Here is a world where a hooded figure found a cat. The trees were upside down, the sky was orange, the grass was red and the sea was pink. In this world, nothing conformed to the deterministic realities of our world. However, this is a conversation that I will try my best to interpret and relay to the unsuspecting or probably curious reader that found this somewhere. I will go again, this world was not our world, yet this interaction, between a hooded figure and this cat, was a human, natural and emotional exchange of fragmented community. Minding their own business, the cat somehow got himself trapped. That’s what was told to me. Furthermore, this figure was walking around the anonymous world, doing his regular duties as a watcher; e had been to our world numerous times. He found the cat trapped, more so its hind legs had caught a nasty bite from a hidden bear trap, it had crunched its legs tight, the blood slightly dribbling from its right hind leg. The cat in itself was short hair, black fur with emerald green eyes, it contrasted with the general environment making it stand out a lot more. It was angry. The hooded figure walked up to it and started this conversation with a sympathetic tone. “Are you alright?” The figure asked. The cat, obviously in a bad mood, spat on the ground, “Does it look like I’m alright? I’m fine and dandy! Just a regular morning for me! I can walk home at anytime.” The hooded person knew this was the result of the intense frustration of having one’s leg be trapped by a sharp mechanism intent on causing confusion and delay to the victim’s brain, along with crunched bones, so they leant down and got their skeletal hands and prepared to pull the trap wide open so the cat could escape. “You better run once I push this forward. I won’t be able to hold it for much longer.” The cat laughed, “Ha! Oh please don’t, I’ll be fine here.” The figure’s head titled at that response, “Your sarcasm is not helping you, nor is it helping my patience *for* you.” “What?! Can’t take a joke?” “Far from it really, it just seems you’re more than happy being stuck in this bear trap for the rest of your miserable nine lives.” The cat shook its head, yanking the leg further. “If I could I would tear your skin off and eat it.” “Why the hostility cat? I offered to help you.” “That you did, but you’d rather piss about and talk to me rather than get the job done.” The cat spat on the floor once more. “I was warning you and giving you preparations to move. If you’re offended by that, I might as well take my leave.” The hooded figure stood up, preparing to leave, until the cat suddenly had a strike of fear that slithered throughout his spine because as the hooded figure turned around, the cat’s hairs were up and he suddenly looked scared. “Wait! Wait! Stay!” The hooded figure turned around, “What is it now?” “D-don’t go!” “I do not conceive your reasoning here, cat, you’re going back on forth, suffering from mood swings, what do you want me to do?” The cat seemed ashamed of his past behaviour towards the hooded individual and looked down on the crimson-red grass solemnly. “Please do not leave me…I have no one else to help me.” The hooded figure had regained a slight fraction of sympathy for the cat. “What is the matter then?” “I…I have no idea what’s with me.” “I will ask again, what’s the matter, cat?” “How much?” “How much?” “Yes, how much must I pay you so I can get out of this trap.” “You mustn’t give me anything, I was doing it out of the goodwill of my heart.” “Oh no no, you want something don’t you?” “Cat, let me help you.” “It doesn’t feel right!” “Why not?” “Because…because…I take everything from everyone. It only seems fair that I must give you something for wasting your precious seconds on saving me.” “I’ve wasted more than that because of your rudeness. I can see now that you don’t mean that. You were scared, I assume.” The cat did not answer. “Why do you look so glum?” “I know who you are.” responded the cat after a strange silence. “Do you now?” the hooded figure stood up from his crouching position, looking down at the cat. “Yes, you are the one that the Others call “Grimm”, one who sails vigorously to grab the essence of life from ones that are already at your door. You’re the one that I have been running away from.” “I do not seem to understand, why were you running?” “Because I’ve cheated! I’ve cheated everything that I have. I’ve cheated my family, my partner, just put myself inside of her then ran off, left my offspring to starve in this wide land and for what? To die to some carnivorous T-Rex who just sees them as nothing more but a small cell of a snack? You must know that as well, seeing the Others as small things.” The hooded spectre loomed over the cat and released the bear trap without further struggle, the cat leapt a small height before dragging the wounded leg across the grass. “The important question is what do *you* want?” The hooded figure asked. “...I want you to take it.” “Your soul?” “Yes! I cannot live with this infectious guilt anymore. I cannot live with the idea that the poor mistress I ruined is going to have to live without me and-” A hand was raised, and the spectre shook its head. “Come down to where I work. I will mark you as a creature of uncertainty. The Others have made a discussion on whether cats like you bring them destruction or fortune. Think of it as a blessing and a curse. An existence of contradictions.” “You’ll give me another chance while toying with me?” “Yes. I feel sympathetic to your emotions but I hate your actions. This seems to be the only way. Now go.” The cat finished its story to me, when I asked what was the transition, the cat stated that it fell asleep only to wake up in a luscious green field where the sky was blue and the trees were brown. The grass was no longer red. I found the cat while on my many walks, since I live a secluded life, I thought it would be best to have some company. It was confusing when I tried to feed it, groom it, and all the other regular conventions you might assume. When it began talking, I was taken aback, naturally, yet I seemingly accepted it quite quickly than any other normal individual. Despite having characteristics otherworldly, the cat could not help but have wobbly legs. Always flopping in excitement when I brought the canned tuna out. We made good company with each other for five years until he grew old. He stopped eating, tapping my head to wake me up, licking my legs when a trace of tuna somehow got onto me. His hair began to grow grey, and his eyes went pale. He then decided to tell me this story. He died the next day. Thanking me for giving him a pleasant life. I see what the hooded spectre meant by an existence of contradictions. He was fortunate to be given a second chance at life, and now I sit here writing this entire interaction without the company of a friend.


I promise I'm not a creep. Well, I try not be but sometimes I just can't help but take a double take (sometimes a triple too) whenever I see a beautiful girl walking around. And hey, it's not I'm the only one who does that. Sure, there aren't a lot of bisexual girls in this country who openly showcase their interest in a girl and end up looking like a lost puppy gazing at a random stranger. But hey, cut some slack alright? There is a really good reason as to why I stick with just looking and lamenting over my singlehood instead of shooting my shot. "Hi. Sorry for bothering you but I just wanted to say that I think you look really pretty." Great opening line for a conversation with a stranger right? NO! Not when you are a girl, hitting on a girl in a majorly homophobic society and very little awareness about sexuality amongst people. "I'm sorry, but do I know you?" - Standard reply which is expected but rarely received because hey, why should I be polite with a stranger who's talking to me nicely and just complimented me? The most common response has to be a confused, borderline disgusted face expression, followed by a cold shoulder. This is a clear indication that she's not interested in any sense whatever. Otherwise, it's either of the following responses - 1. Instant Friend-Zone "Oh thank you. I think you look nice too." A friendly response, followed by a friendly smile. "This might sound really weird, but I was thinking if I could get your number, because I would love to get to know you more." At this point, I'm literally shaking with nervousness. Asking for their number is the second most nerve-racking stage of the conversation. Which is the most, you ask? You'll see. "Umm, why do you want my number?" Here comes the crossroad, it's either coming out as a bisexual to a complete stranger and tell them that you are asking them out on a date, or friend zone yourself and hope that someday you might be able to tell them that you are attracted to them. This, right here is where I'm ready to throw in the towel and take off running. Anxiety shooting through the roof, I just stand there contemplating my life decisions while that girl simply walks away. Pre-mature heartbreaks hurt a lot, especially when you know that you never had a chance. 2. Stranger Danger A straight up ignore to my actions is something I'm used to (flirting with friends is really very masochistic). But my desperate heart never understood when to stop. "Hey, I know this really random and you might not even know why a girl is out of nowhere talking to you, but I'd like to know you better. That is if you agree too." Pretty lame, right? I know but when you're standing next to a pretty girl and trying to talk to her, you tend to say a lot of lame things, so excuse me. "I'm sorry, I don't want to talk to you. I don't actually socialise with strangers." And then they simply walk away, unaware of the fact that they just took my heart and squeezed the life out of it. Rejections are something you can never get completely used too, no matter how many times you face them. Believe me, I know. The sheer amount of times I've been rejected by girls, be it by simply disregarding my advances and laughing them off or just walking away from the awkward situation, I could write an entire book titled, "How to 'NOT' Ask a Girl Out if You Are a Girl! |100+ Ways that you should AVOID to achieve Success|" Speaking of painful rejections, the worst has to be having my sexuality ignored for the sake of normality. The best example of this are conversations with friends. Usually people think that talking with friends is easy, that they understand each other and open about such things. Again, NO! Not when most people treat LGBTQ+ people like how they deal with people with special abilities. They exist, it's completely normally and should be treated equally. Of course, everyone believes that the rest should treat them nicely. But when faced with the same situation, they end up being ignorant and arrogant. Yeah, ableism is real. Get your facts straight. "Hey man, could you not talk that way? It's really weird." "Dude, you really should not flirt with everyone you see. That's so uncomfortable to look at. " "Could you not always talk about your sexuality? It's not your entire personality, you know." "Can we talk about something a bit more relatable please? Most of us are straight, you know." I mean, I understand where they are coming are from. Since I also believed that I was straight for quite a while, I know that they might feel a bit out of place. But being called out like this every time, just because my tastes are different, is really painful and embarrassing. To a point where I feel that it's easier to act like I'm straight and deal with the rising internal homophobia, than to actually be myself and face the embarrassment of not being able to have a conversation with my "friends" and supposedly making them uncomfortable. All this, is not a unique experience. People from LGBTQ+ community everywhere face these kinds of situations every single day, ranging from external symbols to false realisations about being fake, abnormal, wrong. But yeah, this has been my journey from being a happy, bubbly 'straight' extrovert to becoming a reclusive and quite bisexual, who spends most of time watching lesbian and gay Tik-Toks, reading absurd Fan Fictions, confused between dying my hair and piercing my ears, always keeping a filter on my words because I'm not ready to come out to my parents, thinking and re-evaluating my sexuality. (Am I actually straight and pretending to be Bi just for attention? Or am I really a lesbian and pretending to be attracted to guys because of compulsory heterosexuality? Or am I pansexual and unaware about it because I'm afraid of the consequences of being outed? Or am I asexual and just pretending to be attracted to someone just for validation?) And imagining how it would feel like to have a life where I don't need to worry about whom I love. ~~~~~ And to anyone who's reading this and going through this too, I'm really sorry that this world can't treat you right, like you deserve to be. I'm really sorry that you aren't able to be happy being yourself. And I hope that someday, this all will change for better. And it doesn't, well we all are gonna die one day anyway right?


The western world didn't end with a bang or even a clamor. It was a quiet death that allowed people to get comfortable with it before it really happened. As with anyone who watches someone pass from a prolonged illness, there's almost a sense of grip and letting go days before the end. For the world, the gripping motion tore most of the modern countries apart. All manner of national law, trade agreements, and human decency seemed to be up for grabs. Larger governments failed to keep their power leaving cities to cite pre-industrial days, building walls and restricting movement. It seemed everyone was convinced their neighbor would not be their salvation but their enemy in the days to come, and most stockpiled in the way you'd expect. There was a run on banks, grocery stores, gun and ammunition ranges, and oddly, libraries. It seemed information was finally more important than the risk of overdue fines. There were millions of suicides. Almost as if the media had a single order from the top, the news began explaining how the catastrophe predicted by science wouldn't be as bad as previously theorized. The news anchors tried old tactics of distraction, focusing attention on inane celebrity lives and feel good stories of families who stuck together through tragedy. It didn't work. The suicides continued and the population of the world was cut by two thirds, in the modest estimations. It wasn't just self-harm though. Humanity can do amazing and terrible things in the same breath. Whole towns that decided to create a stockpile system for citizens would be overrun by a few, taking everything with them after ending any chance of retribution. I wept when I heard of the first like this. By the seventh city massacre, I was no longer interested in how the outside world was collapsing. I looked inwardly and began to plan. I was near enough to adolescence that I understood what might happen. What had already occurred would not be the worst of it. No one took the time to explain to me what I should be preparing for but I'd seen enough movies to know to be ready for zombies or (more likely) the collapse of society. I didn't let the transition to godless barbarians rip my family apart. I decided to walk away first. I'd never been close with my mother or father. They weren't close themselves so when Dad unlocked the gun cabinet and allowed each of us to choose our own, it seemed best to take the gift and go. I'll never know what the actual plan was or if Dad had even had one. If the world was going to end, I wasn't about to let the last conversations of my life to be arguments concerning what was and wasn't any longer. I don't know if they looked for me. I know I didn't look back. As I was packing my stuff the night my father had given me the gun, I realized that most of what I had would be useless in a hard world. I looked around and settled with the basics. There were items that I would need on the way and I began to enter them on my phone. Realizing how stupid it was to depend on tech that would give up in the next few days, I put my phone in my 'maybe' pile. In the end the only personal item I packed was a piece of glass cut to make rainbows. My grandmother had given it to me before she'd passed. As she put it in my palm, she told a story about how your loved ones can visit on rainbows when you see them. It may have been a child's reasoning, but I was a child. The first of millions about to take on their own independence and I clung to any idea that I would not be alone. The dissonance of actively leaving my family but hanging onto a spun tale about dead relatives visiting is clear to me now. It was the end of the world and I don't blame myself for holding onto it. In fact, I hang it every night before I go to sleep, so when I wake up I can say hello to everyone I loved. It works. The first few months were harder than I expected. Despite my decision to strike out on my own, I wasn't ready to go feral from the start. I lost my pack and all my belongings three times before I gave up my attachment to things. The first and second beat downs, I fought. I found my instinct to hold onto what was mine hard to break even when the second batch had been cobbled together from remnants of houses left to rot. The third time I still lost my items I didn't fight as vehemently and was mostly bruised due to insolence. The fourth time I didn't fight at all. When it was clear they were more willing to harm than I was, I dropped my bag and walked away. I kept my hat that time. My rainbow-catcher had long since been hidden away, embarrassingly, inside me. There was no pocket I could guarantee safe passage for something so precious. So I'd stuck it the one place it would be worse for someone to steal than the rainbow-catcher. That first year, I celebrated my 15th birthday over a fire with a can of beans. They were delicious. I developed a routine. I'd scout each new area for a day, darting around until I found the best and most vacant looking house to sleep in. I was aided by a taboo that began when suicides became common. While humanity fell apart for the living, those who'd left this world brought back superstition in the extreme. No one raided the house of someone who'd killed themselves. It just wasn't done. It was likely this habit, rather than all the other less than angelic ones I developed, that made me notorious. I didn't see the dead as the rest of the living did. I knew the spirits were gone and the only way they could visit was on a rainbow. I'd put my catcher up in the house at night and stay until I saw a rainbow. You'd think this was only on sunny days but rainbows are everywhere. When I finally saw one, I took it as the spirit's blessing and allowed myself to resupply. After another night of sleep I would move on. My education hadn't been fully executed at the time of the collapse. I took it upon myself to learn from any books on useful topics in the houses I slept in. These I kept with or without a spirit's blessing. Admittedly those books were the hardest things to lose. I developed the ability to speed read and an extremely good memory. I started with an emphasis on science hoping to learn things that might help when I was a bloody pulp. It wasn't until I found an A-Z herbal remedy book that I started to learn anything useful. With that new knowledge I was able to scavenge herbs with confidence, finding bottles to keep them in. I would work on my medicine cloak at night when it was too dark to ready by firelight. The cloak was red and was full of pockets. It was first item of red I began to wear regularly, inspired by a favourite story I'd read before the collapse. These were good times. There were bad and terrible nights. Nights when food and fire were scarce. I couldn't always find the kind of home I preferred to sleep in. In my travels I found a pop-up tent, the kind you get for an over-privileged child. That was freedom itself and I slept in nature with delight. Eventually, as all things seemed to, my tent and other items were lost to a bastard who was stronger and meaner than I was. I knew my life was more important than what I could scavenge. The benefit of living in a world of such previous consumption was that there would be surplus of items for years, if you kept moving as I did. I let the tent go and went back to living in houses of suicide victims. As I traveled I kept a specific checklist for scavenging. I wasn't picky but I did become particular. If I found an item in better state than I had, I would lose the first and keep the second. I kept my eye out for tent supplies as I could. After creating my cloak I found my favorite color of clothing was red. I decided it would be the only color I wore when I found a collection of Deadpool comics. His assertion that it made him a better fighter was enough for me. I'd take whatever red clothing, male or female, from the closets of those blessed houses. I didn't wash clothing, just threw it out when it became to unbearable to continue wearing it. My cloak was the only thing I washed on a regular basis. This was more to ensure my herbal supplies weren't ever exposed to anything deadly than a preference for being clean. The red and natural smell made me feel like a poison dart frog, just rank enough to be left alone unless my attacker was truly desperate. There'd only been a few times when I'd been attractive enough for someone to try at taking my rainbow-maker. The first time it saved me. As they entered my virginity, they were not gentle and rammed themselves so hard there was an audible snap. My attacker was so wracked with pain it allowed me to curb-stomp his nose in and run away, with my pack and virginity mostly intact. The second time I was not so lucky. The woman had fooled me into having a cup of tea at her fire. She'd been quick with the leaf and before I recognized the strong sip of valerian, a powerful sleeping drug, she was on me. She found my rainbow-catcher and removed it deftly, flinging it and its leather cord into the fire. Once she'd satisfied herself, she took all my belongings and left me with only rags of clothing. It was difficult to move the next day and it wasn't until the evening that I had the strength to search through the ash of the fire for the glass. The rainbow-catcher cleaned up. I took longer to physically and mentally recover. That attack was the only time I'd ever regretting not replacing the gun my father had given me. After this, I wanted to be stronger and knew I needed to develop my muscles. Abandoned gyms were everywhere so I took a break from my endless journey and searched for an appropriate gym. While there were a myriad of choices within the small town I'd stumbled through, most were occupied by gangs. I set up camp in a 24/7 Fitness Center that had a locking mechanism left in the closed position during the collapse. Evidently no one had enough reason to break in and as a result the place been left unmolested. I spent the day working out how to get onto the building's roof and muddled my way through air vents until I was inside. Snug as bug, I settled into a workout routine three times a day. When you have little else to do but physical training and reading, you get strong quickly. A smoothie bar within the gym had stocked dehydrated fruit preserves that left me with better food than I'd had in some time. I was there for a month and subsisted on orange concentrate, protein mixes, and power bars. All in all, my newfound strength was the smaller prize considering the safety I enjoyed while living there. I dubbed it my 24/7 Fortress. I marked my mental map in case I ever had a desire to repeat my stay or found another like it. There was a small chance but it was enough to leave a happy mark on my memory. With the decreased population, wanderers were a rarity. I would stay on the outskirts of towns and mostly preyed on vacant suburbs. Sometimes you'd run into people to trade with but I kept my interactions to a minimum. As that first year turned into the second, towns began to recover and society returned in some measure. Communities grew around gardens. Villages were cobbled together in city centers and farming areas alike. Rarely shunned but always treated as the outsider I was, I was happy enough to pass through quietly. My red clothing was loud enough to mark me and when I began to hear questioning rumbles about who I could be, I left immediately. My herb knowledge became more useful when I exposed myself to others. When I finally knew enough to fill a book, I would transpose what I'd learned from stolen library tomes and through experience into scavenged notebooks. If I was treated kindly I would leave this with whomever seemed to be in charge of medicines in the village. It was easy enough to create a new one and I didn't require a written reference. I earned my first nickname of the Red Doctor by doing this a number of times. Villagers began to seek me out as I travelled. I would cure and treat what I could before insisting I needed to move on. These were also good times. It wasn't until items in the world became scarce that I earned the name that stuck. I'd never had that sense of superstition for the dead as others had and when I stayed freshly clothed and fed when others were struggling, some saw me as the worst kind of thief. As I walked the struggling hamlets, I would hear my name rippling through their grapevine. They would quietly cluck that the Red Bandit had arrived. This set the stage for my finest and darkest times.


I see you in myself. When I was a young boy, perhaps but four or five, I witnessed revolution first-hand. I am a very old man, as you can see. I was alive, though just barely, when the nations of Earth had first set their homes upon the heavens. If we were poor before, we were even worse off afterward. The leaders of the time made it their mission to erase all history of the Earth below, from within the country at the least and quite possibly extending to all. This was the point at which we introduced the vile systems that we need to deal with now, forcing children into slavery… I did not create these systems, nor did my predecessor. In fact, I had no true predecessor. I saw the injustice in the world, and thought that it was only right that someone make it better. After all, people were starving, being left to death. Surely, a government full of good-natured people would be best fit to lead the populace, no? I only thought more strongly of this after a revolution. No, not any one in your lifetime, nor your parents’; this was many years ago, when I was even younger than you are now. I saw the brutality of war hit my family and my neighborhood with a vicious thunderclap, having my friends’ and brothers’ lives taken. I was very lucky to have survived, young man. I still have the scars to this day. Do you see? And even given all of the atrocities, I was captivated- fascinated, even- by all that was happening around me. I became in love with revolution, and I promised, nay, swore to myself that if one happened when I was an adult I would support it, no matter its cost or destruction. I was awarded- or perhaps, cursed- with that opportunity when I was fourteen. This was only a few years later, was it not? I was able to watch what would eventually become the Adamantium Party- though it was not yet called that- as it was intended. I saw it begin as only a few paranoid conspiracists, meeting over at their own house every once in a while. I was still in school, but I snuck away to meet with them; how could I not, given what I promised myself? I knew that if I were to be caught, I would surely die, but that only fueled my flame for revolution even more. I fought in the revolution then. I killed people, people I knew. Men, women, and even children. I forced myself to look mothers in the eyes as they begged for their sons’ lives, and still forced myself to pull the trigger. War is never a pretty adventure, child. Surely, you know this? Your older brother has surely killed many defending my regime from the Central Party. This war hardened me. But I had seen terrible things happen to my family, saw them strung up on beams and tortured in a variety of ways. I told myself that if I wanted to avenge them, I would need to destroy those responsible. Oh, it seems that I was the only one responsible for their deaths, after all! When the Adamantium Party came to power, I was as young and naïve as I was when I began my journey. I thought that a only strong leader could undo the damage that the previous leaders had done. I had a dream in my mind, only searching for the opportunity to save my country. Alas, the throne is not sat upon a concrete foundation, as it seems from afar. Rather, it has made its home upon a house of cards, carefully set, bound to fall. Only by maintaining my status within the nation as willing to keep my government loyal, and outside of the nation as a closed off and uninvolved nation, could I keep my spot on the throne. But alas, keeping this so would not allow me to make the changes I risked myself to make! The moment I realized this, I nearly cried at the irony. How could I be so stupid as to become the very dictator I swore to myself I would prevent from ever becoming of power again? I resigned myself to my fate; I was doomed to be a ruler not anew, but the same as the old. For many years, I ruled this way; leaving children to die, or worse, wish death upon themselves, and forcing adults into the same indoctrination as they had, only with the names exchanged. Then, an opportunity arose. Surely, you have heard of Phynn of Antiaris? Your teachers always taught you that he was of Calamity, because that is true. The moment he reached out to me, I demanded to see him. I knew that, with his help, perhaps the Isle could be forever liberated. Do you not see? I am not guilty of creating the system by which this nation functions, yet I am equally wicked as those who came before me. I needed to save the people of this Isle, free them, do as I promised myself that I would accomplish when I was just a boy. And to do this, I know that I must likely die in the process, but I do not care. I have lived eighty years since that day. I have lived a sorry life, one not worth living. So if my life was filled only with evil, perhaps my death could mean something more; perhaps, even in my death, I can save the people of the Southern Microrepublic. So join your friend. Save your nation. This is my nation no more, for even should I survive, Etat will be swift to take over. Yet, your Revolution, I see, will work better than my own boyish attempts. I care no longer for my rule; I only care now for stopping the rule of Etat. The freedom of the people depends on it.


What I am about to relate may come across as the ravings of a madman. At the very least, it might seem like the whimsy of a lonely daydreamer. In all fairness, I wouldn’t ordinarily believe it myself but I swear, every single word of this earnest account is true. While reading my testimony, you may feel it is a farcical fantasy or mischievous hoax. It is not. I am trapped in a place ‘neither here nor there’. I simply ask that you consider all of the details with an open mind. Scientists have long believed other dimensions and parallel universes could exist. What I stumbled across floating high in the sky above a local mountain deserves no less logic or consideration. Driving home a few nights ago, I was stunned to see a rugged mountain range, up ahead in the distance. It was incredibly high in elevation and covered in alpine snow caps. While I know of several quaint ‘mountains’ in the area, none of them are nearly as majestic as the one that loomed right in front of me. It was massive and had breathtaking peaks and glacial-carved valleys, down below. Honestly, it was so surprising I did a double take. It didn’t seem possible for such an epic wonder of nature to be so close to my home, unbeknown to me. I’d made the same drive a hundred times before and never saw it. Upon closer inspection however, I realized it was really just an optical illusion. A nebulous cluster of clouds were perched relatively low in the horizon. They tricked my eyes into believing the real mountain beneath it was infinitely taller than it actually was. The top of the ridge-line was so obscured by a thick blanket of fog that it appeared there was a frosty snowcap, perched thousands of feet higher up in altitude. I smiled at the coincidental camouflage that initial misled me and continued on home. The thought of such magnificent terrain nestled way up in the clouds started me to thinking. ‘What if?’ It was a wonderful, albeit temporary escape from my mundane personal life. I spent a few more moments on the grandiose idea of scaling the ice-shrouded behemoth and then moved on to more practical matters. Admittedly, I didn’t give it another thought until my routine commute back home the following night. The stunning topographical illusion was back again and if anything, it looked even more breathtaking than the first time. I marveled at how alluring and charismatic it appeared but obviously I knew it wasn’t real. It couldn’t be; yet it looked as solid as the pavement beneath my tires. There were no mountains of that splendor for over a thousand miles but I was still hypnotized by it’s deceptive lure. Nightfall was still two hours away. I entertained the fanciful notion of driving toward it, just to see when the mirage would fade. I had nothing better to do. Back and forth I went in my mind ‘for’ and ‘against’ the idea. When I approached the crossroads of my planned destination and the route to the mountain, I made the whimsical (and regretful) decision to change course and head straight toward the seductive ‘peak’. Of course I was driving toward an actually mountain a few miles away but the difference in height of what I saw was ‘night and day’. I’d been to the top of John’s Mountain many times but honestly, it was little more than a ‘molehill’ in comparison to the stunning phantom monolith I was drawn to. The imaginary extension dwarfed the modest real mountain below that I was used to seeing. At some point I knew the blacktop would end and the rocky illusion would fade away. I guess I just had to see it for myself. I knew the road well enough leading to the top but the extra heavy cloud-cover present created an additional level of confusion. Some curves in the highway were less familiar than others. Many of the caution signs seemed new. Once I reached the true summit of John’s Mountain, I expected the winding roadway to continue back down to the other side. Surprisingly, the rugged asphalt just kept going upward. From that pivotal point forward, everything I saw was completely new. The sensation of driving on a road I knew didn’t exist was absolutely terrifying. It felt like my car was going to careen off a jagged cliff at any second. I expected to plummet to my death but I still kept going anyway. It was a bit like descending down an endless flight of stairs in total darkness. Each moment forward into the journey required a substantial level of faith that I didn’t possess. Despite my reluctance, I elected to trust what my eyes saw over what I knew to be true. The full juxtaposition of truth and fantasy was mind-numbing. Amazingly, I drove up a mountain incline I knew had actually ended many miles back. My car continued up the winding lane and I took in the phantom scenery as if it were real. Slowly as I climbed in altitude, the lush vegetation gave way to frost and then heavy snowfall. My car didn’t have winter tires installed but in light of the total lack of reality I was experiencing, I didn’t believe it mattered. Everything was a stark-raving hallucination as far as I was concerned. It had to be. I was almost tempted to sit back and let the mirage take me where it wanted to go but I also felt a gnawing need to maintain some semblance of control. Steering the wheel offered me that illusion. The scenery going forward was fantastically picturesque but what I saw in my rearview mirror turned my blood to ice. The road behind me slowly dissolved into a misty haze of nothingness! There was nowhere to turn the car around, and no place left to return to, apparently. I was on a one-way excursion to the top of a phantom peak in the foggy realm of unexplained fantasy. Of course I could have just stopped the vehicle but that wasn’t going to be a long-term solution. I was in the middle of a postcard-like fairy-tale odyssey. I kept weaving around the mountain road through the frigid wilderness, hoping it eventually led back down to reality at some point. It didn’t. Then I reached the end of the line. The narrow wheel ruts I’d been straddling in the virgin snow for the past few minutes ended. I judged myself to be at least a thousand feet from the summit. I watched in horror as the clouds completely sanitized my path. The entire road and all evidence of my trek ‘evaporated’. It was as if I’d always been in this frozen wasteland. I was ill prepared to travel on foot in permafrost but I did have a blanket to wrap around me and some hiking boots in the trunk. It made survival at least temporarily possible. I don’t know what fantasy dimension of Hell this is, but I still have hope it intersects with the real world at some point. I’m sending this urgent plea for help via my cell phone. I have the modest shelter of my car and some food and basic supplies. Perhaps a rescue helicopter can fly up here and free me from this icy hell before I become permanently entombed.


"Danny Finn!"

We stood to attention as Roll Call was initiated. Several groups of single files, sorted by chronological order.

"Daniel Christopher Finn!"

The booming voice echoed throughout the hall. My heart felt a little heavy. “Poor Danny,” I muttered. "Citizen Daniel Christopher Finn," recited the voice causing a rush of emotion surging through me. “Stay calm. You’re going to hyperventilate. Steady your ship, man. You’ve gotten through this before.” I was lost in a flurry of nostalgic daydreams. This war had numbed my senses and caused my mind to conjure up all forms of escapism to relieve the stress. Most global conflicts send their young to do the fighting. This war, this unjust circumstance called on all ages to do their duty. Not all answered the bugle. Some perished without the opportunity to mount even a defiant shout or shake of the fist and some retracted into the shadow of fear and denial. In eighteen months of combat, our losses were high, with no end in sight. The enemy had stealthily penetrated our defences, planting foreign agents inside our once safe perimeters. Their toxic strategy produced the dissemination of false information amongst our rank and file, resulting in the erosion of our strength in numbers and eventually, our will to fight. Initially, our commanders in charge, reacted swiftly to counter the invasion but the enemies’ increasing influence bolstered its expanding impact on our inexperienced campaign and minute cracks started to appear in our defensive walls. The collated data revealed the enemy to be cunning. Analytics revealed that they blithely practiced the art of confusing us by quickly adapting to our counter measures, always changing, bending with the wind, never allowing us enough time to analyse them thoroughly. We did not realise early enough that time was a precious commodity and our response needed to be immediate, urgent. At the beginning of the year, our comrades held out heroically. Supplied with the best of provisions, intel, and protection, assurances from high crowed this war would end soon. However, at the first reports of positions being overrun and stretched to their limits, a certain level of panic spread amongst the lower ranks. Our field hospitals ran short of medical supplies, staff, and beds, as the corridors of medicine bulged with casualties. Anarchy set in resulting in mass looting of surplus goods because of the growing distrust of the contradictory intel our leaders provided. However, the faithful maintained an unwavering steadfastness to remain strong. We were all in this together and united, we would be victorious. By the month of March, disbelief started to set in with the realisation that thousands of us had died in the early battles and casualty figures were not immediately accurate. Brothers and sisters-in-arms vanished as munition supplies dwindled. No place was safe anymore. Even my own regiment's numbers dwindled.

          “DAVID KEMP,” recited the roll call voice.

Thankfully - as hope began to ebb - reinforcements arrived to bolster our fortifications. Specialised, detailed instructions were issued explaining that we needed to be vigilant – that the enemy could now be the person next to us – possibly a family member. “How did we get to this point?” “Were we expected to not trust those we knew?..”

“..DAVID DANIEL KEMP!”

This was exactly what the enemy wanted – to divide us, so that they could roam unimpeded within our ranks and finally conquer us. Their covert operatives breached the sanctity of our homes, isolating loved ones from each other, parents from children. We were being held hostage through fear. Friends and neighbours pitted against each other as opinions - fuelled by suspicion, anger, and betrayal – confused rational thought. This was no longer a war against an elusive enemy. This had evolved into a war of attrition, a war of propaganda and mind games.

The roll call voice bellowed louder, “CITIZEN DAVID DANIEL KEMP!”

As the year grew older, political interference converted communications into mixed metaphors of narcissistic flag waving. Alarmingly, any news from the front became twisted, deciphered into many interpretations; then, collapse! The flood gates opened and in swarmed the invading scores of the enemy, seeping into our streets, entering our remaining safe havens, and finally, disintegrating our stubborn but short-lived endurance. “Resistance is negligible,” our leaders now stated. “We have to accept their presence and we need to submit to their will.” The people's voices shouted out, “Have we been defeated?” “Are we now subjects of occupation?..” No-one answered our subjugated queries. Those conceited egocentrics at the top disagreed with the bureau of disinformation, who in turn, refused to listen to the frontline warriors - the boots on the ground. Apathy prevailed, then the populace began to divide into two groups: Those that wanted to fight on versus those that were tired of their liberties being taken away and wanted to desert to unknown and unproven futures (may I add, not before holding mass rallies to decry the war and our false patriotism).

“GILLIAN AKHURST!” “I know her,” vaguely recollecting.

Arguably, that’s what freedom allows us all. We can voice our anger, we can disagree with our government’s policies, and we can help change the world. However, this requires sensibility of the broadcasting channels to get the details right. Announcing the earth is flat only implants confusion and conjecture. Tell the people that there is no reason to panic in an obvious catastrophic moment and the streets fill with deserters spouting ambiguous protestations about their eroding freedom.

“GILLIAN ANN AKHURST!”

Late into October, senior staff gleefully informed us that reinforcements had helped to push back the enemy. Reports from the front confirmed the retreat. We could rejoice in our saviour, our great leader – whose singular action had changed the tide of war (so, his tightly knit Politburo declared). The enemy was retreating and no longer were we to cower and to fear. Street parties erupted and we danced in the street, drank coffee at sidewalk cafes, attended sporting events en masse. A cessation of anger permeated our psyche and life was getting back to normal.

“CITIZEN GILLIAN ANN AKHURST!”

The roll call voice echoed loudly, reverberating inside my head. I winced at the painful memories, now taking my breath away. “Enough! Enough! Enough! She can’t answer you.” Down the line, several of our comrades standing to attention, began to peel away, ghosting towards a screened area at the back of the hall. “How long must we wait? I need to get back to the frontline right away.” My commitment to duty has always been exceptional. I was one of the first to volunteer in the fight and wore that badge proudly. I did not like the uneasy truce. We had slowly dropped our guard, leaving us vulnerable to a surprise attack. Little did we know that once again, our services would be required to defiantly refuse to bow to oppression. Just as the all-clear , air raid sirens sounded, we found ourselves at battle stations yet again. The enemy had regrouped and thrust themselves at us in a new disguise, lightly equipped this time so that they could move lethally faster, permeating the gaps of ignorance and undefended areas of our world. Safe areas became hot zones of conflict, hot zones swiftly became overrun pastures of human wasteland. To our chagrin, our glorified leaders abandoned us to our own fate and opened the gates to our country, severely endangering all remaining bastions of resistance. Forced to network our personal stories and experiences, we opined our interpretation of facts and hearsay in the attempt to organise our battalions. Hastily formed instructions were issued on the necessity of building new defences. The moronic commentary from our diminutive government officials pressed the message of boosting our strength with countermeasures that would require repetitive and unending re-supply – a guerilla war spurred on by the endless circle of counteractant rhetoric.

“DANNY FINN!” “They’re repeating that name,” I mused. “Perhaps, it’s a recording and they've all swiftly left the building, running for their lives..” “..Or, is it just me repeating myself?” “Focus! Focus! There is no room for doubt. It destroys hope. Without hope there is just despair... What am I babbling on about?" Confusion swirled around and around inside my head as I grasped at reality. The war also, was trapped in a loop. A cosmic, changing apparition of a night-time navigational, dead-in-the-water ghost ship with no celestial star to guide it through the dark times.

“Number 141!” “That sounded impatient. Come on, show yourself. Don’t keep us all waiting.” With the end of December approaching, casualty statistics are climbing fast, affecting morale. There are less of us that still believe the fight must continue. An increasing number of our forces affected by this unending conflict have succumbed to the implantation of deceptive idealism and laid their weapons across the fields of the slain, creating a new regime of occupied thought. Encouraged by lack of will, and without truly realising it, they have allied themselves with the enemy, impotent to individual expression, sterile, gutless, and anesthetized by statistics and excessive media coverage. The mandate of tackling this war continues to ebb and flow. For how long, is beyond our perception. We are no longer the masters of our fate, we are now students reborn into a life-changing study, so we must pay attention. "NOW IS THE TIME FOR OUR EARS TO PRICK UP AND LISTEN TO THE VOICES OF REASON!..." My spontaneous outcry drew the attention of those close by. “Number 141!!...” My head jerked up as my ears honed in on the voice. “Wait, that’s my name.. no, my.. That’s me!..” Reading the ticket clutched tightly in my hand, I shouted out my acknowledgement. “..141, I’m 141!”

An acute awareness of my surroundings flooded my vision as a young woman behind a raised counter beckoned me forward - interrupting my distant, inner thoughts. I clicked my heels together in a military demonstration of response and obedience, took one marching step towards her, then corrected my strut to a normal walking pace. “Act like a civilian,” I muttered to myself. The uniformed female smiled and handed me a card. “You’re here for your booster jab?” “Correct, Mam,” I replied, curiously wondering why I was being so formal as I snapped to attention once again. “Wake up, son,” I prompted. “..And previously, you’ve had your double jabs?” “..er, yep.” Instantly, I was now a practitioner in the art of concise, informal conversation. She gestured to her right side, just behind her shoulder. “Please follow the blue line behind me and someone will meet you at the other end.” “Thank you,” I politely expressed as I saluted. A warm and gentle smile complimented her kind looking face. “Happy New Year!” I momentarily dawdled. “Yes, it is, isn’t it… Should Auld Acquaintance Be Forgot- and all that,” I recited. The realisation of my own words brought back a sense of reality to me, briefly flashing the faces of those I lost in this difficult year back into memory. “Hup, two, three, four,” I mockingly regressed. “..No time for melancholy.” Following the blue line towards my re-supply officer, I remembered the fallen, my friends and those they left behind. My mum was gone too. Not from this war but from the isolation it forced upon her. I had been far away fighting the good fight - without question - as she died alone, suffering from her own inner pain of separation from the world. The coroner stated other reasons relating to bladder infection, pulmonary pneumonia, and sepsis but I knew the true cause. It was loneliness. A brief sadness slowed my pace. A grieving that will only increase in volume as this conflict continues to strike us down. This is a different kind of war against an unseen and belatedly detected foe. Whatever weapons provided to us in this fight, we must passionately grasp with unfettered interference from the uninformed. It is imperative that we also remain true to our resolve. “Resistance is negligible," spewed the declining government's spineless doctrine. "I say it won't be, if we are all of one voice, and maintain a resolute and well-planned determination to win.”

May this war be over soon... so the living can live.

"Dispatches out!..."


The water was flowing quickly on this beautiful and sunny day. The air was crisp and the rolling green hills gave way to the local flora and fauna. He squinted as he stared out into the distance of the rolling plains and saw from a mountain-side a glistening light. It reflected light from the sun, but to, to Pojo or He Who Hunts in his local tongue, it was a sign of the gods. A sign that the gods had spoken to him, chosen him, to go to that spot. Their sun god was the main being who gave all things life. The chemical reactions that it's rays induce made sure that all that breathed on this planet breathed that which the sun gave it. Pojo and his people understood that, though not exactly how. They could see that a plant would wilt if it did not receive sun, but flourish if it received more. His people were on the verge of discovering agriculture, but Pojo was set out to discover much more. The distance between Pojo and the light was littered with boulders from eons past and was slightly yellowish-grey for it did not have as many nutrients in it's soil as did the green hills and beyond where Pojo and his tribe lived for this season. Pojo was well-fed before he set out and he had provisions and water in an animal skin bag with him. He looked out onto the horizon and doubted instinctively that he was in danger of being caught by a large land cat, they called it Night-Dweller, Skeelj. Mainly because it was yet day, and the Skeelj preferred dark and covered forests. There would be a possibility for him to shoot some game as well, he had arrows, a large and smaller spear, and some rudimentary stone tools. He gave a curt nod to the sun, in acknowledgement of it's challenge, and set off, planning to be back home the next day judging by the current time and the distance ahead of him, for the mountain-range was a half day away and it was just the cusp of the morning. Without giving it even as much thought as written out here, for these thoughts transpired in him as he set off, for Pojo was quite impulsive at times. The plains were busy in the morning as herds of Grass-Eaters or Gupol, were out in large herds and making sure that they were protected. It was the breeding season and predators as well as grass-eaters were well fed and flourishing. His people were usually very low on the list of things that the local apex predator, a bipedal reptilian that can reach up to 300cm of height, locally called Death-Bringer though he rarely would hunt the locals. Pojo thus strode through the only shin-high grass plains toward the mountain range, keeping a steady pace but not too slow either, so he could get there in time. His eye constantly on the horizon should he see anything that would be differing in appearance from all the herds, or turned out to be a Death-Bringer. Though it was the breeding season of grass-eaters, lone Death-Bringers would roam and ensure that their territories were secured from other Death-Bringers. He had slain one before, but it was a juvenile, to slay an adult would be a superheroic task. He had heard of it done before by other tribes, but all tribes would say that of their own tribe. Pojo knew that and was thus skeptical. He gave a short muttering of prayer to the death god, in this case one of the two moons that orbited their planet. He hoped it had heard him, for now she slept. The other moon orbits in such a way that it is only seen once every 54 years. It is estimated that in 2.3 million years the two moons will collide and impose an destructive apocalyptic event upon the planet. However the calculations were done by interns on the observation station at the time. They had also falsified their data as it would turn out, and conveniently the calculations disappeared when the press wanted to know more information. Actual calculations on the true trajectory is in the pipeline of the budget, allegedly. Pojo meanwhile was venturing further toward the mountain range and was surprised that there was no more glint of the light flashing towards him anymore. It had guided him for most of the day over the plains and though intermittent, would flash whenever Pojo looked at it directly the most. He took a break under a Billo tree and ate some nuts and berries. As he munched on them he kept his eyes open and scanned the horizon. It wasn't until he looked up further upon the tree that he saw a Skeelj. It was sleeping clamly upon a larger branch, it's large claws burying themselves into the tree, it's long tail with poisonous tip swung to and fro like a branch itself. Pojo calmly got up and slowly moved away from the tree, his eyes never leaving the position of the Skeelj. The cameras zoomed into Pojo as he backed away further from the Skeelj and headed further toward the mountain range where the beckoning light of the gods awaited. In this case the gods were Bakha from Accounting and Florgo from HR. "I can't believe we got Bakha to go down on the planet. I can't believe that a local Trika hunter would see the signal. And I can't believe he also is going to it!" Bakha complained and stared at the footage from the observation post above the planet upon which Pojo dwelt. It was observing the local people, called Trika by Bakha's species, and was given the green light only two years ago to conduct more intrusive studies. This study was green lit by a board as an 'Innovative and fresh look,' towards native species studies in the galaxy. The Pro-Trika Environmentalist and Preservationist group PROTRIKA complained, as did the representatives of other native study observation posts, but the highly technocratic-oriented panel of the board wanted more results. Florgo gave a smile as he peered into the camera that was disguised a bird of the local fauna as it observed Pojo walking up a path that was already set into the hillside of the mountain. "Yeah, Bakha left already though. The robot that was flashing him went with her I think." "You think?" Hos'ed arrived and Florgo and Bakha groaned. "Hos, cut it out. We don't want to hear it. This one was green lit by the board." Bakha complained at Hos'ed and Florgo agreed. "It's happening, whether you like it or not." Hos'ed scoffed "The repercussions to this will echo through eternity!" "Write that one down, that's actually pretty good." Florgo conceded as Hos disappeared further down a corridor. "I get that they care but, like, come on. It will help us as a species so much!" Bakha tried to reason with Florgo, but he shrugged. "I dunno Bakha, I mean we are sending this guy to a bunker we built to teach them mathematics. This guy will see a bunch of stuff on the wall, and if we are very lucky, he will understand what he sees. Very, very lucky." Bakha swirled around and waved all of her four arms about to emphasize the importance of her words "But this shows that if we can uplift these people with such things as mathematics, that it supports the idea that all species must adhere to certain laws of physics!" Florgo raised a finger "Ah! But that is only if they are ready for it! I am telling you, this is a project that should've gone to Elokia." "Elokia, Elokia, all you talk about is your old observation post Elokia. You're here now Florgo, it isn't that bad." Florgo shrugged "Yeah I know, I'm sorry. Wait wait, look, he is going in." Pojo entered the labyrinth. It was disguised as a cave entrance with similar stone as the mountain it resided in. To the touch it would feel the same as the mountain itself, but if Pojo was observant, he would notice that it would sound hollow if something were to fall upon it's surfaces, or clunk heavily with a sound different to something falling on stone. Florgo, Bakha, and many others who worked in the observation post were glued to their screens as they watched Pojo take his first steps into the labyrinth. His feet are covered with leather boots that are sturdy, but they are thin enough to feel the ground. He notices that the ground is much colder, but thinks not that much of it since it is a cave. Soon after though, he kicks a pebble and it bounces on the ground. He notices the sound is different and the observation post rejoices at the fact that he recognizes the difference. Just as he is about to examine the phenomenon he notices a light in the cave that pulsates, much like the one that guided him here in the first place. He continues down the cave and the light gets brighter and the pulsating slows down until it is a constant light. The walls of the cave are illuminated now, depicting various drawings intended to gain the attention of Pojo and it works. He marvels at the sun within a cave and stares at it for a while. Soon thereafter he peers around and notices the drawings on the wall. They were groups of animals in a herd designed as hand paintings of the locals on the wall. At first a herd of nine animals, then eight, then seven and so on until one animal remained. Above each animal or group of animals was a symbol, a number. It held within it's walls a secret to Pojo, a secret he had yet to uncover, something that could fundamentally change the trajectory of his species... or not. It was up to Pojo to decide as these images would form in his mind. The observation post was disappointed when Pojo left just to the outside of the cave. He stared out back to the green hills from which he came. The sun was slowly setting upon the horizon and he looked out to see the various herds of grass-eaters, the birds flying above, and the trees dotted in between the various boulders. The various snapshots of beings before him in their groups of ten to twenty, four to thirty, or anything above or below or in between, these images walked within his inner mind and strolled along. He was there and seeing the connections but had not yet made them himself. The observation post was on the edge of their seats for they could only see what they saw of him. They would only see what was given to them from their observations. Furiously their supercomputers were calculating things, observing everything possible, taking in the numbers. The atmosphere levels, the oxygen, the nitrogen, the methane, how the composition of the clouds was for the religious people of their species. Noting down the constellations at that moment. Making sure that every metric that was ever possible to have ever been thought of could come together to try to put the pieces of the puzzle in unison that made up the recesses of this creatures' mind. Yet, no matter how much they would calculate or estimate or presume, they could never truly understand what Pojo felt that day. The exact description of the situation. How he felt the warmth of the sun on his face. How he could smell the various smells of the plains within his nose as it wafted across the fields, through the trees and caressed the boulders. He would see the animals ahead of them and think of the good they give to him, and the good that he attempts to give back, through their roaming and living as one. Pojo's had already found the secret that was hidden in the cave. But he would not be the one to solve it. As he looked upon the sunset he thought of his children and knew that they would be the one to solve this. They will know.


“Gunther?.. My God we thought you were dead!” Thomas shouted as he saw his friend standing at the door of the dugout. “Well then.” Gunther began “I certainly don’t feel dead”. Just the other day Thomas swore he saw his friend Gunther die when a wave of Gatling gun fire came over them when they were out of the trenches he even saw him get hit and fall himself. But here he was standing before him in his dirty uniform and cap as if nothing had happened at all. Graf who was sitting at his cot stood up and approached Gunther and shook his hand “My God man you certainly look dead though. You’re as white as a ghost!” He said. Gunther smiled a little and nodded “well to be honest I feel light headed. Mind if I sit down?” Graf then nodded and he sat down in the draw filled cot and Thomas handed him a warm tin of coffee “I bet you’ll be need this more than me. It was real cold out there last night.” Gunther then stared at the cup for a moment but shook his head “I don’t really remember it being cold. Also no thank you honestly I’m not all that thirst right now.” Thomas then set the tin cup on a box and Graf spoke “I should probably tell Sergeant Martin about you then.. Sorry to say this but when we saw you go down we thought you were done for and told him you were gone. I’ll be right back”. With that Graf then put on his cap and slung his rifle over his shoulder and ran off to find Sergeant Martin while Thomas continued to talk. “What happened anyways? Were you just unconscious at that time? We tried to call out your name but you didn’t answer”. Gunther then sighed as he rubbed his forehead. “I was taking cover and I didn’t feel like I could move. To be honest I thought I was dead too. I think I was struck by something, but it certainly wasn’t a bullet. Those Bluebacks couldn’t hit a elephant with one of those crank guns”. Thomas then nodded. “Well when Sergeant Martin comes around you should pretend you got hit just so you can get sent back to the rear and take a vacation in one of those hospitals. Who knows, maybe if you bitch long enough they’ll give you some furlough time off”. Gunther then nodded again. “Well now that you mention it I have one serious headache actually. “ Thomas then smiled. “Yeah that’s the right idea. I can even go along with it and tell Sergeant Martin you hit your head when we were running back to the trench. I can make up a story about a concussion and everything”. Gunther’s smile finally reappeared “yeah.. Your right in finally going to get to go home again”. Sergeant Martin then stepped into the dugout with Graff and Gunther stood up to meet him along with Thomas. Thomas then spoke “Sergeant it seems we made an error last night. Turns out Gunther made it back after all. He just got hit his head when he landed in the dirt.” Sergeant Martin looked Gunther up and down. “Is that so private?” He asked him. Gunther then nodded “yes Sergeant it is. I have a terrible headache from it. When I woke up this morning I crawled my way across the field and made my way into the trenches here and made it back safe like you said.” Sergeant Martin seemed relieved “well I’m glad you made it back son.. We’ll send you to the rear to get a doctor to look at your head. In the meantime I’m going to bitch at whoever was on sentry duty. Pack your things and leave your rifle with Graff.” With that Sergeant Martin stepped out and the trio of soldiers were left alone. “Right” Graff said as he sat down on a crate. “You best get changed and shave, those nurses will be expecting a handsome young man to look after.” Gunther then smiled again and turned and collected what little belongings he had in a small sack and took off his coat and hat and sat them on the cot. While he was doing so Thomas’ face turned to horror and as did Graff’s when they saw dried blood on the back of his head. “Gunther, are you sure you’re feeling alright?” Thomas asked. Gunther then finished shaving rather quickly and turned around to reveal a massive bullet lodged within his forehead. “I’m better than ever gentlemen. Not only did I dodge a bullet yesterday but I managed to get out of the trenches for a time too. This is one of the best days of my life.. Now how do I look?” Graff and Thomas gave each other a look of absolute shock before Graff stood up and took Gunther’s hat and put it squarely on his head. “You look like one lucky soldier”. He said.


Taj and Raj --- They are two brothers. They live in village. Taj is elder one. When he is 12 years old, Raj is then about 4 years old. One stormy night, the thunderbolt attacks very fiercely to destroy their home. At that time, their parents are died and they are going to live in a mournful state. Raj is very young. He can’t control emotion. The hardship attacks their lives as demoniac verse. Taj is started to do any work for leading a lively life and asking Raj to continue his study  so sincerely and perfectly. Taj had passed only five (05) classes. His dream is to see Raj as a successful one. He is succeeded in this mission. Now Raj is an established engineer in the professional platform. The story was turned to a new look. From village to town… Raj lived in town and Taj was in village. Raj had bought an apartment and called Taj to come and live with him. Taj came to town and the life was going on with a new verse, to touch the dreamy wave. That day was Raj’s Birthday. He will step in a new year---30 years of age. A party was held in the apartment. So many guests were came. Taj was also there but he felt so nervous. That was a very hard task for him. He thought about Raj--- “Raj is such a popular one and the guests are esteemed; within them, he can't withstand. He is a villager. He can't talk properly with anybody. He doesn't know about the decorum of a party. There's music and dance. This is known as DJ. So harsh sounds!!! How can they tolerate this??? He can't feel so good within this atmosphere , but still exists here for a long time." Raj asked me to come for joining the party. He told me--- "dear brother!!! Plz, stay with me. Don't feel shame. You don't need to copy anything . You're my parents, my family!!! You have spent your entire life for me. Even you never agree to marry. You always look after me as your child. Let me give you some lovely kisses. I can't return anything but I can recognize you as respectable one in front of all. I feel so proud to get you as my family, my dear brother!!!" I try my best to adjust but it's so tough for me. Still, I can't go back. After sometimes, Raj announces on the stage--- greetings dear all. Thank you so much to come and join with me. This day is very special for me. A new year is coming to welcome me. Let me pick your blessing shower. This year of my life is most outstanding.... I'm the In-charge of the Shah enterprise Ltd. They have offered me this appointment letter. It's a great achievement for me and I want to give this award to my dear family, my dear brother. I want to recite something only for my brother--- *** For a new turn**** "Amidst the darkness site I'm waiting for a divine spark You come with lovely heart Help me to sketch dreamy art Every moment turns to millennium By touching that cascade of love My heart is glowing like stars Angel comes in my earth Amidst the tumultuous verse I have lost my righteous way I'm waiting for God's gracious touch You come with pretty verse You hold my hands Shower the angelic rain Make the dreamy tower A new birth with spiritual power I get back my strength To stand up again The essence of lively life Spreads the eternal mirth I show my gratitude to Lord For helping me with magical plot Amidst all alluring sites A gemstone is still preserved Need a bit more time To pick that magical balm It will provide soothing verse At last the new turn of life is appeared onward verse" " A big hand for him--- Mr. Taj , please! come to the stage and cut the cake with me." I am so glad and feel so happy; also- so nervous. I' was not an educated person. How can I face all of them??? Raj comes and takes me with him. We are on the stage. All are clapping. We cut the cake. Congrats!!! Mr. Taj and Mr. Raj. The microphone is here--- Everyone asks me to tell something. What can I say??? I don't know so much. Very poor - my language!!! Raj tells--- brother say something. I take the microphone and start to say... " Thank you so much. I’m nobody at all. All is God's blessing. Raj has tried best at all times and achieved this goal. I am so happy for you, Raj. I have nothing to say, anymore. I lived in village. Raj asked me to come and lived with him. I love him so much and can't deny those words. I try my best to adapt the rules of digital era. So many errors are figured out in my speech….Sorry and thanks to all. Still, Raj never shows any objection. He gives me such a honorable platform in front of all you... that’s my big achievement, indeed !!!" I can't hold my emotions. I am crying. Raj holds me and all say-they are great brothers. Great bonding!!! The party is persisted for a long time. We are sitting in the dining table. They eat by forks but I can't eat by using forks. I tried and failed. I feel so shame. Raj tells- brother, use your hands and feel free as you like. Nobody says any word. I am enjoying my meals. After dinner, a little chit-chat is engaged all souls. I'm sleeping. Guests are leaving. I have slept at the table. When I wake up, it’s almost morning--- I find myself in my room. Raj comes with the morning tea --- good morning dear!!! I told--how could I come here? He told me the whole story. I was astonished this time.

Raj says---Taj, oh my dear brother! Don't bother. You lost all lovely moments only for me. Now it's my turn. I want to give you that happiness shower. And you must set your mind to marry. What are you talking, Raj? I can't. No, dear brother. You must do that and then our lives will enter to a new era in earth. Brother you're great, indeed!!! We hug each other!!!!!! Raj recites a tiny poem----- ***My dear brother*** "When I was in deep pain, You brought me laughter. When I lost life's rhythms, You brought me in divine hub. When my sky had no light, You brought me sunshine. When I was in lost mind, You brought me happiness verse. It was you--- only you!!!! As a fairytale, you helped me  to write my story with lovely heart. Now I can touch the pinnacle of hill, I can sketch any dream. I can walk for onward verse. Along with you to design my earth. You're my heart, my life--- I love you so much---- dear brother!!!" Such a miracle, still exists in this beautiful universe!!!


Content warning: adult content Star Light

Was I really watching a man walk out of the sea towards me? Or was I finally going mad? The soft shushing of the waves as they moved through the shingle was background to my tangled thoughts – thoughts, ideas and visions. It felt as though my brain was going to explode. I struggled to hold on, afraid to let go. What would happen if I did let go? I giggled as the cartoon picture of a brain exploding flashed behind my eyes.            The night was dark yet bright. The sky black and lit with countless stars.  Why did the romantics talk of millions of stars?  How could they know? Had anyone counted them? The new moon was clear and sharp and high. Where was the man in the moon? Who was he looking at when turned away from us? The sea was soft and dark, tiny wavelets tipped with starlight headed toward my spot on the shore, reaching for me but never quite making it. What was I doing here, all alone? What impulse had drawn me to this quiet beach on a dark summer’s night? Who was the man who was walking out of the ocean? I only knew this was where I needed to be at this time. I don’t know how long I had been sitting there demanding answers from the universe to questions I didn’t know to ask but I realised I had been watching a glow deep in the ocean growing closer and brighter. A sense of excitement and anticipation held me still. Then, out of the glow walked a man.            My life was good, I had a job I enjoyed and excelled at, family I loved and good friends I could trust, but there was always something missing, always had been and I thought always would be. I looked for love but it always fell short. My job fulfilled my ambition, my friends meant I need never be alone but something was always that little bit out of reach. As a child I was different or so my parents told me, I dreamt vividly and talked of strangers in my room, I knew things I couldn’t explain. I’d been treated by doctors, psychiatrists and counsellors galore until I learned to keep my mouth shut and gradually the dreams stopped coming and the strangers stopped visiting and I became “normal”. I developed a quiet interest in all things paranormal trying to explain myself but nothing clicked. As I grew older (and brainier) I began to study Astronomy, the stars became my friends, I knew them and recognised them in the night sky. I listened for their songs. I dreamt of travelling out into the cosmos but becoming an astronaut was beyond me so I studied from Earth and continued to dream. So here I was on a star laden, soft sandy beach, a moon smiling down on me and I was alone but not lonely as I had my stars and my dreams and a dark handsome man walking towards me, the waves parting before him.

           Why wasn’t I on my feet and running for my life? Why did I have the sense that this was what I’ve been waiting for all my life?            ‘James Bond, I suppose.’ I quipped as he walked up the shore. He was dressed in plain trousers and jumper, nothing out of the ordinary except – ‘Why aren’t you wet?’ I asked. Again, why wasn’t I freaking out? Why did all this seem natural, almost pre-ordained, familiar. The stars gave just enough light to see his smile and it warmed my heart. He ran his finger down my cheek as he sat down beside me. ‘Who are you? Where have you come from?’ Finally my brain began to work. ‘I know you. You visited me a long time ago. You came in the night.’            ‘You know me. I’ve been waiting for you to call me and now you have.’ His voice – how to describe his voice? Suffice it to say it resonated through me, touching all the empty spaces. I knew that voice. As ridiculous as this was, I knew everything was OK.            So he held me in the moonlight and it was like coming home. ‘You will never be alone again,’ he whispered as he gently made love to me. The shingle became the softest mattress, the sounds of the sea the most romantic music, the slight breeze filled the air with perfume.            As we came together, I needed, I wanted. I reached for him. There were no more words, clothes disappeared and the mutual dance began. What was two became one in every sense of the word. Lightning flashed across the skies and in my heart. The world exploded around us and for one glorious moment I was one with the stars, this I felt on a molecular level, I heard the stars sing and felt their light fill me. Then I was whole again, but more, more than myself, he was part of me and I was part of him. I was just – more.            I drifted slowly back on to the sandy beach with a sense of contentment but sorrow. I didn’t want to leave the stars but I now knew them. My body was sated and fulfilled but my mind wanted answers, questions were clammering to be asked but I didn’t want to spoil this perfect moment. If only I could switch off my brain and just enjoy. He turned me into his arms and we held tight knowing time was precious. We watched the stars and we talked. He told me of his world – straight on to Alpha Centauri and turn left. I told him how there had always been something missing and he told me how he had felt the same but now we were whole. He told me how he would leave but try to return, I told him I would wait for him but we both knew this was a moment out of time. Could I go with him? Could he stay? Questions we never asked, knowing it was impossible.

           We watched the stars blink out, one by one, and the sky lighten in the east. I closed my eyes, I could not watch him walk away but I knew I would never be alone again. I was where I should be, everything was in its place. My empty places were filled, I would always have a piece of my man from the stars, I knew I would forever walk with one foot on the earth and one foot amongst the stars.


She sat there chewing on her eraser. It seemed like a fairly easy question. Should she write the eulogy or the Latino gender politics essay? The anger towards an untimely death seemed juxtaposed with the anger of American treatment on Puerto Rican homosexuals in the late 20th century. Yet, she sat there still. Half her mind in space and half of it very much here on the ground, in this seemingly unrealistic, yet somehow feasible moment. Let’s take a crack at the easy one, she thought — eulogy it is. Okay, next question — this one somewhat harder. Where does one go to write someone’s eulogy during finals week? She didn’t think the library was appropriate. But then again, nowhere really sounded appropriate. And who writes the rules, she thought. Plus, even if somewhere is out there writing them, she didn’t really like what they had decided thus far for her week, so why bother abiding. So that’s how she came to find herself on a scuffed bench in the basement of the library, chewed up pencil fidgeting between her crooked teeth, attempting to form a jumbled thought web into words. That messy chaos going on inside her head had to start somewhere; so she took a few leaps back. First things first, she told herself. Write down every memory that flits through your head; whether it be good, bad, scary, sad. 1. the plays in the cabin where the sheet would go up between the bunk beds and they would dress Brian up like a girl 2. when mom would dye their pancakes colors after soccer, blue was the best 3. how every time the girl ate green beans, she would choose one that looked like a snail that *had* to be thrown away 4. that time dad took her door off its hinges 5. when mom poured coffee over all the halloween candy and they snuck back out to see what made it 6. when they made a huge cardboard house out of their dad’s snowblower box 7. that time they drove to Stillwater just because the girl thought they have the best Swedish fish 8. when they were riding horses in Mexico and they were convinced that one cowboy was Joe Jonas 9. when she got her first period and the girl reluctantly showed her how to use a pad 10. the amount of cavities the girl got 11. number 11 12. candy corn 13. the shitty white alero with the basketball case of CD mixtapes That’s it? That’s all she could think of? Twenty-two years and there were 13 things jotted down on her oddly dry paper. 13 random, unimportant, who-cares types of things. Those 13 things didn’t say anything about a person’s life, heck they barely even said anything at all. How was she supposed to take this trash and turn it into some eloquent bullshit about how beautiful a life was, how much this world will miss someone’s light, their laughter, yada-yada. Maybe she should have tackled the Puerto-Rican homosexuality crisis first. More thoughts began infecting her mind. New thoughts. Isn’t it odd that all eulogies tend to be the same? Every person, at every funeral known to man, talks about how ***their*** person had a “smile that could light up a room” and they’re in a ***better*** place now, how only the ***good*** die young. That’s dumb, she thought. Not to mention, she knew a lot of very ***good*** people that were definitely well past young. And, back to eulogies, if these people are already dead -- why not tell the truth? The girl’s life was not perfect, and a lot of the time she did not light up a room. In fact, it felt like a lot of the time she sucked all the light out of the room. And if she was gonna go full-blown lie detector mode on herself, a lot of the memories seemed to be bad. They appeared in a word cloud full of screaming, crying, drinking, hospitals, anxiety, bones, barfing. Those were the words that came to mind when she thought of the girl. Not heart, not laughter, not even smile. She sat there some more. She thought about honesty, and how that would be taken at a funeral. But the more honest she got with herself, the more bare-boned and unfiltered the descriptions in her mind became — the better the outline of the girl was. Bony, tears, alcohol, Christmas, running water, uncontrollable. These were the first words. But somehow those words were what pushed the onslaught of the next words — Proud, blue, unwavering, persistent, sparkle?, unabashed. The scary brought forth the good, and with the good came the pleasant authenticity of these new words. She scribbled them down (good and bad).