? H-how is this possible?” My legs started shaking in fear. This shouldn’t be possible. This is not possible. I looked up and down at the little boy standing in front of me. My son. He was alive. “Mommy.” He gives me a big smile that sends chills down my spine. “This isn’t real. This can’t be real. I killed you! You're supposed to be dead!” I looked in utter surprise at my son - who was somehow alive.


Something is crawling around in my brain. At first, it was just a tingle that began at the base of my head. Then it began moving up, farther up into my brain. The tingle that first drew my attention to it was light and felt like a centipede crawling across my skin. Its small legs drag as it moves, each step reminding me of when you step into an ant bed and they begin crawling and biting your toes, and then your legs. But instead of it being my feet and legs, it is my brain that feels each poke and drag. My brain, that I cannot scratch to stop the crawly feeling, my brain that is the destination of every nerve in my body and alerts me to any pain or injury there on it. "When did this feeling first begin?" the doctor asks as they type on their tablet, never looking at me as I speak. "A month or two ago...I think. At least, that is when I first started to notice the feeling." I had thought the feeling would go away, that it was just stress or depression causing the soft touches of whatever is in my brain. I maybe could have lived with the feeling if it hadn't started to get worse. The soft tingle began to grow and get deeper within the folds of my brain. First, soft movement like that of an ant, then it became more noticeable resembling the touch of someone's nails as they slowly ran across the top of your hand. It happened the first time while I was sleeping, lost in a dream I looked ahead into the dream setting and I saw a shape standing in the dark, and as I watched it the figure began to move, crossing over and through me before moving off into the darkness behind me. Instinctively I reached up to touch my head, scratching at what I thought was the spot that was tingling. But the scratch didn't satisfy the itching and the feeling began to grow, and grow, evolving out into a wider area. "Ok, and has there been any changes to your lifestyle, or diet, or fitness?" asked the doctor, his eyes never leaving the screen in front of him. His fingers tapping lightly upon the keyboard. Click...click...click. I shut my eyes as I tried to not let the sound distract me from the question. Had there been any changes? I mean, there had been changes to my stress due to this issue. I couldn't focus on school, so that was a change but that wasn't entirely my fault. I would set myself up for success by removing distractions around me, when I studied I wore earbuds and listened to relaxing study music that is supposed to help with brain concentration. The problem with having something in your brain, tingling you, is that it never goes away and when you wear earbuds it doesn't quiet the sound in your brain, it makes it louder by removing the distractions of the world. "No...no changes since last time." I watched as the doctor nodded, continuing his keyboard song as he typed. I wasn't sure what all he could be typing, he hadn't inspected me, or asked me anything that would require a full keyboard orchestration. The doctor stopped for a second, looking up at me, the first time since he had sat down in the examination room. "You had mentioned last time I saw you that you were suffering from the feeling of brain fog and..." his sentence hung in the air, unfinished as he looked back at the tablet, using his finger to scroll up. "That you are having trouble concentrating and are having issues with short-term memory loss. Is that still an issue?" I nodded, twisting my hands together in nervousness, occasionally pushing my fingernails into my skin. The silence that hung between us was thick and awkward as he waited for me to provide more of an answer. When he got bored of waiting, he returned to the music he was orchestrating on his tablet, tapping once again upon the keyboard, each clicking like nails on a chalkboard to me. "Well, I think we are facing the same issue of formication and your body is reacting to it by your nerves overreacting, which is sending signals to your brain. You need to increase your exercise regimen; I would recommend yoga or some form of meditation. You also need to make sure that you are taking it easy on yourself and avoid situations that may cause you unnecessary stress. I am going to increase your medicine by 50mgs. Continue taking it once a day at night along with the things I just recommended. Come back and see us if symptoms continue to get worse." And without a further word or look, he and his tablet were gone, out the door of the room. Off to go visit the next patient in the room next door, off to find something more interesting than just my weird brain tingle. I continued waiting on the table for a few more moments I waited there so long that a nurse came in to reset the room and looked at me perplexingly before I got down and walked out of the room. Once out of the examination room, I made my way to the exit, picking up my new prescription before pushing the heavy brown door open. Then down a flight or two of stairs and out into the thick humid summer air. The heat was so oppressive, and it clung to my skin in a thick blanket of condensation, wetting my clothes slightly from the weight. The faster I could get to my car the better, into the air conditioning, and away from the large office building behind me. The building was full of doctors and nurses and receptionists who stared at me, judging me and were critical of the issue I was facing. None of them believed me, I knew that. They all believed it was stress, or lack of sleep, or lack of exercise, or whatever. I had described the issue so many times to each of them that I no longer was sure if it was all in my head, figuratively not literally, as I truly believed. All the way home the crawling in my head continued, starting more towards the top middle, and making its way up towards the front, near my forehead. My hand moved unconsciously up to my head, pulling, and twisting at my hair before scratching at the area that I could feel the tingle coming from, the same pattern that happened multiple times a day in search of just a little bit of quiet. Any relief that my routine provided was short-lived, and by the time I reached home a couple of pulled hairs lay on the car floor, and there was now a small scratch on my head from my search for relief. Inside my apartment I removed my shoes, setting my bag on the hook by the door before heading to the couch that lay on the far wall. I sat, feeling the couch cushions molding around me as if the couch was hugging me from behind, offering the comfort that I had been denied at the doctor's office. In the time it had taken to go from the car to the spot I was currently sitting at, I had pulled more hair out of my head, and my scratching intensity had increased. The tickle in my brain had worsened in the short drive home and had expanded to the right side of my brain. The soft caress of nails now felt like someone was running a fork over each quarter of my brain. I leaned my head back, closing my eyes, willing the pain to stop, to go away forever. Some people believed in the power of positive thought, that you could good things happen just by being positive. Well, I was positive this wasn't working, nothing was. I had made changes and followed the advice of my doctor, and I still could feel the tingling in my brain. No scratch was powerful enough to beat the tingling, no medicine was potent enough to provide relief, and no one believed me when I said it wasn't all "in my head". This wasn't going away, and it was getting worse. A day turned into a week, a week into a month, and months became years, and still, the tingling continued in my brain. I had stopped paying for doctor's visits, I had stopped mentioning to friends and family about what was happening. There were only so many eye rolls, scoffs, and pointless advice I could take. I had adjusted my diet, I had increased how much I exercised, and I meditated every day. My little tingle, as I now referred to it as just continued relentlessly. Increasing in strength and coverage as time had progressed. As I stopped talking about it, everyone around me happily obliged by not bringing it up. I was left alone in my suffering, left alone to stumble through continuous brain fog. So many times, I had "awoken" to just sitting at my desk, staring off into space, unaware how much time had passed. I had given up on school, I had dropped out months ago, though no one knew it. I had begun failing every class I took, unable to remember simple things, and thus failing every test and quiz I was given. I was at my wit's end; the pain was nearly unbearable, and I couldn't even concentrate long enough to watch a movie. Most nights I fell asleep drunk or high, both barely providing relief as I slept. The few times I had tried to sleep without them I had tossed and turned all night, resulting in more brain fog and pain. On the third straight night of restless sleep, I finally decided what I would do to fix the issue. If no one was going to believe or help me with this, I was going to fix it myself. I slid my legs off the bed, my feet slipping into my slippers on the floor. The slippers provided silence from my walk as I moved into the kitchen and over to the junk drawer. My fingers pushed past lighters, candles, pens, post-it notes, and other junk until I felt cold metal. I removed the screwdriver from the drawer, clenching the handle as I slammed the drawer with my other hand, my slippered feet turning back towards my room. Down the hallway, through my door, which I softly shut behind me, and into the tiled bathroom. The lights over the sink gave the room a dull yellowish glow, with shadows being cast all around, including under my eyes. I leaned my forehead towards the mirror, my hand searching and moving over my scalp as I tried to find the spot where I thought the tingling was currently. The crawling intensified as my fingers pushed at a spot just above the top of my forehead. As I pushed on the spot my ears filled with the sound of moving legs and feet, the sound was so intense that I looked around the room, sure that the sound had to be around me rather than inside me. As my eyes turned back towards the mirror the reflection made direct eye contact with me, and within those eyes, I saw exhaustion and pain and the need to keep going, to find the thing that was crawling inside my brain. My fingers shifted farther back on my head; the crawling having moved from the spot that I had found before. This time though, when I felt the small bump on my head, the source of the tingling, I didn't hesitate. I raised the hand that held the screwdriver and drove it into my head and the source of the tingling. I felt the blade of the screwdriver as it broke through my scalp and pierced the soft, squishy, Jell-o like substance that was my brain. For a second, I felt relief, the tingling gone and silence filling my ears for the first time in months. Then, the crawling started again, moving from the spot where the screwdriver had struck to farther back in my head. As it moved, I felt the pricks of its' feet, tickling my brain as it traveled, stopping when I once again drove the screwdriver into my head. This pattern continued a few more times before I finally found relief, my body slumping to the floor in exhaustion. My hair, shirt, and hands were covered in red, sticky blood. The floor was covered in pools of the same blood, and these pools were increasing in size as I laid against the tub, the screwdriver resting next to my hand as my body heaved with each breath. And for the first time in years, there was no tingling, not one single step from whatever had been living in my brain. I closed my eyes and listened to the silence, finally relaxing, finally having relief from the torment I had felt for so long. The diener pushed the just cleaned corpse into the room, lifting the cart and sliding the body bag onto the waiting table. The coroner watched as the diener removed his cart and left the room, the swinging doors ticking back and forth before returning to their stationary position. The coroner had read the file on the body while it was being prepared, suicide, a female, age 24, who had suffered from depression and anxiety. The officers who had found the body and had filed the paperwork had put down penetrating brain injury from a Phillips head screwdriver that was found next to the body, covered in pieces of brain tissue, hair, and blood. His heart was heavy as he unzipped the bag, revealing the young woman within. At first glance, everything seemed normal, his hands moving over her face and head as he examined the wounds there. "It looks like there are 10 entry points in the skull, resulting in perforation and damage to the brain tissue." He turned the head to the side, looking closer at one of the entry points. "It appears that the screwdriver went about 5 inches into the skull each time, meaning that..." he stopped as something began to move within the brain. He pushed aside more of the hair and fragments of bone as he looked closer at the wound. First, the movement inside was small, twitching slightly, before its movement increased. After a few moments of movement within the brain a small head popped out from the mush of the brain tissue. On the head were two long, red antennas that twitched and flicked about in the open air. The head was followed by first one thin leg, then another, and between them a section of a body segment. The coroner stared in shock as he watched the arthropod crawl out of the brain and into the hair. He reached out with his hand, his other hand holding a small collection container, his fingers nudged at the back of the centipede, urging it to move into it. As his gloved fingers touched the centipede, its slow movement changed into frenzied and desperate movements. It turned towards the hand, and slipped up onto the fingers, up the coroner's arm, up his neck, and straight into his ear before the man could stop it. And as he swung and swatted to try and stop the creature, but all of that was in vain, it had already reached his ear and had made its way inside. As the centipede burrowed its way into his head and his brain, the tingling began.


The stranger stood in the open entrance of the market hall, just out of the sunlight, watching as a group of tourists took pictures—pyramids of olives and spices, strings of onions and rabbits. All around him the locals laughed and bargained. Even though he hadn’t been to the old hall since he was a child, it seemed as though nothing had changed. He looked past his new running shoes at the cobblestones, worn so smooth they shone in the light. He heard a boy selling olives and stepped forward to ask the price for a small bag. The boy overcharged, but the man paid without question. The boy was running the stall while his uncle was away and was eager to impress him. The stranger wandered, looking around, eating from the bag of olives. Stalls spilled inward from either side of the tunnel, engulfing everyone in calculated chaos. Fruits and vegetables and meats—one stall sold wine if you knew the right person, but, of course, the stranger didn’t. That wasn’t why he was here. He moved slowly, deeper, noticing the crowd grow thinner and the air colder. The blue-white light bulbs strung along the ceiling were few and far between, allowing the vendors’ candlelight to take command and dance on the walls. He wondered if he should continue—perhaps the docks would better give him what he was after, closer to the open freedom of the sea. But soon the tunnel ended and opened onto a cavernous room with white-painted walls. The air smelled of cigarette smoke and decades of fish, caked into the stone, part of the building itself. Rows of tables crowded the floor, each covered with a bed of slowly-melting ice. It was after noon and the fish market was nearly empty. There were no customers haggling for the day’s catch; there were no tuna, or swordfish heads, or tourists to take pictures of them. The vendors were either preparing to leave or chatting amongst themselves. Most of the sellers were already home, their ice-beds bare. The stranger buttoned his thin wool jacket against the drop in temperature and stepped inside. Immediately his foot plunged into a deep puddle, the frigid water soaking through his shoe and sock in an instant. He let out a shout and all the vendors turned to stare at him, for a moment. Then they all went back to their conversations and their packing––even if there was anything left to sell, they knew he wasn’t here to buy. Face hot, he cursed under his breath and looked down at his shoe, feeling the foul water between his toes. He looked behind him, back into the dark tunnel. The entrance was so far away, past curves and merchandise that blocked out all sunlight. He turned away and continued forward, squelching with every other step. The vendors continued to pay him no mind, except once, when he approached a nearly-sold-out display of crabs, mussels, and shrimp. The seller paused to eye him, just in case, until the stranger turned away. But they were right in their initial judgement and didn’t look his way again. The stranger walked past every table until he reached the edge of the room, where chubby cats ignored him in the semi-darkness. He paused for a moment to look back over the fish market, and then went straight to the only vendor who’d caught his interest. He was scaling and gutting a small pile of fish, moving them from one side of the ice to the other; the only man actively working with the sea in the entire building. He was older, with a greying beard, and he was thin but strong. His skin was dark and tough. He was missing the tip of his left ring finger, and in his right hand he held a wooden-handled knife that seemed to be much older than he was. “I suppose the ice melts quickly,” the stranger remarked, watching his hands move with the fish. The man continued his work. “Did you catch these?” “Yes,” the vendor said. “This morning. Do you want to buy?” The stranger looked closer at the fish, noticing how the artificial light gleamed in their eyes. "Have you always been a fisherman?” The fisherman didn’t respond until he’d finished his cuts and set the fish to the side. “All my life.” The stranger glanced at the fisherman’s face; he wasn’t distracted from his work. His shirt collar was worn, the cloth soiled by many stains. The stranger nudged a small bone lying on the stone floor, to the side with his wet shoe. “Is there much money in fishing?” “That depends.” The fisherman wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, leaving a smear of scales on his skin. “Are you here to buy fish?” “No.” The weather-born lines in the fisherman’s face seemed to deepen as he grabbed another fish and began scraping away the scales. “Did you always want to be a fisherman?” “My father was a fisherman. And my grandfather.” “I'd never be a banker like my father,” the stranger said. The fisherman looked up at him, then back down at his work. The stranger stopped smiling. “My great-grandfather was a fisherman as well. And his father.” The stranger looked at the fish in the man’s hands, not taking his eyes away until it was stacked on the ice. “You must feel proud, your family having fished for so many generations.” The fisherman didn’t reply. The stranger reached into his pocket for his wallet. “How much are they?” The fisherman told him. “Which is a good one?” “They are all good.” “Would you choose one for me? I don’t know much about fish.” The fisherman grabbed a fish from the ice and wrapped it in newspaper. The stranger paid, took the bundle under his arm, and left. It was cold and damp; as he walked he felt it seep through his jacket, through his shirt. He kept the bundle where it was. When he stepped back into the sunlight he shivered and looked up and down the street. A few skinny cats mewed and rubbed up against his legs. The stranger turned and walked to a cafe. There, he took a seat, placing the bundle on the table and unbuttoning his jacket. He leaned back in the chair and asked a passing waiter to bring him a coffee. A distracted smile played on the waiter’s lips as he nodded and withdrew. While he sipped his coffee, he gazed out onto the street, at the pedestrians, the cars, and, beyond them all, to the sea. When he stood to leave he left a few coins on the table and did not take the bundle with him.


Quiet nights like this were pretty rare in this part of town. No sirens, no parties, no loud neighbors. For once Mike’s apartment was as tranquil as a Buddhist temple. He couldn’t wait to fall asleep, The bed, under all its blankets looked warm, and comfy in contrast to the icy chill of his bedroom. Perfect. But the peaceful night was interrupted with a bang. Complete terror overtook Mike. He had locked his bedroom door, and stood so quiet that the only sound he made was the uncontrollable thump of his heart beating. Somehow through the ruckus he tried to decipher what was happening in his small apartment. From what he could hear the front door had opened, and frantic footsteps traveled toward what seemed to be his bathroom. What followed next was pained retching, dry heaving, and a toilet flushing. If this was someone coming to steal from him, they were having a rough go at it. Besides, this “stranger” knew exactly where Mike’s bathroom was. It had to be someone he knew. Slowly Mike creaked open the bedroom door, and called out. “Hello?” There was no reply, only the sounds of echoed retching, and heavy breathing. Unsure of what to expect. Still unsure of who was in his home Mike prepared himself for whatever would come next. Cautiously, Mike creaked open the door to peer into the hallway. The bathroom light was on, and someone was definitely in there. At first Mike wondered if a stranger just really needed to use the bathroom, but unless he had forgotten to lock the front door it would have to be one of the three people who had a key. Mike had thought of the first person to come to mind who would be bold enough to invade his bathroom the way that they had. “Dill Pickle?” And as if saying the pet name willed him into existence, there he was. Mike’s Boyfriend Dylan. On his knees hovering around a toilet as if it had secret knowledge to give him. “Hey.” Dylan could only muster up those words, and in a soft tone as his energy was spent on spilling his guts. “What's going on?” Mike had knelt down near Dylan, and rubbed his back for comfort, but it didn’t seem to do much for the sick man. He must’ve just gotten off work. He was still clad in his paramedic uniform. “I think I’ll need a stronger dose.” Dylan spoke as if Mike knew what he was talking about, but Mike didn’t know that vomiting was a normal occurrence in his lover’s life. “Dose of what? Do you need me to run to Rite-aid?” Mike continued rubbing Dylan's back. “No, I have to talk to my doctor again. My stomach ulcers seem like they’re getting 	worse. I used to have them when I was young, but they weren’t like this.” Mike finally had a chance to speak after being forced to pray to the porcelain gods for the past few minutes. “You don’t think work stress is causing it?” Mike was finally able to look into Dylan’s eyes and only see shame as if he had failed himself. “I’ll be fine. I just have a few more shifts this week, and I’ll get my day off.” Dylan tried to assure Mike that he was okay, but Mike wasn’t buying it. The man’s eyes were heavy, and the fatigue that Dylan was feeling was palpable in the air. “Dill, you can’t keep on going like this, there’s no reason to.” Mike tried his best to console Dylan, but the man nudged him away and went back to puking into the toilet. Once Dylan was finished he took a breath, and spoke as if he just ran a sprint. “I won’t get better if I don’t improve. And I don’t want to mess up like that again.” Mike had felt that the worst of his episode was over so he allowed himself to sit on the floor with his back on the wall. “Mistakes happen Dill, and that was literally your first day.” Mike went to grab him a towel. The night after Dylan's first day was still fresh in his mind. It was the first time since being together that he had seen the rock in his life shed tears. But against the crashing waves of the sea all rocks can crack, and erode against its strength. “Mistakes happen?” Dylan shook his head “That guy died because of my mistakes. And on top of that I almost killed Mia.” Mike had remembered talking to Dylan’s coworker Mia on more than one occasion about how self critical Dylan could be while at work, and Mike had done all he could to try and ease his mind when mistakes like that happen. But when someone’s life is on the line, it's hard to dismiss the value of mistakes. Every second mattered when it was someone's life was in your hands, and mistakes shortened that time. “And when’s the last time you took a risk like that when you’re driving?” Dylan was quiet for a moment before looking back at Mike, and shaking his head. “That’s right, you don’t do that shit anymore. And in a funny way because that guy died, he ended up saving just as many people as you have.” Dylan just shook his head. “But how long will it be before my Ulcers makes me fuck up? If they find out how bad it gets, they’ll think I’m too weak to work, and they mi-“ and like a surge of inspiration Dylan went from sitting to back on his knees, over the toilet, dry heaving, and in pain. “You need water Dill!” Mike darted quickly into the kitchen and came back with a cup of water. Mike set it beside Dylan while he finished leaning on the toilet bowl, and took a sip afterward. “I’ll be better after this week I swear.” Dylan tried to reassure him, but Mike only	shook his head. “You’ll never be content this way… There’s nothing you can do about it now except learn from it.” Dylan’s vomiting had finally subsided enough to where he could think about what Mike was saying to him. He took a sip of the water Mike had brought, and spoke. “People need me. And I just can’t let them down.” “And I need you too, but for different reasons. I just want you to be okay, and get home safe and healthy. You aren’t weak or less of a man because you need the day off sometimes. Your body is telling you to take it easy, and you’re ignoring it.” The two were silent for a while, partially to wait out and see if Dylan’s stomach had anything else left to say, and partially for Dylan to contemplate his lover’s words. Finally Dylan spoke. “Sorry for barging in and ruining your night Mikey…” Dylan’s eyes held dark circles over them. But Mike just scoffed at his apology. “One of the best people in my life came over, had a deep chat with me, and’ll cuddle me tonight. I’m actually kinda happy you got sick.” The two men chuckled and a wave of ease fell over the both of them. Dylan was still a bit weak, but luckily Mike had some medicine hidden away that would settle his stomach down for the night, and after a while the night found its peace once more, and Dylan with Mike’s help was ushered to bed with a bucket in his free hand just in case.


It was a lovely spring afternoon in the park. The air was filled with the joyful warbling of songbirds and the innocent laughter of children, the scent of fresh flowers floating gently on the cool breeze. A young couple walked along a path through the garden. The young man, Sebastian, wore a blue and white button-up plaid-patterned shirt tucked into his khaki dress pants, his shoulders festooned with a cape fashioned from a pastel yellow sweater. *Gross*. The young lady, Bianca, wore a seafoam green sun dress, with a daisy in her curly blonde hair. She was objectively pretty, but definitely not your type. And if she *was*, then you might be one of *those* people... Their demeanor was like that of the models in a Newport cigarette ad; where everyone comes off as super white, *especially* if they're *not*. They were sickeningly wholesome, as though scrapped from the cast of '7th Heaven' for being too unbelievably waspy. They gave each other Eskimo kisses in public, which was just... *Yuck.* After getting some gelato from a cart, because that's what people like this *do* on first dates, Sebastian admired Bianca's beauty. She was just so *gosh darn pretty*. ^^Bwlegh..! "I really like you a lot, Bianca," he told her, a bashful smile on his oddly manicured face. She blushed. "I really like you too, Sebastian." *Ugh*... Sebastian smiled for a moment, but then looked a bit sullen. Something was on his mind. "What's wrong?" Bianca asked. "I... I have a confession to make," Sebastian sighed. "I'm not really this tall..." Bianca wrinkled her nose. "Whatever do you mean?" Sebastian took a deep breath. "Well, you see... On your eHarmony profile it said you like tall guys. I thought that maybe if you thought I was taller, you might be more willing to give me a shot, so I wore elevator shoes to our date. But... Well, I really like you a lot and I just can't keep up the charade in good conscience..." Bianca giggled. "Is that all? Sebastian, *yes* I like tall guys, but I *really* like *you*. A *whole lot*. I won't think less of you because you're just a little bit shorter than you said you were." Sebastian gazed lovingly into her big blue eyes. "Do you really mean that?" "Of course, silly!" she cooed softly. "Now take off those shoes and let me see the real you." Sebastian removed his platform shoes and stood before her, average height and all, but when he looked at her, the girl he'd been falling head over heels for had disappeared. In her place stood a much more homely specimen, her face now much less evocative of an angel, and more reminiscent of . He couldn't help but notice a single, robust hair coming from a large mole on her neck as her thick Tor Johnson-esque eyebrows fluttered in the wind. It was in this moment that he realized that all of her profile pictures had been angled from above. Bianca frowned as she regarded him in his natural state, all five-foot eleven of him. "On second thought, I think I like you better with the shoes on." Sebastian blinked, unsure how to process the sight he beheld before him. After a brief moment, he snapped out of his stupor. "Oh. Of- of course," he stuttered as he slipped his shoes back on. When he stood back up, he looked at Bianca again, and she was just as radiant as he had remembered her from before: a graceful, delicate flower. She beamed back up at him. "Much better," she murmured. "Much, *much better.


Life had a knack for turning on a dime in the quaint, sleepy coastal town of Willow Creek. Sarah, a girl of deep faith and unwavering devotion to her Lord and Savior, found her world turned upside down the day she met Alex. A tall, brooding man with fiery, rebellious eyes, Alex was the antithesis of everything Sarah believed in. Yet, as fate would have it, the moment she first set eyes on him, her heart found something in his stormy gaze it simply couldn't resist. Sarah's faith had wavered before, but this time, it felt different. Her once-steadfast beliefs about love and faith crumbled like Jericho's ancient walls. At that moment, her entire existence seemed to crumble as she questioned the very core of her beliefs. Alex's wild and adventurous spirit had always been one of his defining qualities, which Sarah had initially found alluring and unnerving. He thrived on the thrill of the unknown, relished the feeling of walking on the edge of a precipice, daring fate to take him down. As they spent more time together, Alex became increasingly captivated by Sarah's steadfast devotion to her faith. It was a strange and foreign concept to him, as he had always regarded religion as an antiquated relic of a bygone era. During one of their conversations, Alex discovered Sarah's Sunday ritual of vespers in the park. Her vivid description of the soft, flickering candlelight and the distant echo of hymns intrigued him. At first, he thought it was just another one of her quirky quirks, a strange and somewhat amusing habit that set her apart. As he watched her, her eyes closed and her lips moving in silent prayer, he found himself drawn to her in a way he had never experienced before. Little did Sarah's parents know, Alex's smile concealed a hidden turmoil as he felt the irresistible force of a destiny far beyond his or their daughter's. Attending her church, he felt the weight of his past sins bearing down upon him as if they were physical burdens on his shoulders. Within the hallowed walls of the church, he found solace and a newfound sense of direction, drawn to the spiritual serenity that permeated the space. "Alex, you've changed. My mother told me you sold your motorcycle." He absentmindedly scratched his chin, feeling the rough stubble against his fingertips. "At the hospital, I assist by providing books to patients and conversing with recovery patients. ER is a short distance away from the book storage area. I noticed a man, a bit older than us, who had lost the use of his knees after a tragic accident. I can see why your parents have asked me not to give you rides on it - it's pretty dangerous." When Sarah glanced at him, she noticed the intensity in his eyes. "I enjoy the exhilaration of those rides and the breeze tousling my hair." Alex smiled while pursing his lips. "How do you feel about horses?" Sarah and Alex's journey of discovering their relationship involved making compromises and embracing changes to accommodate their distinct ways of life. Although Sarah had yearned for stability and routine, she wholeheartedly embraced the thrill and unpredictability Alex introduced into her life. At the same time, Alex began to see the value in Sarah's steadfast faith and her unwavering commitment to doing what was right. Observing her purposeful strides through life, he reevaluated his own beliefs and considered the possibility of a deeper meaning to existence. During one of their many weekend excursions, they followed through on his proposal to ride horses instead of the motorcycle. The change seemed to symbolize the transformations that were taking place within them both. Riding through the countryside, Sarah felt the wind rushing through her hair and the sun's warmth on her face, creating a newfound sense of tranquility. Lying on the beach, the seabirds and the horses were the only witnesses to their afternoon. The world was almost perfect. It was nearly as if God led them to the ideal spot. Her gaze shifted towards Alex, his face radiant with pure joy and anticipation, affirming her belief that embracing his wild spirit was the best decision she had ever made. It was as if God, in His infinite wisdom, had sent Sarah to him as a beacon of light, guiding him through the darkness and into the hope of a better tomorrow. Over time, attending church, Alex started to see the potential truth in Sarah's important beliefs. Maybe, just maybe, God was pulling the strings all along. While he pursued his medical education, the years slipped away as they continued to date, their love growing more robust. Sarah took a job with the local realtor. Throughout his internship, Alex worked tirelessly in the local hospital. She, typing in a small office, overheard harsh words from a man who was upset about something. Hal, her boss, left for lunch after the exchange, not realizing the man was not finished. Later that afternoon, the man returned. In the heart of a town that prided itself on civility and order, Sarah found herself ensnared in a grotesque tableau of chaos and violence that would threaten her world. A madman, his soul as dark as the gun he brandished, had claimed her boss's life in a fit of rage. The catalyst? A mere property transaction, a home he professed was his by some twisted right. Sarah's heart pounded in her chest, a wild drumbeat that matched the frenzied thoughts racing through her mind as she hid under her desk. The shots rang out as the harsh words ceased. The echoes of the gunshot still rang in her ears, a macabre symphony that played on an endless loop. The odor of gunpowder lingered, a grim reminder of the life that had been so abruptly extinguished. Hal, a man of integrity and kindness, had been reduced to a lifeless form, a casualty of a dispute that should have been settled in a courtroom, not with a bullet. How could such a thing happen? How could the veneer of civilization be so quickly shattered, revealing the primal savagery that lurked beneath? The world she thought she knew had been irrevocably altered, replaced by a reality where life and death hinged on the sale of a house. As soon as Alex spotted the victim in the ER, his heart sank with worry, already imagining the worst. Leaving the hospital, he was greeted by the dazzling, vibrant lights of the police cars that were still present. Her face was marked by the remnants of mascara, a visible symbol of the heartbreak and terror she had suffered. The madman was on the loose, and Sarah felt unsafe. Saddened by the loss of Hal, he couldn't help but feel a sense of relief knowing she was safe. It seemed as if a divine shield protected her. While physically ok, she was not 'ok.' Feeling betrayed and abandoned, she blamed God for not protecting her boss. Her sudden absence from church raised concerns for Alex, who knew she had always been deeply committed to her faith. Alex knew that church formed an integral part of her identity. The devil had used the madman, and he knew it. Turning people away from God was the devil's job. She loved participating in church activities, especially singing in the choir and volunteering at vacation bible school. Alex made a conscious effort to carve time from his hectic schedule to engage in those activities, hoping that discussing them with her would rekindle memories of her pre-shooting self. In their late twenties, he got down on one knee and asked her to marry him, causing the rest of her life to blur into the background. Hal, the shooting and the odor of gunpowder never vanished, but time seemed to be an integral part of the solution. Sarah's heart filled with fear and excitement, standing in the building that used to be a safe place. The church bells chimed, and she looked up at the once familiar vibrant colors of the stained-glass windows. Mixed feelings of home and betrayal flitted through her mind as she walked the aisle toward her husband-to-be. The white dress hugged her figure perfectly, the radiant flowers in her hair added a touch of whimsy, and the subsequent trip to Spain renewed her vitality. After getting comfortable in their new surroundings, Alex discovered the opportunity to become a deacon in their church. With each passing week, the couple grew more familiar with the feel of their home, settling into the coziness of shared spaces and routines. The nightmares of that fateful day haunted her, the sight and smell of blood jolting her awake on countless nights. With the arrest of the maniac, there seemed to be some closure, but Alex knew it was still on her mind. "Have you considered returning to school or searching for employment?" He inquired. "Why?" "I don't think it's healthy for you to spend the entire day in solitude, with only your thoughts for company." She frowned while glancing at him. "You've been talking with my counselor, haven't you?" "Last I checked, she was our counselor, and I am an integral part of 'us.' Alex could understand her problems without needing the guidance of an expert. The lingering scent of blood on his clothes from surgeries engulfed her senses, causing her to feel immense emotional duress. He was well aware that unraveling the complexities of PTSD would be no simple task. Night after night, Alex would bow down in the dimly lit room, his whispered prayers filling the air. The atmosphere was thick with a sense of divine presence as if the heavens were listening intently to his plea. Just when things seemed to be improving one afternoon, a troubling feeling settled in, signaling that something had gone awry yet again. Alex's heart sank as he observed the distant gaze in Sarah's eyes, which seemed to hold a profound sadness. Something troubled her, but she wasn't prepared to disclose it. He watched her walk away from the kitchen, his heart heavy with concern. His eyes closed, he sought solace in silent prayer, asking for guidance and the strength to be the unwavering support she sought. Unbeknownst to them, their paths were on the verge of intertwining in a manner that would push their faith to its limits and measure the strength of their love. Stepping back into the warm glow of the kitchen, the tantalizing aroma of homemade soup greeted Sarah, instantly making her feel at ease. Yet, as his eyes met Sarah's, he couldn't help but notice the haunting depths beneath her gentle gaze. The slight curve of her lips revealed a hidden battle, and he felt an overwhelming desire to wrap his arms around her and wipe away her sorrow. Sarah sat at the kitchen table, her eyes red and puffy from the tears she held back. To uplift the mood, Alex initiated a lighthearted exchange with her. During his talk, he described the vibrant blossoms that adorned the neighbor's newly landscaped garden, adding a touch of beauty to their surroundings. With every word he spoke, he aimed to relieve her burdens, to paint a smile across her face, and ignite a spark of happiness in her eyes. "Should we put up a white picket fence?" He asked. Sarah smiled. "That seems a little dated. Are you going to convince me it's also fun to paint it, too?" Alex smiled, "Maybe if we did it together, it might be fun to paint." For the moment, the troubles seem to leave as quickly as they surround her. Like morning mist fading away under the gentle touch of the sun's rays, the room's tension dissipated, leaving a sense of calm as they cleaned up the remnants of their evening meal. The sound of dishes clinking and the rhythmic swish of the dishcloth against the countertop filled the room, creating a peaceful atmosphere that seemed to rejuvenate their souls. With a shared understanding born of enduring love, they made their way from the kitchen to the living room, their footsteps echoing with relief. Sarah's usual vivacious spirit seemed to have dimmed, a shadow lingering in the sparkle of her eyes. Alex couldn't help but notice the subtle change in her demeanor as if a veil of gloom had descended upon her previously cheerful disposition. He couldn't ignore the gentle concern that tugged at his heart despite his efforts to brush it off as fleeting emotions. In his quest to unravel the mystery of her subdued countenance, he was reminded of the gentle compassion needed to navigate the intricate tapestry of love, understanding, and faith during life's unforeseen obstacles. As the weeks passed, Sarah's once lively spirit seemed to fade into a calm reserve, her emotions ebbing and flowing like the ever-changing winds. The transformation didn't escape Alex's notice. Once filled with gentle warmth, her laughter was now punctuated by unexpected bouts of silence. In this unfamiliar terrain, Sarah's words, which were once tender and kind, turned harsh, even over leaving his shoes next to the couch instead of neatly tucked in the closet. Amidst the reverberating memories of their shared journey, Alex was immersed in the delicate dance of empathy and forgiveness, each step carrying a reflective sense of weight. Every day, without fail, Alex started with a silent prayer, hoping to find the strength to navigate Sarah's turbulent emotions. Seeking solace in the quiet sanctuary of his heart, he found reassurance in the gentle whispers of love that echoed through his thoughts, reminding him of the unwavering faith they shared. In the intricate web of their intertwined paths, he found solace in the fragrant embrace of their tender moments, like a comforting aroma for their wounded souls. Little did Alex know God had a different path planned, and Sarah, burdened by her inner turmoil, was still unprepared to confront the truth. Their lives resembled a complex tapestry, with mysterious forces silently shaping their paths. Sarah's frustration again reached its boiling point, triggered by the sight of dishes left in the sink. The unspoken truths hung heavily, and Alex could sense their weight. With a quiet resolve born of love and compassion, he knew the time had come to address the unspoken turmoil plaguing their relationship. Surrounded by the rhythmic harmony of their existence, he set out to traverse the delicate terrain of their souls, driven by the unwavering conviction that transparency and empathy would lead them to the profound healing they both longed for. Her once warm eyes now held a cold and distant look as Sarah's gaze bore into him. "I'm late!" she huffed, her words laced with a mixture of fear and anger directed at the person who held her heart. As the stillness settled around them, Alex felt a tingling sensation crawl up his spine, a physical manifestation of the complex emotions swirling within. Surrounded by the tumultuous whirlwind of life, tears streamed down Alex's face. Taken aback by the intensity of Alex's raw emotions, Sarah felt herself being pulled into a vortex of perplexity. Sarah searched his face for any indication of his true feelings. She noticed a slight furrowing of his brow, leaving her uncertain if his sudden vulnerability was a sign of anger or happiness. With a heavy heart, she couldn't shake the nagging suspicion that this unexpected intrusion would somehow create a rift between them. Her fears were instantly forgotten as he wrapped his arms around her in a tender embrace. "I am so happy!" he cried, his face beaming with glee. The confusion etched on her face as Sara's eyes met Alex's. Her brow furrowed, her lips parted slightly, and her eyes darted back and forth between Alex's calm demeanor and the positive pregnancy test in her hand. The question lingering in the air was evident. Sara couldn't comprehend why Alex didn't seem upset or worried about her pregnancy. Instead, he was offering her a warm, supportive smile. Sara felt trapped in a whirlwind of emotions. Was he masking his true feelings, or was he genuinely relieved? She hesitated for a moment before finally breaking the silence. Her voice wavered as she sought answers. "Aren't you scared at all? This is a big deal, Alex. We haven't even discussed this, and now we're having a baby." Alex reached out and gently grasped Sara's hand, his touch reassuring and comforting. The sincerity in his voice was evident as he replied, "I know it's a lot to take in, but I'm not scared. We've talked about wanting a family, and now we have the chance. I know we can handle this together." Sara's eyes searched Alex's face for any trace of doubt or uncertainty. Still, she only found love, support, and a steadfast determination to face their new reality as parents. Sarah's guilt overwhelmed her as she couldn't stop thinking about the pamphlet from Planned Parenthood tucked away in her purse. Determined to keep that little secret from him, she would cancel her appointment in the morning after he left for work. Their arms wrapped around each other, and she could feel their love seeping into every fiber of her being, dispelling any lingering hesitations. The child was a gift from God, and there was no doubt in her mind. Bathed in the soft glow of moonlight, Alex and Sarah shared a passionate embrace, their souls intertwining. Alex's voice, filled with gratitude, resonated through the stillness of the night, offering solace to Sarah's troubled heart. Her silent prayer carried a distinct quiver, reflecting the delicate balance between vulnerability and conviction as she opened her heart while pleading for forgiveness.


“What is that?” He asked, dropping down beside me on the bed. “Not sure.” I answered, spinning it between my hands. He took the chance to crawl up beside me, laying his cheek on my chest. I smiled to myself, laying the book on my chest so I could play with one of his curls. He didn’t take a moment to pull it off my chest and begin looking over it himself. “It’s a book.” He muttered, resting its weight on my chest. “Is it?” I rolled my eyes. “I had no idea.” He poked his tongue out at me and went back to fiddling with the book, pulling at the straps that kept it shut. I didn’t say anything, simply watching him as his tongue poked from the corner of his mouth while he struggled with the book. “Why won’t it open?” He asked, shifting so that he was sitting up beside me now. I glanced up at him, my fingers touching against his side lightly. “It’s locked. With magic.” Curiosity brightened his eyes. “A challenge!” I couldn’t help the chuckle that left me as he scrambled out of the bed, the book tucked under his arm. I propped myself up on my elbow and watched him set the book on his desk. Piles of books and a flurry of parchment were cleared from the centre of the desk. Some of the parchment spilled off onto the floor. “You’re making a mess.” I said lightly. He turned in his seat, giving me a manic grin. “Who cares about mess when there’s a mystery to solve!” I laid back down on my bed, listening to him mutter to himself. There was the sound of popping, one of his spells being cast. Then silence. I opened one eye to glanced at the desk and he began muttering again. He hadn’t opened the lock. He was cursing now, under his breath. I enjoyed listening to him descend into madness. He always got so agitated when he couldn’t figure something out right away. I wondered how long it would take him to realise I had simply glued the straps down. There was more popping, and another curse from him. I couldn’t help the grin that spread over my face, but I kept my eyes closed so that I couldn’t see him. If I saw his face, I thought I would just simply start laughing. “I can’t give up.” He snapped over his shoulder. “I can’t even detect the spell that they used. It has to be some really strong stuff. Oh, I can’t wait to see what’s in the book.” Nothing, there was nothing in the book but blank pages. I’d bought it for him so he could fill it with his research. The straps had just been attached, and they wouldn’t stay in place. The book binder had simply glued them down so they would bend and learn the shape they needed to have. The glue would wear off in three days. In three days, he would find out that the book was empty, and I was probably going to get my ass singed. It was going to be a wonderful three days of peace. I put my hands behind my head and relaxed while I listened to him mutter over his work.


“Three beautiful kids, a husband who completely dotes on you, a big house, what else could you want in life, Mindy?” mum said to me, trying to put on the same stern voice that she did when she wanted to put her point across. Only that now she was a lot older and her voice was shaky. “A great career, mum!” I said, throwing the sepia-toned envelope on the table next to her. I had tears in my eyes that I was trying very hard to stop from rolling down my cheeks.

“You do have a great career. You think it’s easy to be a banker?” she said. “Stop pretending as if you don’t know what I’m saying,”

I said, pointing at the letter. “It was a mistake calling you over for a few days!”

I laughed and said in all sarcasm, “Yes, and it was a mistake that I decided to clean up the store room! Strange, you did not stop me!” She was quiet.

I continued. I had to vent out my anger. “Oh! Unless you had no idea that I would find this!” I nearly screamed, again pointing at the letter. “As a matter of fact I had completely forgotten about it!” mum said in a low tone, as if making a confession. “What a shame! It should’ve been bothering you all the time. You’ve no conscience, mum? What are you made of?” “What makes you think that I did not think of it after I got the letter? You think I’m made of stone? I of course did all this for your own good! Saved you from living a life full of hardship.” “Ha! My good!” I snorted.

“And yes, it did hurt me for many years but then it all faded away when I saw your growth, great married life, kids and good job.” “I would have got all of this anyway!” “So you think!” she said.

“Thank you for ruling over my life, mum!” I almost yelled as I picked up the letter from the table. I gave her one last look before leaving the living room. She looked me in the eye, no regrets. We both knew this was perhaps our last conversation with each other. I went up to my room, the room where i had spent my entire childhood and part of adulthood too, looked around one final time and then packed my bags. I kept the letter in my hand bag and made my way out of the house. I knew mum could see me from where she was sitting in her rocking chair in the living room. I did not look back. She did not call for me either.

I walked a bit away from my home, dragging my bag. I then stopped and booked a cab that came in less than a minute. Mani and kids were supposed to join me over the weekend at mum’s place and then we were to go back home together in our car. It was a one-hour journey that went by very quietly.

As I sat in the cab, I went back to my past , 20 years ago. 20 years was a long time. I was barely 17 or 18 then. Fresh out of school. Full of vigour. Teena, my best friend, and I shared the same dreams and the same goal. We knew what we wanted to become in life when we grew up. In fact she was my source of inspiration. “Are you sure you can do it?” I clearly remember her asking me when we were in Year 8.

I was offended.

“What do you mean by saying if I can do it?” I said angrily.

She laughed, the ice cream was melting so she continued eating it without stopping. “Well, I just asked! There is nothing to get so red about!” she answered, finishing her ice cream.

“Yes, I can do it and I will do it!” I said, sounding fully determined.

“Great! Dad is enrolling me in a summer camp next month. Would you like to join too?” Teena asked. “I don’t think my folks would mind,'' I said. Would it be ok if your dad called up mine and explained to him about the summer camp?” I asked. “It makes sense, yes! I will ask him to call your dad then.” And he sure did. Dad looked at me with a surprise when he found out about the summer camp that I wanted to enrol in. “Go for it!” he said and patted my back. I remember that was the last year too when he was at home. He and mum had separated then. He continued to meet me but it became lesser every year as he moved to another continent.

I tried recalling what was mum’s reaction then. Was she happy with the decision? Was she miffed? I could not remember. I tried hard but I couldn’t. The summer camp that year and the following two years were the best ever moments in my life. I was glad that I had met Teena. She came as a blessing in my life. Giving me a life goal. I could see the spark in her eyes.

It was as if she had passed on some of that spark to me as well. I still remember that day when I reached home all excitedly. “Teena made it, mum! Have I received the letter too?” I asked in all enthusiasm. “Yes, but no, you did not make it, I’m afraid,” she said. I don't remember mum’s tone now. Was it bland? Was it apologetic? Did she come over and hug me?

“Oh!” I said. I could not believe it. I had no words. I had just met Teena and she was jumping with joy with tears flowing out of both our eyes. It had never occurred to me that there is always a chance of being rejected. I just looked at the letter lying on the table. I went to my room. The letter was still there. I had broken the news to Teena, who couldn’t believe it either. That was the last summer we spent time together. She joined the army. I took up Business Studies in college. We did not keep in touch thereafter. It was too bitter for me. I regretted not getting into the army. I never touched the letter….until now.

 Mum knew I would believe her. She played with my emotions then. Tears finally rolled down my eyes as I opened the letter congratulating me for making it to the army. I smiled. I had not failed after all.


y hand slides under my pack in my light slumber, my fingers lightly coming into contact with my pistol. The feeling of cold steel roused me from my sleep. As I drifted awake the feeling of the Firearm under my makeshift pillow was almost comforting , given the environment I was now in. By habit my hand grips the gun as if I were preparing to fire, even if I were still mostly sleeping. My eyelids seem to weigh hundreds of pounds as I tried to open them. I was never a morning person even before all the world came to an abrupt end. I slowly unzipped the almost worn out sleeping bag I was in and sat up. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and checked my surroundings, attempting to remember where I'd decided to camp out during the night. I saw the room in partial light that is filtering through the cracks in the boards nailed to the window frame, my eyes snap to the doorway by instinct. Closed and barricaded, like I had left it. "Thank God!" I exclaimed to the hallowed room. My eyes continued to scan finding it completely void of all furniture except for the destitute chest of drawers against the door. Slowly I made my way to my feet, my joints cracking and popping like a patient at an old folks home. "Well that's not getting easier." I again said to the desolate room. Just as the words flew from my mouth I heard a thud from above. The sound reverberating off the walls. "Shit." I thought in a panic to myself "I forgot to clear the upstairs last night." The guttural groans then began to filter through the floor above my head. “This is gonna hurt.” My spine tingled at the vibrations that the baritone sounds produced. I slowly packed my things into my rucksack trying to be dead silent so as to not make my guest aware of my presence. Once finished I slung the pack over my shoulder. I then picked up my 1911 from its resting spot on the ground. I pressed the mag release and dropped the magazine into my hand. "Eight rounds, full." I whispered to myself as the bullets glinted in the sunlight. The magazine seemed to vibrate in my hand with the energy contained in each round. The round sticking out had a tiny cross engraved onto the surface of the metallic copper that was the tip. I then slid the magazine into my pistol and with a heavy pull on the slide I racked a single bullet in the chamber with a satisfying clack, as the gun's mechanisms did their job. I then tapped my chest in search of my Catholic cross. I wrapped my hands around it and began a small prayer. "Dear Lord let me be your sword as you are my shield. Forgive me for the sins I must commit for the safety of your kingdom. Please guide my bullets and let my shots reign true in battle. Amen." I said at a barely audible level just before kissing the cross. The words that came out felt so...rehearsed because I had probably said that same prayer a hundred times. Another loud thud resonated from the ceiling, making me jump and pushing the adrenaline into my bloodstream. I quickly yet quietly holstered the Firearm then moved the chest of drawers from the doorway. The groan of the large piece of furniture was only arrested by the fact I pressed my whole body against it. I then opened the solid wooden door and made my way into what I would have guessed was supposed to be some sort of "Man Cave" before the collapse. Complete with all the regional sports team decals littering the walls. I remember this team being the rivals of my dads sports team before everything went to ***Hell***. With my heart pounding in my ears as I tried to make my footfalls as silent as possible against the basement’s concrete floor, I passed the door I had entered last night - the glass from the broken French door now glinting in the sun of a new day. I made my way to the stairs and began to head up at an almost impossibly slow pace, building tension in every step. I had become accustomed to the way you had to move around in this new world I found myself in. Silence was key because every corner could have some new danger , some new threat, and the less noise you made the less you had to deal with. I reached the landing at the top of the stairs, my brain firing on all cylinders as the moan rang out through the ground floor once again. I slowly creeped towards the source of the noise , keeping my exit strategy in the back of my mind. My hand glided down to my 1911 as if by instinct. "Too loud." I whispered to myself as I reached for my opposite hip. The clasp on my knife popped off effortlessly as I drew the blade from its sheath. The steel glinted in the morning sun, which was sneaking through the sheer curtains by the main entryway. The blade itself was well used but the carving on the hilt was what made it truly useful. A cross not too unlike the one hanging from my neck was engraved on the surface of the dark wood. Step by step I made my way deeper into the house passing by this perfectly preserved specimen of what used to be called a home. It wasn't too long ago I used to live in something akin to this house. I came upon the door I suspected was the one imprisoning the abomination making the dreadful growl. Thump thump thump, the sound of my heart filled my ears as I reached for the door. I turned the knob slowly and with a small almost inaudible click the door started to open. I then pushed my head towards the small crack I had made in some attempt to see my very much unwanted guest. My eyes fell upon a gnarled corpse on the bed. The body was as if it had been mummified. The ribcage of the corpse was splayed open wide with what was left of the internals exposed to the air. Each organ that was on display seemed to want to crumble to dust at the slightest touch. The long dark hair of the corpse was draped over the side of the bed, matted and clumped from what I would assume would have been blood from a long time ago. I was glued to the gruesome sight until the growl resonated from the opposite side of the door. The waves of sound shook me to the core, the fight was now and my body knew it. With a swift motion I stepped back and kicked the door with all my might. With a meaty THUD the door collided with my unknowing foe. The door then swung wide putting my new adversary Directly in my line of sight. The grotesque figure of what I assume was a man fell before me , his pale skin drawn across his elongated bones as if a small fissure would cause the whole of his skin to tear clean off. The Eye sockets of the abomination were empty and seemed to have descended into the skull. I quickly raised my knife above my head and ran at the creature. With a high pitched screech the monster took to his feet and began his own charge. I swung the knife towards it and made contact with the right arm of the beast. The steel hissed against the blood and flesh it was now buried in. My heart was pounding into my ears as the creature took a swipe. I ducked below the swing but lost my grip on the handle of my knife. Scrambling I rolled to the side out the door attempting to gain an upper hand. Panicking I Bolted from the room and made my way back to the stairs, the Thing not far behind me. The sickening sound of the creature’s nails against the floor as it scrambled towards me only made me panic more. “Fuck” was the only word flooding my mind, repeating over and over. I came to the stairs and was quickly knocked over by my adversary. Before I had time to react I was on my back, a sharp pain fired out through my left shoulder. The fucker had jumped on me and bit me, it’s jagged teeth were still sinking into me. I took the opportunity that I was given and grabbed the hilt of my blade. Rearing back I worked my legs under the thing and pushed against it’s center mass. Luckily this caught it off guard just enough that it loosened its hold and with a gruesome pull the mouth of the monstrosity was free from my shoulder as well as my knife from it’s bicep as it began a forceful descent down the flight of stairs. I quickly clambered to my feet chasing it down the stairs and with a leap of faith onto it’s waist I thrust my knife into its chest. Immediately the struggle stopped as the ***Demon*** crumbled into dust , the smell of sulfur and brimstone filling the tiny room. I slumped against the wall and slowly slid down until I was seated. With a deep exhale I reached for the tin of hand rolled cigarettes I kept in my jacket. I popped the tin to find I only had three left. “Figures.” I said as I placed the cigarette into my mouth and lit it.


Nine brothers—a full baseball team. From ages seven to eighteen, their presence turned a group into a crowd. Each personality differed from the rest, making it impossible for anyone to mix them up. Even the twins, Reece and Rivers, made sure no one dared mistake one for the other. Each day was a new, undiscovered game to be discovered. Though they all favored their own sports in their own seasons, spring was the time when all schedules aligned—baseball season. Arlo, nine and a half years old, stood over home plate. It was after school, just before the season started, so the wind was bitter and rosy noses were visible under their hats. Sawyer prepared his next pitch, the ball shifting in his frozen fingers. The twin’s tall figures loomed over left and right field, all eyes watching, waiting for the next move. Sawyer wound up, the ball flying from his hands. Despite his young age, Arlo's fingers itches at the bat. When the bat and ball connected, it felt to Arlo as if he had hit it to the very clouds—which could have been very possible with how low they sat in the sky that day. “Run, Arlo, run!” Micheal shouted from first base. Arlo realized he had stood stationary, his bat still in hand, watching the ball soar. Not his first homerun, but certainly one of his favorites. His fingers and toes numb, Arlo ran as fast as he could. The boys in the outfield were shouting to those in the infield, but the ball was nowhere to be found. Out of breath and smiling, Arlo ran back to home plate. “Where is the ball?” Judah shouted behind Arlo, his catcher’s mask on the ground. Judah’s curly hair stuck out at odd angles from underneath his hat, just like Arlo’s. Rivers and Everest had jumped the weeded-over fence at the back of the field, disappearing into the trees. Several minutes later, they hadn’t returned, so all the boys remaining in the field made their way towards the fence. Reece and Sawyer peered over, calling out to locate Rivers and Everest. Judah, the eldest, hopped over the fence to look for them. “Stay here unless I call for you—they probably are looking for the ball farther in and can’t hear us.” Leaving with those instructions, the remaining six boys stood around Arlo congratulating him for his hit. Ten minutes later, according to Moses’s watch, neither Judah, Rivers or Everest had returned. No longer did they concern themselves with the excitement of the homerun, but the missing brothers. “What should we do?” asked Sawyer. “Go look for them, of course,” Replied Reece, already half over the fence. “But Judah said to stay,” Moses whined anxiously. Arguing ensued. Arlo, Reece, and Owen all wanted to go look for them, while Sawyer, Moses, and Lincoln were nervous and undecided. “Maybe we should go tell Mom?” Lincoln whispered, his small round face near tears. The brothers stopped their arguing, looking at him like he was insane. Lincoln turned red and buried his face into Moses’s shirt. Rubbing the back of his neck, Reece rejoined the group on their side of the fence. “Maybe only half of us go?” He offered, still not backing down but calming for Lincoln’s sake. “But what will the rest of us do if you don’t come back?” Sawyer questioned, crossing his arms. “Go tell Mom?” The boys remained silent, thinking through the plan. “We will all go. That way we can search faster and keep an eye on everyone,” Sawyer decided for everyone. Moses and Lincoln looked at each other nervously, but agreed. Looking above the high fence, each one made his climb. When Arlo found himself on the other side of the fence, nothing was different from the times he had climbed over before; weeds covered the ground and sunlight shone through the trees. Rivers, Everest, and Judah were nowhere to be found. “Let's look towards where the swamp should be…the one with the alligators,” Reece suggested, walking away from the fence.

“ Alligators? ” cried Lincoln. “Yeah—well, not really. Blake next door said he hopped this fence once and hiked all the way towards a swamp three miles away,” explained Moses, following Reece. “And apparently it had alligators.” The boys searched for forty more minutes until they found the missing brothers. Judah, Everest, and Rivers had found the ball—and a dragon. Reece, Arlo, Owen, Moses, Sawyer and Lincoln stood with their mouths open. The tiny red dragon romped through the fallen leaves, the beaten baseball in its mouth. Everest was on his hands and knees, miming a dog to play with the dragon. Rivers held a stick, trying to pry the ball from its mouth. Judah stood nearby, the tips of his hair charred and black. “Did I really hit the ball this far?” Arlo exclaimed, grinning at the ball in the dragon’s mouth. Laughing, Rivers shook his head. “We have been following this little guy for hours—Judah almost scared him away when he found us. The ball was only a little ways beyond the fence.” The brothers stood in a circle in awe of the dragon. “Why didn’t you call for us? We were worried you were abducted by aliens,” Moses fretted, though not entirely concerned, instead watching the dragon spit shoots of fire while prancing about the ball.

Each boy took his turn rolling and tossing the ball for the dragon, losing track of time—except Moses of course, who had been checking his watch every few minutes. Thankfully for the sake of childhood memories of the young boys, Moses kept his mouth shut as the hours passed by. It was only when the bottoms of their bellies began to rumble that they decided they must bid their goodbyes. Promising to return the next day, if the weather permitted, the boys climbed back over the fence. At the back of their minds, they hoped the dragon would follow them home—even though they knew that their mother would make them send him back.