That girl who was laying quietly, and covered in darkness was Ichiko Yamada, she was laying very peacefully, unaware about her current condition. After staying unstirred for a while, she opened her eyes and look around to find where was she. She try her best to view the situation, but the vast amount of darkness create things harder to understand. She was unable to see anything but she try to figure out the circumstance. She didn't have any memories left about how she appeared that place. The last thing she remembered was, a sweet kiss on her lips by her husband, when she was heading to his workplace. She couldn't recognise anything after that, she blacked out completely. But then, she felt light behind herself, she's frighten to move but a male voice occurs from behind it was, "Are you alright Yamada-san . You are moving so, I think maybe you are alright. Let's move miss . We had to cover a long path." When she turns around she saw a silver hair colored guy, standing behind her, watching her with his deep and emotionless red eyes. He's wearing a white waistcoat, and a long black long jacket. The warmth she felt before was coming out from a vintage lantern which he was holding. Ichiko was confused about her situation and don't know what to do, 'Cause according to the schedule she has to be on her working desk but she was sleeping in that weird dark place and when she somehow handle that uncanny trauma, a male character popped out in that place and ordering her to follow him and head somewhere. How and why she did that, there is no sense to follow a stranger. She wasn't afraid but she don't want to go after him. So then, she take a deep breath and denies his offer. He can't look good after hearing that answer. He said, "Think about it Yamada- san, it's your lose if you can't follow me." And Ichiko , after hearing that rude reply, reacted aggressively and said, " I don't know who you are and where you come from and I even don't know what's that place how could I go after a stranger?" That guy nodded his head a bit and reply to that angry lady, "You don't know me? And you don't know why you are there? And you are right, how could a lady trust a stranger that she just meet and started following him" He take a deep breath and sigh. He view her for a while, and maybe he was thinking about the next step he had to do, He took out his hand towards her and tells, " I tells you everything, but for that you had to follow me. I insist Yamada-san please come after me. " Ichiko is still suspicious about that man but when she saw his cold eyes, she somehow agreed about that proposal. She stood up and ready to follow him. That person light up the path with that vintage lantern and both were continuously walking on it. She want to ask many questions to him but she is confused how to start, and then that guy asked her, " back then you were exploding with lots of questions but you weren't asking any of it that time, why? Are you perhaps confused what to ask first." It looked like that guy read her mind she blushed a bit about that and tell her that, " it's not that, I am confused over a silly thing, actually I don't know how to start the conversation with a stranger that you just meet." He turns his head towards her and tells her, "as I thought, you were a lively girl and yet stubborn kid, like your parents." And both were started walking again. While walking, she denying those facts and stared telling him those tags weren't true but she stopped, when she noticed he tells, "like your parents." She immediately asked, "how you know my parents." That simple question from her, stops his feet for a while, he sigh and continue guiding there way. Both were quietly walking behind each other and the atmosphere around them is getting stressed. She wanted an answer to him but, she couldn't make it and she keep her moth shut. The pin drop silence breaks with a reply by that man, " Let's starts with something simple. My name is Azrael . And the answer of your pervious question is a bit complicated and........ I am terrified, maybe the answers weren't suitable of your expectations." And after that, he spit out the truth, " Yamada-san you..... Hit by a truck and.... now your body is in deep unconsciousness. After hearing that answer, Ichiko chuckled and tells him, "you aren't good with jokes, Azrael . And specially with those cold eyes it looks so lame." And she couldn't stops giggling. The whole place has only hearing her wild laughter. She laughing like crazy or maybe she is waiting for Azrael to join but he's stuck with his emotionless face like he's telling her ' Believe me, it's true'. After those laughs faded, she realised he isn't fooling around. The sentence he spit out is pure truth. It's a shock for her. She come close to him and ask that question again but that time she's serious and shaking. 'Cause she know what he is going to answer. She want to ask more questions to him But before that he tells, " you don't need to get that upset Yamada-san , your body stills breathing but your soul loses it's way and if we cross that path maybe we reach the place where your body is and after that you may continue your life. And I, the spirit guardian led you that place for sure." She was relived after hearing that, she still had a chance to behold her family again. She sigh of relief. She looked again that silver hair guy and give him a smile. That smile tells him, 'let's continue our journey.' --------------------- It's been a while now since they started there journey. But she hear some weird moans of a girl. She asks that guy about them and he reply, "the path we are travelling is connected with other people's memory, you could call it a void of memories and sometimes we also, view or listen there memories, maybe Yamada-san you just hear is someone's old sexual experience. Now she felt embarrassed about those screams. She was mumbling, 'please stop, please stop.' and after a bit those moans were converts into talks, Ichiko is curious that what that young couple talking about and she asks to Azrael , "did you know what they are talking about." He is continually walking. And he ask a question in his reply, "Are you perhaps a gossiper? You looked interested." She refuse that fact by, 'I am just curious and nothing and nothing at all.' He tells her, don't stressed like that he's just teasing her and if she want to hear the conversation he allow that. She come close to that place where those voices come from and there is a small window, she peeks in it and she saw a classroom. A young teen couple were talking about a girl. "Jeez, your girlfriend is so dumb. She believed in that silly excuse for staying at school. She is an idiot. " You are right baby, she is a moron. She even believed that my first time was with her. She is such an idiot." "Yes, she is a stupid bitch." She can't see properly his face 'cause those were very old memories, but she felt sorry for his girlfriend. She took his head out of that window and her expressions tells, how bad she's feeling for that poor girlfriend. Azrael who is just behind her watched everything but can't be able to tell anything except, " we had to continue." They were started walking again and he said, "you are the lady with golden heart and 'cause of that you think about other's a lot. It's bad for you. But, it's not your fault. You were just mirroring your mother." And after that short conversation both were continued covering there paths quietly. Both were again started walking. And as much as they cover the path the quantity of those voices were increasing. That time that silent void turns into a local fish market. "It's like everyone is talking." Ichiko notice a thing, she can't just peek into anyone's memory and the reason Azrael explain is, "those memories only viewed by those people who were connected to the owner of those recollections." And she thinking about that fuck boy, that is he connected to her or not. She felt dejected but then she heard a familiar voice, it comes out of a window, she peeks in and it's her aunt's memories. It's the funeral of Ichiko's parents. Ichiko is sitting on a bench when her aunt pick her. She smiles that at least she witnessed a good memory. But her smile curved back into a straight line when she heard the complete conversation between her uncle and aunt. " Machiko , you don't like Kanako-san at all. So, why did you took her daughter home?" "'Cause I want her to earn money." "You, want her to earn money? Are you out of your mind? You want a child to work to get you that shit money?" " No! Not yet, I treat her like my own daughter and soon when she grown up and started working she send money for her old and unhealthy aunt and I also teach her all housework so, she could help her ill aunt when she want. Don't you think dear, it's a good plan. And top of that, I heard Kanako-san telling her husband about there insurance. The amount is enough to pay my dear Io-chan's college fee. Now you know honey why I let that orphan girl stay in my home." "You can't, it's wrong that money belongs to that child." "I said, enough. Conversation is over now, you dare to open that mouth in front of anyone, clear my honey." After hearing that talk, her facial expressions changed. Her legs felt numb and she fell down. She started crying and sobbing, Azrael who was standing behind her back as always, watching it with those expressionless eyes. She was crying and sobbing but she stops all of a sudden. She heard again a familiar voice. It was a moan. She stands up and started stepping up to reach that window but Azrael stops her with words, "please, stop right there Yamada-san you can't handle that." But she wasn't listening, she know what kind of memory she was going to view but she want to look who was that girl, who stole her husband. She come near that window and her face has no emoticons. Just pale and sorrowful face and nothing at all. She peeked and it was, Io-chan. Her husband merging his body with her cousin sister. She took out her head and stand silently. First, she smiles and then she started laughing and chuckling louder and louder the place which is echoing with strange voices is now resonating only by those laughs. But slowly those chuckles were converted into tears and sobs of sorrow. She sit down on the floor, took her legs in and started crying. After couple of time she looked up and she find Azrael looking her. She cover her eyes again with her arm and ask, " Azrael , where I went wrong? Is am I not lovable? Or am I can't planed anything? Or is it....." And he replied with his emotionless face, " Did you want to hear truth or just want me to comfort you?" She sense the deep meaning behind that simple question and think about it. The conclusion she finds out is, 'she want to know, the truth.' She wipe her tears and stand up near Azrael . After looking her eyes, he know what she wanted to hear. And he tell "You were wrong about many things, you went with your aunt to live with her, but you know that your parents didn't like her. She treated you and your cousin unequally, but you never questioned about it. You loved playing violin and you had talent too but you leave it 'cause of the fee. You marry your first boyfriend, but you already catch him flirting with other ladies. And then the biggest mistake you made is, you changed your job 'cause you wanted to spend more time with your husband. Yamada-san , you planed everything from the started, everything. You planed and organized everything to prevent yourself hurting. You know that, your aunt treating you unfairly but you continued living with her 'cause you wanted things to be normal. You marry your boyfriend although you know he may cheat you someday but, you can't cut ties with him 'cause you afraid to get your heart broken again. Yamada-san, you may plan everything but things run as it could. It may not be possible, that things run as they prepared. You love someone and sometimes they break your heart. It's hard to handle it but that's how life and love works. It's a part of life you can't deny that. You are a pure hearted person and you love everyone that was your mistake, and trust me those weren't flattering word, that's the truth." Her few tears were flowing down, some were stuck in middle and some still waiting to flow. But with those tears she looks happy. And all tears were flow down at once and she hugged the person who is standing in front of her. While holding him she still sobbing but that time words were different, she is thanking Azrael for leading the path. And after a bit she leaves his warmth, she felt a bit embarrassed and she also apologies for hugging him. But the path is completed and behind that door her new life is waiting for her. Azrael took Ichiko's soul to her destiny and the time was to go back to there life again. ×××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××× Lee's Thoughts, "Stick with a backstabber 'cause of love. But deep inside we know that, you did it because you don't want to hurt yourself anymore. But seriously it's foolishness not love Ichiko. " Ichiko , made big mistakes in her life and after she know the truth she regretted her decisions. We had to learn from Ichiko's mistakes. And choose people wisely.


A fog veiled cold morning greets the sleep-deprived man of the Second Restovian Revolutionary division with bullets. The projectiles fly past the trenches into an old corroded armed vehicle. "They hit Kalina again the bastards!" exclaimed one of the soldiers. The joke was getting old and insufficient against the grim monotony misery and futility of trench warfare, especially in a position such as this. I wished for a bullet to find a home in a skull for a change even if it was my own. First of November It was time for some mud aficionados to scout the enemy positions and hopefully our comand to decide to attack. I craved for an attack order and even a fatal one should be prefered to this craven shivering hell. As I was passing by the generals bunkers. I ower herd a conversation mentioning shock troops from the northern parts of the Cassadian mountains. The conversation context seemed to be one of reinforcements. This could mean a possibility of advancement and repositioning. A peculiar peace of conversation made me question my senses. "The Blackbirds shuld advance..." Perhaps I was going insane from the utter sense of disappointment in our past actions, therefore, imagining some form of hope ridden scenario for the sake of my sanity, I owerheard the name of the legendary shock troopers from the North, the infamous Blackbirds. Hope seems to me now a weapon as important as a bayonet with only one difference. It is pointed to myself. I waited for comrade Bitov to exit the bunked and confirm or disapprove this dream-like fantasy of mine. He seemed surprised and annoyed by my intrusiveness making me once again confirm my sentiment of disillusionment with the party propaganda of "Army of equals" His words betrayed a trace of fatality which led me to believe that an attack was in the plan. Our command was truly unprofessional and craven. I was always disdained by their unwillingness to action and their two-faced nature when it came to politics. Opportunistic and hypocritical to the core. A man such as this corrodes the revolutionary spirit before it even began to taste victory. The next morning the command issued orders and a summary of the battle plan. The orders came from Levov himself. Our forces were to storm the enemy positions with no retreat or mercy. A heroic sacrifice was to be made against the front line trenches fortified with machine guns. This would provide a distraction that "The Blackbirds" would exploit disabling the artillery from behind enemy lines in a special operation that itself seems to me suicidal at best. Blackbirds second division should attack the flanks and provide a breakthrough and a chance to victory. The remaining surviving man of our division should join the ranks of The Blackbirds upon finishing our mission. The odds of survival being minimal this seemed a fools gold type of promise. The commanders were visibly shaken by these orders, they tried their best to appear heroic and fanatical, stoic even yet you could see it in their eyes. They feared death. There should be no such sentiment in the Revolutionary war. I felt alienated from my comrades, so fear struck. Am I the only one that made peace with death itself? "Embrace me sweet and merciful death. Let our peace be as eternal and meaningful as our struggle was." I proclaimed such vows as if it was a prayer. Preyers are for the statists, self-sacrifice is the purest form of it to a real revolutionary. I refuse to stand in recess due to fear of impending doom and proclaimed my devotion and zeal. "Towards comrades to death!" "To freedom! " Death is the final form of freedom anyway.


The turbulence outside the plane was like nothing I’d ever experienced. At some points the plane was almost at a ninety degree angle. We could hear the thunder and see the lightning, flashing in bright and deadly streaks across the sky. The seatbelt sign had flashed on what seemed like ages ago, but even before that people were holding onto their seats for dear life. The pilot had been making announcements through the intercom but even those had stopped after a while. The air hostesses were strapped down in their seats, so we couldn’t even ask them what was happening or when we were going to land. The plane’s wifi had long since cut out. As the wind howled and the thunder boomed and the lightning flashed, I found myself feeling sleepy. I had been up for hours and now even a storm like this couldn’t keep me awake. I drifted off and when I woke up, what must have been hours later as the sky was now even darker, the thunder was still roaring all around us. I looked for my bag, and saw that it had fallen off the rack and was now sitting at my feet. I reached down for it and pulled out my phone to check the time. My phone read that it was 8 at night, but that wasn't possible. I had fallen asleep at 8, and it felt like I had slept for hours. I tried to rationalise. Maybe I had just closed my eyes and I felt so tired I thought I fell asleep? That must be it, it was the only rational explanation. I decided to play one of the games on my phone to pass the time, but I couldn’t concentrate with the thunder still booming. I checked the little clock at the top of my phone screen. 8:00pm What? I had been trying to play that game for at least 20 minutes. I know some people have a terrible sense of time but I am not one of those people. I definitely had not been playing that game for less than a minute. I turned to look around me at the people in the other seats. They were all in the same positions as I remembered. I turned back to my phone. 8:00pm I stared and stared at that little clock, waiting, begging, praying for that little number to tick up. It didn’t. Suddenly, one of the stewardesses came marching up the aisle towards me. “Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to put that phone away.” I was so stunned by her unusual request that I simply did as she asked, like I was on autopilot. I decided I would ask her about what was happening, just for a bit of peace of mind. “Do you know how long we have until we land?” She smiled at me, indulgently, like an adult would to a child. “We will be landing shortly. Please just relax and enjoy the flight.” The stewardess strutted off back to her seat. The seatbelt sign had clicked off and the turbulence had died down for now, so I took the opportunity to use the bathroom. I checked my phone again. 8:00pm What was happening?! Was I going mad? I strolled back to my seat and peeked out the window. The sky was still an angry grey and it was raining heavily but there were none of those abrasive thunder claps and blinding flashes of lightning anymore. Just a regular rainy night. A woman a little ways down the aisle from me got up to use the bathroom. As she walked by my seat, she dropped a little slip of paper in my lap, and just kept walking. I unfolded it and read the short message. *I’m awake too* Awake? I scrambled for a pen and wrote back - *Awake from what? What’s happening?* The woman left the bathroom and shuffled past my seat. As she went by, I pushed the piece of paper back into her hand. She didn't go back to her previous seat though, she sat down in the empty one right in front of mine. I could see her through the gap in the chairs, she was scribbling an answer. She pushed it through the chairs to me and as I unfolded it, I opened my mouth to ask her a question. She shushed me by putting a finger to her lips and motioned for me to open the paper. *What time is it?* I looked up at her, panic clear in my eyes, and her face looked like she already knew the answer. I checked my phone again - 8:00pm I showed the woman my phone screen. She barely glanced at it. All she did was mouth ‘I know’ and pulled out her phone to show me. 8:00pm Okay. Okay. Not okay. The clock on my phone stopping? Sure, it's unlikely, but plausible. Two phones, stopped at the exact same time, and everyone else in the exact same positions they were in at the time except for the stewardesses telling us we can’t have our phones out? Creepy. But why us? Why are this woman and myself the only people left awake in this unholy nightmare? Was it the storm? But it couldn’t have been, the storm had been going all day, just now we were in it. What was going on? Abruptly, the woman got up and went back to her original seat. I took a sip of water from my bottle. I just couldn’t figure out what was wrong. Why me? Why her? It felt like I was in a horror movie. I decided that one way or another, I was getting answers. I moved towards the front of the plane, and none of the hostesses even tried to stop me. They just sat in their seats, still as statues. I pushed through the curtain and into the cockpit. I tried asking the co-pilot what was going on, but he just stared straight ahead, not even acknowledging that I was there. I strode over to him and almost fainted. Right across his chest was a huge blood stain, leaking from a gash that went right across his torso. Same with the pilot. The plane had been set to autopilot, probably so we didn’t crash.. I staggered out of the cockpit passing the hostesses, still sitting in the same positions. Although facing them now, I could see why. In the center of their chests where blood stains. On every single one, though not as gruesome as the pilots. I screamed, this time running from the bodies and back to my seat. On every single person I passed, I could now see a blood stain on their chest. Passing by them before, from behind I couldn’t see, but now I got the full and gory view. I was on a plane of corpses. I passed the seat of the woman who had dropped the paper in my lap, but instead of a bloodstained hole, I saw an awful grin. My stomach dropped. Her grin changed to a smile that was almost kind. She reached down to her bag, slowly unzipped it, and pulled out a kitchen knife. I started to whimper. I was about to die.


Stella and The Cherry Tree How am I ever going to get out of here? Worse, am I ever? I have just been given a new Dad. Another new Dad. And a new name. Another new name. And my real dad and my real name are now a secret. A shadow, a ghost. I’m only ten and I’ve already been three people. Stella Mack, Stella Brogan and now Stella Dice. I gotta get out of here. New daddy has a temper, a bad temper and he yells a lot. When yelling doesn’t work, he slaps a lot. And when slapping doesn’t work, well…you know… a little kicking and stomping comes into play. New daddy is rich, and handsome, but he’s mean, just plain mean. Not to Mom. He’s never mean to mom. Momma’s pretty. Fashion model pretty. Like in the magazines. She has a smile that lights up a room. Maybe even the world. Mine anyway. But she is his prize now. I’m just along for the ride. He didn’t want me, but I came with the deal and that makes him mad. Why does she keep doing this? I hate him. How am I ever going to get out of here? Everything in my new world is beautiful. On the outside. My bedroom, so perfect. It’s everything a young girl could want. A ballet room, only I’m anything but a ballerina. An Easy Bake Kitchen. Seriously? A new iPhone, a color tv, a desk, all my books in a tall, Italian Provincial bookcase and my very own bathroom. My balcony looks out over the great expanse of country club green that is our back yard. My room is pretty much a dream room. But it’s not my dream and my life, my life is a nightmare. One of those beautiful on the outside, ugly on the inside, well-kept secrets in town. I hate it and I hate calling him Daddy. All I want is OUT. I don’t know why it takes me so long to figure it out. When it happens, it happens in a flash. I’m huddled in front of my tv set in the middle of the night. Old movies are one of my escapes. Books and old movies. But I am tired of the silent escape they provide. Really tired of it. The walls are closing in on me and so is the anger and the violence and that awful smell of stale booze in the morning. “Stella, Stella, Stella…” the guy on the television cries out. He is so desperate. He is screaming up to Stella’s balcony as if she is the only person that matters. I start crying, but I am crying out for my freedom. I’m crying out because I don’t seem to matter at all. And then it hits me. I look out onto my balcony at the tree. The giant cherry tree that towers over it. Why hadn’t I noticed her, why hadn’t I seen her, why hadn’t I acted before now? I grab my flashlight and run out into the night. I shine the light down through the branches, along the trunk to the ground. This is it. The Holy Grail of Escapes. But what if…is the first thing to cross my mind. Fear. What if, I get caught? So what? How much worse could it be than the prison I’m already in? It couldn’t be. I look up at the dark sky above me. It is a new moon night. Just a slice of light in the sky. I find comfort in the night sky. If anyone’s up there, I whisper, help me. Please, please help me do this. I rip off my pajamas, and stuff my flashlight in the back pocket of my Levis. I always have my Levis on under my pjs. I call them my just-in-case pants. Just in case I have to make a break for it. And tonight, tonight is the night I am shifting gears. Down the tree I go. Onto my bike I fly. Out the gate, down the road, into the town and I am FREE. The wind in my face feels like heaven. I ride all night. Breathing in the cool, crisp air of freedom. I cover every block in this new town. Every square inch of it really. I suck it in. Get to know it. The movie theater, the mall, the little AM/PM just down the way. My new school, the Little League Baseball field. The park with all the hiking trails, the skating rink, the pool and the library! The bus station. It’s all here. It’s my town now. No matter what they call me or where I came from or how I’d gotten here, I, me, Stella. I am here now. I barely notice morning light coming on as I head home. I’m filled with the excitement of my newfound freedom. Now my adventures can be real. No one will know where I went or what I did in the night. It didn’t occur to me that everything was closed at night. It didn’t seem to matter. All that mattered was the escape hatch and the possibilities. As I parked my bike and started shimmying up the tree, I saw the light in mom’s room go on. My heart stops. My worst nightmare was about to come true. I look up at the balcony expecting him to be peering down at me. Locked and loaded. But he isn’t. I sit still in the branches. Very still. Finally, the light goes out. Whew. Maybe just an early morning whiz. I start shimmying up again. Again, the light goes on. I hear my mother call out to him. “You okay in there, hon?” “Yeah, I’m okay just a little touch of the flu. Go back to sleep.” Flu?! I almost blurt out. Hah. More like the nasty, putrid puking that comes with too much gin. How does she stand it? Why does she? My happy high from my new found freedom starts to fade. I don’t want to lose it. I refuse to lose it. I start shimmying up the tree again until I reach the top and climb over the ledge. I made it. I grab my pajamas, pull them on over my Levis, and crawl back into my bed. I feel different. Taller. Bigger. Full of myself. I rolled the dice, and I found a way out. That makes me grin. A snotty, mean little I won kind of grin. I rolled the dice and won. A reckoning is coming now, and I can feel it.


[Before the story, I need to say that I’m in no way a professional writer in fact I’m only 14. I had this idea for a story for a while now and I’m just getting around to writing it. Hope to get some feedback and maybe I’ll make some more stories in the future!] 6/6/2025, 9:02 pm: “Today we sent the first ever humans to Mars in hopes of creating a base of operations there. They are projected to land in T minus 4 hours. Things have gone smooth so far. I’ll keep you updated.” 17/6/2025, 7:57 pm: “It’s been about 11 days since the launch, sorry about not responding to you’re calls. Today something bad happened. We lost all contact to the Mars team. And to make matters worse, the conflicts between China and Russia seem to be getting worse so we may not be able to send any other people up there. Hopefully we get something back from them.” 6/6/2125, 6:15 am: “Daddy said we have to go to some space place today. Something about a project Grandpa worked on for his entire life. I don’t know what to expect! I’ll write back here after we’re done.” 6/6/2125, 8:38 pm: “We’re done at the space thing and apparently it was the 100th anniversary of the 1st people to go to another planet! They said they still haven’t sent anything up there to this day. I wonder why?” 19/5/2150, 6:00 am: “Today I have a job interview. I’m applying at the NASA Center for Inter-terrestrial Human Life. I’m kinda nervous but I think I got this. You know what... I think this is the same place I went with my dad when I was only 8. Wow the time flies.” 22/5/2150, 5:45 pm: “I just got a letter in the mail and I got the job! I bet grandpa would be so proud.” 24/5/2150, 9:32 pm: “Today was my first day at work. Everyone knew me! My grandpa was a legend here. He dedicated his whole life to this. Sadly, however, after his work they stopped with Mars. Still don’t know why. When I asked, all they said was... “no contact....” I’m very confused.” 31/11/2153, 4:53 am: “I was just awoken to a loud rumbling. What could it be? I looked outside and saw nothing. It’s probably just a tremor or something but I live too far from the fault line. I have a bad feeling about this.” Same day, 5:10 am: “I felt another rumbling. Same thing. Looked outside, saw nothing. Wait.... I think I just saw a light outside.” 5:13 am: “There is another rumble and more light. What the hell could it be? I’ve got to go out there and see for myself.” 5:22 am: “WHAT THE HELL IS THAT? LOOKS LIKE A MASSIVE SPACE SHIP IN THE SKY!!” 5:25 am: “It keeps saying “contact us! contact us!” over and over again! What could it want?!” 5:31 am: “It just shot what seems to be a missile. I think this is it. If you are reading this, run.” The End.


The Volvo is a reliable car, but, like fine wine, gets bitter with age. Its engine whirls reluctantly to a start, its lights responding in a dazzling array of bright red and blinding white. From a distance, the scene was nothing more than the old routine of a seasoned road veteran, but to its driver, its lights were the ticket to freedom. This ticket was the gateway to a fleeting sense of hopelessness and simultaneously the yellow brick road to freedom. The catch, however, was that it always led to the same place. A Volvo lets you feel lost, but nonetheless comforts you with its familiar roar and occasional stumble. Feeling lost with this car is another way of saying you’re totally free to go wherever you want. So I think of this freedom as if it were the crisp night air pouring into the front seat from the sunroof, tasting sweet as a byproduct of bees hard at work pollinating the spring flowers. With all windows down as I swerve between potholes, the nearby wildlife are presented with the lyrical genius of Wheatus as he and I harmonize from the bottoms of our hearts about the struggles of teenagers and their dirtbag counterparts. In celestial mockery of my Volvo and its headlight hubris, the night sky awakens. Their collective luminescence overwhelms the faltering turn signal on my heap of 2004 Japanese metal. As the road widens and the turns subside, my headlights become almost one, blending into each other and forgetting their differences. I am no longer the driver, but a passenger on a falling star. There is no better sense of our existence than this feeling of senselessness. A grinding thud interrupts this moonlight sonata. “Damn you,” I whispered, mostly to myself, but also to the pothole. It should regret its actions and remain deeply penitent for adjourning my mighty dance with the heavens. Nonetheless, I pop the trunk and begrudgingly begin the process of replacing my blown tire with a spare. It’s always the front left wheel, and it’s always a user error. For that reason, I have slowly grown to accept the gentle indifference of the world. There are no inherently bad things, just different intentions and consequences tied to each action. Thus, it is to capture the universe in essence to say everything needs everything else in order to be anything at all. The only true “bad” thing would be to take it too seriously. After all, it’s just a pothole. The Volvo sputtered back to life, its lights reflected in the eternal pool of the sky. Two roads diverged in this wood, and I took the one with less potholes. It is not necessary to reach any destination beyond my Volvo’s capacity. The purpose of a drive is to drive - to take the wheel and your hand as one and smell the oil. It is not to reach a destination, but to enjoy the sights along the way. One must imagine Sisyphus happy. As I gaze in astonishment at the world above me and the warm air surrounding me, I find myself overwhelmed by the pressure of these small celestial candles. As I turn off my car’s front beams, the sky follows suit, the Volvo lights fading as they lose their battle to the sun. The sky fills its pool with splashes of color, its painting becoming an infinite ocean, with the Volvo lights reflecting the universe looking back at itself.


The hover craft was not going to be fast enough to reach the community in time. Sonic alarms were already starting to show diminishing activity in Angeles Sector 09. There would be no time to properly evaluate foot traffic. All of the other sectors had thriving commerce, indoor and out. But whenever an analysis drone flew near to Sector 09 the peoples would vanish. The council had been uneasy about this fact. They didn't like mysteries especially the mystery of a sole community acting completely independent of its predestiny. If the scripture of humankind was being ignored, they would need to be disbanded and arrested. Soon Ke-Yu would land the drone orb and solve this mystery and bring balance and continued progress to the Magna Statum. The scriptures taught that being a good humanoid meant serving the greater cause. If there was a drug being manufactured in Sector 09 it would explain the lack of production in this area. Compound 56 was found in the surrounding regions, affecting 20% of the populace in Sectors 03 and 06. Only specified operatives were permitted to be involved in the quarantine and investigation of the drug's victims. Their conditions were said to be "unusual" and "detrimental to public health." The compound was deemed highly dangerous to genetic makeup. Ke-Yu, who was a model androgynous citizen of renowned investigation, found that being a nondescript nonbinary lessened the burdens of extinct humanoid generations. The thought that there used to be designations between male and female was cold and isolating. With neural capacity being freed up from the nuisance of creativity Ke was able to focus on more logical thinking. To imagine that humans had to exist in different, inferiority forms showed how far humanity had come. Sector 09 appeared below. The streets, as anticipated, were empty. There were rumors, of course, that the drug known as Compound 56 influenced the entire population, that the statistics clearly showed an increase in the compounds usage in all of the sectors who failed to live up to expectations. Ke-Yu steered the orb into the docking area, knowing full well there would be no one to greet. As the door whooshed open Ke saw the large silos at the epicenter of the community. Appearing the same as all other humanoids, with the white, form-fitting suit, Ke would have been happy to meet others, to explain the purpose of the visit and to be guided to the reception center but as it was the clustered buildings and narrow streets were devoid of life. Everyone must be inside. Ke would need to find her own way. The silos were big enough to output thirty tons of chloroxine in a single day but the sector’s capacity, at least from the read-outs, was 30% of this. Ke felt this was a good place to start. If they were manufacturing drugs it would make the most conclusive sense that they would be stored here. Ke had never remembered being this alone, being part of a collective of like-minded humanoids for long, and now on a street with no familiar faces, any face that would mirror Ke's own face. It was comforting to be surrounded by the same face, seeing yourself in every individual. But in this moment, everything was different, out of place, and unusual. A lone bird flew overhead, making a disinterested squawk. Ke looked up before entering the silo building, wondering, at least scientifically, what it would be like to fly so high. Inside the reception area was just as empty and unused. The utility console was also offline. Unusual indeed. There were no signs of struggle or even foot traffic. The lobby remained quiet as Ke found the back doors sealed and brought up a virtual map. The wrist map showed that the area ahead contained no life signals. The air vents were offline. That was when Ke noticed a compartment that didn't appear on the 3D projection, to the right of the doorway. Odd. Ke removed the three-foot wall panel and found a hallway inside, not on the map. The hall led to another door that opened on approach. The following hallway contained what appeared to be a decontamination room with nozzles on the ceiling and floor. Ke cautiously stepped forward, a white gloved hand reaching for invisible sensors. This tech was old but appeared to have been used recently. Ke scanned the room and found evidence of a strange substance plastered on the wall. But before further analysis could be completed Ke was dragged forward on the moving, tread floor. With one foot on the floor Ke stumbled and fell back trying to jump back to the entry way. Ke was carried along with colorful sensors and buzzing noises going off. The colors were another abnormality, with green, red, and blue light, instead of the standardized white. It distracted Ke for a moment, long enough to prevent proper analysis. Ke was then suddenly overcome with the strange substance that covered the white suit and gloves, emanating from the twelve nozzles in the hall. Ke couldn’t breathe as the substance came in contact with the humanoid's skin and mouth, sparking a reaction of goose bumps that Ke thought was a myth. It seeped through the suit and caused a trembling in the humanoid’s frame. A series of emotions struck Ke as the nozzles continued their onslaught. First Ke's heart beat faster, giving off a sense of unease and panic. During the indoctrination process Ke had learned about these types of antiquated feelings and grew concerned over the possibility that the chemicals were indeed capable of changing DNA. Ke became encased in a flurry of thoughts that went beyond any known words or identification. The closest verbiage was "hot," "warm", and "alert." More alert. More power. More human. These were the feelings that had been forgotten. Ke questioned the logic of the supreme leaders, of the society that had enacted such uniformity and restriction on itself. A vision came through the soft blue haze, full of energy and tactile sensuality. Ke felt inflammation originating at the chest and moving to the stomach. Ke touched the forming pectorals, realizing they were softer than muscle and then moved a curious hand to the stomach, which was now bulbous and wide. The thought of becoming something different frightened Ke. There was nausea too but it grew into a tingling, a warm tingling. That was the word. An enjoyable tingling, birthed from a diversity in Ke's frame. Every sight and texture became a wonder, every structure was a monument. Ke became consumed by a rush of sensations. Vibrant. Unrestrained. Mournful. Symbiotic but free. Alive. She. Her. Ke was no longer a duplicate humanoid anymore. She became a her. She became a flower, spreading out her petals to receive the sunshine. Even the colors of the lights meant more than they did before, flourishing with inspiration and appreciation. The divide didn't seem so distant. It was before her, in a swath of fresh awareness. A union was desired. A union she could not explain. A bond shared between life essences. The union of man and woman. A union of two separate beings, each side bolstering the other and taking them to new heights of perception and being. As the spray dissipated, she opened her eyes and saw everything as it truly was. The world had been asleep and she was awake for the first time. An ancient embodiment had stripped them of their souls and they accepted it willingly, absentminded of the consequences. Ke saw the strife between a man and a woman, the contention, the struggles, the turmoil, but this difference came with a yearning to embrace the chaos of unpredictability. The doors at the end of the hall opened suddenly and a faint humming was heard. Ke felt repetition in the sounds, her body driven to sway with the soft melody. The intoxication moved her toward the door. Beyond was a pallid of unique shapes, colorful lights, the hum becoming louder. It was all she wanted. The music overtook her and she was born again.


I didn’t want to go. June was long and busy and tiring with lots of lacrosse and school and other things I don’t enjoy.  I didn’t want to add another activity to the ever-growing roster of things required to be a better parent that I am. I wanted the beach, books and a bar cart. So, I pawned it off on my mensch husband, who agreed to take our three monsters and my nephews. I think we threw the last two boys in for sport – the event being “how much could I pile on before my husband had a second heart attack?” I flee to a rainbow-colored chair with an ocean view and a cooler. I’m not even sure there was ice or a cup, but with prosecco and Juice Bombs, I am sure nothing required a cork screw or bottle opener. I sit with the sun on my face, ignoring my brother and sister-in-law. Meanwhile, the whack crew of seven made its way down the beach.

The seventh was John Schmidt. John was responsible for this whole adventure. It started when he asked my mom, “if the kids would like to go jet skiing”. I obviously said no. My kids may have loved it, but school was over and it was time to be rid of all commitments that included my involvement. My mom asked me about the jet skiing no less than 19 times in the days that followed. Classic Janet. She had clearly said, yes, long before I answered in the negative. She knew I’d cave, because she knew I always caved, because she had a way of always getting me to cave. She would never have to go back on her word to John – due to her ninja like abilities to always get what she wanted, without ever raising her voice. Everyone thought she was laid back and flexible, never quite realizing her stealth skills. Not quite passive aggressive…more like quiet-aggressive.

Jesse, disrupts the silence by announcing, “I feel bad for Aaron” (the mensch). Jen, his wife, who I can usually count on to be my partner in crime, sides with my brother. I don’t feel bad at all. I am finally sitting, in the fresh, salty air; bottle in hand instead of the steering wheel of my minivan driving, always driving. But, I know I will look like an asshole if I don’t go on the kid-Aaron-John-wave runner-check. So, in an effort to look like I have a heart, I join them on the journey down the beach.

We find the kids – all with loopy jet ski smiles. My other brother has also joined in the joy. Aaron hops off and exchanges his life jacket with Jesse in return for the promise of another happy face racing by at 30 mph.  Jesse pulls my twins around the ocean on a tube and then passes the torch to his wife. I want none of this. But peer pressure works even when you are 50 years old. I hop aboard the car in the ocean, now pulling my daughter and nephew on a tube. I figure if I can get this fun out of the way, I can finally return to my beach chair.

John steps on the gas. We take off and it feels fun and free. The wind, the sun, and the speed. We are out to sea. The tubing rope loosens. The two kids go flying off the back as the tube sheds its cover and pops like a birthday balloon. Before I know it, the rope is wrapped around the motor and nearly snaps my leg in half, which now resembles raw chicken. The jet ski is upside down. We are all in the water and the rope is so twisted underneath, that even I - an expert rainbow loom rubber band separator – know there is no hope of us salvaging this ride and getting back to shore. It’s all fun and games for about 12 seconds. I should have known there was a deeper reason I didn’t want to go jet skiing. It’s taken me until now to put my finger, or bloody leg on it. It’s because, with my family, there is always a story. I have never answered the question “how was ____ [insert family fun]”, simply “fun” or “good". There is always a long convoluted story – a rental house on Fire Island that has bugs and leaks and used wet towels that for some reason we don’t leave, my mom trapped in an elevator while in a wheelchair well into her hospice stay, my brother lost on the ski mountain, another brother skiing into a tree losing both his teeth only to have them shoved back in by the ski patrol, a house we are trying to buy where the owner won’t leave until we smoke them out with a lien on the house, my daughter’s front teeth knocked out on the ice – the gymnast, not my hockey player, or at very least the promise of a minor concussion just before a trip for any of them, be it at sport or on hoverboard.

Our family activities always have an apex that is more like a mudslide near the top of the mountain, rather than a victorious ascent. They end with me being stuck in the ocean for three hours waiting for marine coast patrol and praying that Jaws is just a movie. John tells my daughter and nephew to – no joke – swim across the channel back to shore. They are 12 and 13.  The tide is on its way out. But I am too shell-shocked to think straight. I also feel like I can’t leave John stranded in the ocean. I am not sure why he leapfrogged my family as my priority, but losing half a pint of blood makes you do funny things. I have no phone but at least John does and has enough battery to call the sea rescue.

We wait on hold for what feels like days but is probably more like 53 minutes (but who’s checking?) North Carolinians are on island time. After waiting on hold, we wait some more, and are then told they will get there – with no time estimate other than before dark. I tread water and see some movement out of the corner of my eye. It is my daughter and nephew and not a shark. I thank the shark gods first and then the width of the channel for keeping the kids from attempting to swim across it. I hobble into mom mode and find someone willing to take them back to shore. I pray for the second time in 20 years. This time that the stranger is not a secret human trafficker.

As the sun starts to go down, I realize it’s “eat what you kill out here” – literally, well, actually I hope not. I have put in enough time with John to feel like he can’t possibly tell my mom I am a terrible person. I flag down several boats. But, with my scary raw chicken leg-leg  – which at this point actually looks a million times better from the hours of salt water – and frantic arm waving, I don’t get a lot of takers. Eventually a group of four men agree to take me back to shore. I pray for the third time today, hoping they are not serial killers or criminals or human traffickers. I am pretty sure I am okay, they are probably just New York state-tax evaders, since they look more like investment bankers. But, all of a sudden I am very religious. I get back to shore. I have never been so happy to be on land. I see my daughter and nephew and wonder if I should have left them to swim the channel, when my daughter starts making fun of how crazy I look - sunburned, bloody and shivering.  I see my husband, brother, sister-in-law, some of the kids, all waiting for me. A few of them have smartly returned home to escape another story. But, a whole bunch of them sat at the end of the island waiting for me, trying to bring me back. They asked the boaters that took Layla and Cole to the island if they would return to pick me up. The guys said no, in the true spirit of friendly southerners. My family flagged down beach patrol – who apparently see no need to think outside the box. People stranded in the ocean are outside their jurisdiction. They prefer to just drive back and forth on the beach in their cool jeeps. My brothers had it out with some old ladies who said John was too close to shore and felt like we deserved what we got – the women wanted beach patrol to take away John’s license – luckily that is also out of beach patrol’s job description. My crazy family, with our crazy stories and crazy dysfunctional set up, all waited for me, and tried to get me home. Somehow, they are love me despite my being a giant pain 95% of the time.

I guess it turns out I like it all – the stories, the crazy, the gaggle of kids. It sure keeps life interesting. Mostly, the stories are memories, happy and funny and ridiculous. And when I miss my mom so much it hurts, a funny story about her making me save egg cartons for “Steve the Greek” – their neighbor with a chicken farm behind an old strip mall, the absurdity of her ability to make me save them while hospice is fixing her morphine pump, they make me laugh. I would go on any jet ski in the world if it would bring her back. I’d even wait out the rest of the time in the water with John Schmidt. It’s all fun and games until you go to a wonderfully, long storied, Fa-go-po-pi family gathering. I wouldn’t have it any other way. Well, I guess I would like my leg to look like it used to…but upon seeing it, it does give many chances to tell this long, convoluted story, and remind me of that time my mom got me to do just one more thing using her secret spell.


Once upon a long time ago, there lived a short creature in a dense and foggy forest. This forest was dangerous and full of wrong turns. Should someone get tangled in the web of paths, they will surely be lost for all of time but this small creature knew the way through. One day, a human in fine clothing journeyed into this forest and met the small creature. “Hello, good sir. I seem to be lost, would you tell me how to get to Hethrusa?” the human inquired. The small creature was not used to humans speaking to him so politely. A smirk sparked deep in his face. He could hardly hold his excitement. “Good human, my good human. I can, and only can I, guide you through this deep forest.” The creature replied. “In exchange for a sweetie and story. Only then, will I guide thee.” The human, being a merchant by trade, had many sweets to give. The creature was handed a small loaf cake and delighted with his catch, he sat down for the human’s story. “What is your pick of story, my friend?” The human asked. “Adventure, my human companion. I crave stories from the great outward, as I am stuck here for eternity.” The creature replied. The human thought, placing a thumb on his chin, and exclaimed with excitement that he had just the story. The creature waddled close to the human as he told a great story of a triumphant warrior who sought after the fountain of youth. This warrior did not find the fountain, but regained his youthful spirit in adventure all the same. The creature was delighted beyond the moon and stars to hear such a delicious story. The creature held the human’s hand and walked him through the ever changing paths. Safely, they both arrived at the edge of the forest. “I bid you my human friend a farewell. I shall not leave this forest, but safest travels to you.” The creature said. “I make a promise to you that I shall return every week. In my pinky, I hold this promise” Said the human. “Every week, I pinky promise to bring you sweets and stories. In exchange, you gently guide my hand through this forest.” Confused by such an odd practice, the creature hooked his small pinky around the humans. “Great promise indeed, my human pal. I shall see you in a week's time.” The creature promised. Over the course of many weeks, the human returned as promised. Bringing sweets and sweeter stories of the great outward lands, both old and new. From the mountains of Preshnua to the deep ocean depths of Trinhada. Each week, the creature gleefully listened to the humans tales as he ate the sweets given. There came a point in the simple promise that both danced and sang with each other. Sharing stories and sweets alike. Both the human and creature shared fond interest in each other. Each week, they both parted ways with the same pinky promise that started it all. On one particular week, the human did not pass through the forest. Waiting for his companion, the creature sat for hours. It seemed that the sky had changed many times and still the human did not show. Worried, the creature paced endlessly. Weeks passed, and still the creature paced. “Where, oh where is my human pal?” the creature pondered. Had he slipped in his great adventure? Did he get gabbed by the Grubabada Bears of Brunaladura? Was he swallowed in the deep dark depths of the Yuranga caves? Oh how the creature worried. These weeks of missing gave way to shaking months. These months were buried with misting years. The creature, still heartbroken of his missing friend, paced a large cavern in his worried walking. It took days for the creature to reach the very top of his sad and empty hill. Then, as if by a chase of a dream, the creature heard a familiar clambering. The trinkle trankle of a certain human’s thingy thangies. With perked ears, the creature peeked over his worry hill. His heart skipped every sixth beat. Holding a breath that was days old. There he was! “Oh what joy to see you, my fleshy pink faced friend! How I missed your presence.” The creature said. “My goblin faced complacent comrade, there you are still! I have great stories to tell of my journeys!” The human replied. “You say your… journeys? Had you not been turned purple by the Thrumping Vines of Enstera? Did you not get slip slopped by the rivers of mud in Frentu?” “No my friend, I have seen the world and most of its glory. I was on a long Holiday. And I have brought otherworldly sweeties, just for you!” The creature's heart was bent. “I do not care for the sweeties, I care for you!” The monster yelled. “You broke the pink-knee promise! I will not guide thee today or tomorrowday or next tomorrowsday!” The creature crossed his arms in protest. The human reached out but withdrew his hand. “I know, I have upset you. I did not mean for this to happen in such a way. Let me make it up to you. I have the best, most grandest, extra gilded extravagant story to tell!” The human said. “Let us dance and never forget to smile!” The creature turned away and thought. This was a most joyous day to see the human, but today should not be so joyous had the human kept their promise. The creature turned and danced with the human. The human was overjoyed and told the story of a great wizard who lost his glasses at the foot of a great mountain. “Tis such a great story so far, indeed.” Said the creature. “Pray tell, does it end in misfortune?” “It does not-” the human laughed. “It ends with happiness” “That is odd” said the creature. “Why is that?” said the human. “It is odd, because your story does end in misfortune!” The creature yelled. At the peak of their dancing, the creature threw the human in his pit of worry. Consumed by the vast darkness, the human’s screams were only heard but for a moment, and then gone. The creature felt sad, for the human had betrayed their promise. The creature felt even sadder now that the human was gone for sure. The creature wished not that they did not meet, but that the human never returned. In this way, the creature could have came up with his own story to fill in the humans sweeties and shoes.


Claire and I stood in the middle of “the storage unit”, as Claire kept calling it. I’m not prone to phobias, but believe me, it’s damn near impossible not to feel claustrophobic, when you’re surrounded by endless rows of precariously stacked piles of heavy objects, some of them looking alarmingly sharp, most of them looking as if they may tumble down any second. Packed to the brim. You’ve guessed it: this was no ordinary storage unit. Not something built to harbour a couple of forgotten moving boxes and great-grandma’s favourite rocking chair. This was a an industrial size affair, the floor about ten thousand square feet, the ceiling easily fifteen feet high. The biggest items stacked in here, as far as I could see, where a sofa comfortably seating a football team (reserve players included), a fossil collection in glass show cases that may or may not have once been the highlight of a museum exhibition, and something I can best describe as a moderate size harvester. Plus anything and everything imaginable in any type of household, from your run-of-the-mill seventeenth century French Sun King’s castle to a trailer park meth lab. Most of these piles seemed to defy gravity. Some reached up to the ceiling, packed so densely they seemed to be squeezed in here by force, or maybe the ceiling had been lowered, clamping down on them. A sight to behold, no doubt. Still, what truly overwhelmed me, was the stench. Foul. Aggressive. A combination of decay and something I can, bizarrely, best describe as “frenzy”. When Claire had opened the heavy metal shutter door to this place, it had been little more than a slight whiff. Then ever-increasing in strength the further we ventured inside. Where I was standing now, the stink was oppressive. Maybe an old bear was hibernating in here somewhere. Or rather, an old bear had been hibernating in here, many years ago, but sadly, hadn’t made it to the next spring. And nobody had found him yet. So what was this place, what’s the explanation for this jam-packed maze and the disgusting smell accompanying it? “Real estate storage”. Have I mentioned Claire’s a realtor? Well, she is, and a very successful one at that. Before I tell you how this adventure took an ugly turn, let me mention that Claire had warned me, asking me whether I had a sensitive stomach, telling me it might be best to skip our visit. Whereupon I had told her it wouldn’t be a problem. I even remember chuckling knowingly. As a coroner, I explained to her, I was used to stenches no storage unit could equal, let alone surpass. Well, I was wrong, and not just about the stenches. Back to the story. Apparently, “real estate storage” is a thing. When Claire first mentioned it, that didn’t exactly pique my interest. I imagined used yard signs with “for sale” printed on them next to a photo of Claire’s friendly, well made up face. A couple of boxes with old flyers maybe. What more could there be? So when she said, with that telling little smile of hers, that it was nothing like that, nothing at all … I was hooked. In my defense, I’ve always been a curious person. In hindsight, that was probably my biggest mistake. That’s the thing about hindsight, though: as a rule, it comes too late. But what about the storage unit? What’s the explanation for the size of it, for this breathtaking, chaotic—for lack of a better word—collection?

“Real estate home staging”.

Any ideas what that entails?

You do?

You’re well ahead of me then. Little did I know you cannot expect to sell your house for a decent price anymore, unless you ruthlessly declutter it first. Sure, I understood the general idea: for a showing, avoid smelly socks on the bedroom floor and moldy pizza boxes in your teenage son’s room (or any other room, for that matter). Maybe even declutter your wardrobe and your kitchen cupboards. After all, you never know whether a potential buyer might be brazen enough to open them. What I hadn’t realized, was that it didn’t end there. Before your realtor sticks a “for sale” sign into your front yard, you’re expected to do the following: Scrub every surface until there’s nothing left to scrub, outside surfaces, inside surfaces. Everything. Everywhere.

Depersonalise. Your favorite holiday snaps? Those cherished portraits of your grandchildren? Photos of beloved pets, who’ve trooped over the rainbow bridge long ago? Get rid.

Any particular aromas, good or bad, scented plants and perfumes included? Get rid. Mismatched pieces of furniture, holding so many dear memories? Get rid. That collection of glass budgerigars made from special Czech crystal you inherited from aunt Marcia? Well … you get the picture.

The reason is simple, as Claire explained to me: the family who—you hope—will buy your old place, preferably well above asking price, has to envision themselves living there. Envision themselves . Not envision you . So “neutral” is key. Excellent real estate home staging, I’ve learned, goes even further: not only will Claire take all your unwanted, sale impeding clutter off your hands, she will also supply you with wonderfully stylish, perfectly neutral design objects. Anything that upgrades your simple family home to a professional interior-design showroom.

And where does all the unwanted clutter go? Exactly. Right now, I was standing in the middle of one of those “declutter storage units”. Yes, there were more. Six in total. This was the biggest and the most impressive, though, Claire had assured me.

There’s one more thing you should know: not only had Claire been an amazingly successful realtor for decades, she was also a hoarder. Which is why none of the stuff in here—while meant to be stored only temporally—got thrown out or auctioned off, when the owners didn’t come back to collect it. Everything stayed. Everything. So there you have it. The explanation. And after adjusting to the sight of this vast, bizarre collection, I thought nothing in here could surprise me anymore. That was my second mistake. Or maybe it was my third. I’ve lost count. I stared at the bloody knife and the severed hand, both sticking out of a pile of what looked like theatre props and costumes for a period piece, Henry the eighth maybe. I remember thinking Claire had probably seen it as well, assuming the hand was a theatre prop. An understandable mistake. I’d be a useless coroner, though, if I couldn’t spot the difference between a prop and the real thing. “Claire?” I called, softly. I couldn’t see her any more and turned around, slowly, looking for her, trying my best not to touch anything—neither the knife nor the hand nor anything else. In my mind, at that point, the biggest threat was still an avalanche of home-decorating junk toppling down on me. There was no answer. Instead, the overhead lights went out. In quick succession, I heard the metal shutter door being pulled down, followed by the eerie sound of the thick metal lock snapping into place. Then the click-clack of Claire’s high heels on the concrete floor of the deserted hallway, on the other side of the door. Then nothing. For a brief moment, the image of all the other doors to all the other storage units flared up in my mind’s eye, like a beacon of hope. Someone else would arrive soon, surely. Then I remembered what Claire had told me: she was the one renting all the units on this floor. I also remembered her jokingly mentioning that for the foreseeable future, there was no watchman.

It’s hard to describe my next feeling. The one that came with the realisation of what it meant, that rash decision, when I had—readily, carelessly—agreed to leave my briefcase in Claire’s car. The briefcase with my smartphone in it. “CLAIRE?!” Silence.


TW: terrorism Many might say I have lost my way but it is those who say that, who have lost their way. Our city neighborhood is changing because of them . Because they lost their way.

My journal entries are my place of happiness. I write the good old days long before Bill Gates and Jeff Bezos. The time when we were all safe. The only millionaires were sawmill operators, one named Henry Yesler. He was one of the pioneers of the city and built what became the city’s first steam-powered sawmill. People looked up to him and made him the city’s 7th and 15th mayor. He was truly an inspirational individual,

not in the likes of any crazy aliens. I describe these days in detail and take into account everyone’s lifestyle. This is how life should be. We need to go back to the good old days.

Walking through the streets through the heavy rain, I silently observe the people. Our home is known to be one of the fastest-growing cities in the United States. I write how it’s imperative that we return back to our old ways to stay safe. Our city has been misconceived to be dull and dreary yet if anything, New York, Houston, Boston, and Atlanta are drearier than ever. Clouds are harmless. I write how my first stop will be Pivotal Comware. The military has no need for such AI networks. Our manned militias got the job down. I describe how infuriating it is to read about such terrible innovations. Are these people signing the document for our demise? To even imagine the thought of those terrible machines serving us tea only to point a gun at our heads. A shudder passes through my body as I pull out the light brown package from my backpack. Carefully, I place the package behind Pivotal Comware and continue walking. I describe how the streets were relatively empty. The rain kept everyone indoors. It would only be a matter of time.

“Pivotal Comware has just received a package with a bomb. Luckily, only one person was inside the building and brought what seems to be a harmless brown package inside the building. We are still searching for other victims but the company reports that nobody else was inside. That’s it for now, back to you, Bartel,” announced the TV reporter. The TV screen was filled with red flames licking the sides of the building. All that was left of the Pivotal Comware logo was black charr. I write how now it will only be one of humans’ mistakes from the past. I wait for Pivotal Comware’s story to calm down before heading out again. The sky was overcast with light gray clouds. This time I take a longer route and pass by the glass-blowing studios. The colorful beautiful shapes hang from the ceiling and walls. The local library sits across the studios. The entrance is filled with crowds of people, holding bags full of books. We are a smart bunch and our city is known for such amazing innovations. As such an elite group, we can’t risk our safety with these killer machines.

Quantcast sits a few blocks further. Their terrible founders use AI I blend in the crowd and place the package into the mail truck right across. Within minutes, I’m half a mile away from Quantcast. I write about how it will be the last time anyone will see it.

I realize the killer machines are not far away therefore I must speed up my game. I run back to my house and pick up a few more bombs. The police couldn’t find any direct trail from the bombs at both Quantcast and Pivotal Comware. God must be on my side, not the police’s side or the police would have found me a long time ago. I am doing what’s right. God supports me.

Once I left my direct neighborhood, I slowed down to a normal pace. Attracting unnecessary attention would blow my cover. On the right, I approached Bertha. I describe how Bertha is a giant drill trying to dig its way under the city. God must have deemed the project bad because Bertha got stuck after completing 10 percent of her 1.7-mile journey for the new underground tunnel. The construction workers are working on removing the cutter head but they haven’t learned from their mistake or God’s hate. They plan on resuming drilling in a few months. Bertha isn’t alone under the bridge. A giant, car-crushing troll lives under the bridge too. I write about how I relate to the troll. I feel its fury in wanting to kill certain humans who have lost their way. Prifender’s office sits on the cross-section of three roads. I describe the bustling activity inside the building and how they are all killing humanity one click at a time. My legs feel energized and carry me to the back door. I’m careful to wear gloves and always cover my tracks. Quietly, I drop the package near the doorstep and head in the other direction.

I walk past the Cascadia fault line. Seismologists warn us about there being an 80 percent chance of a 6.8-magnitude earthquake hitting within years. An earthquake is so small in comparison to what all these AI companies are building. Why can’t anyone else see that? Killer robots are going to invade our homes and hold a gun to our heads the second we turn around. How come nobody is doing anything? I look up at the sky and see the gray clouds. At least God is on my side. I was put on Earth to put everyone else back on track.

Suddenly, I encounter a large crowd and traffic. The pro football team must be playing at the stadium. A smile creeps onto my face. Perfect distraction. God really is on my side today.

Suplari sits across from City Light, the public-owned utility that powers most of the city with hydroelectricity. Humanity has some hope left. I describe the environment. The streets are quiet with the crowd cheering in the background. Suplari is known for helping companies with marketing through AI. Again, those machines are only here to take over human jobs and ruin humanity for all. I describe how I set the package inside an employee’s car.

Right outside the car garage, are a few old pinball machines for sale. Ever since I was a young boy, my dad had taken me to the pinball machines. I describe how happy I felt reminiscing about those good old times. I didn’t have to worry about the machines then. Now, I won’t allow any young boys to worry about them anymore.

My next stop passes by the water. A shipyard marks one side of the lake. World War II was the cause of that. The founders of the Boeing company left our town. I write how they must agree with me and realize how the people of our city have lost their way. Houseboats float on the other side of the water. Our neighborhood has the most houseboats for miles. I describe the different colors, sizes, and shapes of the houseboats. The number of houseboats rivals the number of dogs in our neighborhood. I too had a dog when I was younger. A Daenary. It fell victim to the terrible AI. My dad couldn’t save it. I write how sad I felt. A tear stain marks that page. Veritone sits at the intersection just twenty feet ahead of me. My feet start to pick up the pace and I run all the way there. If I attract attention, I attract attention. People need to realize I’m the one doing the right thing. Veritone is analyzing all their audio and camera feed. Those robots will know more about us than we know about ourselves. Quickly, I drop another brown package at the doorstep and run in the other direction. The street is empty as the clouds have darkened. I describe the dreary feeling of the atmosphere but the happiness that emerges inside of me the second I let go of the package.

I write about how at that moment I realized I could not evade the police forever. At best, I could fulfill my mission first. The Space Needle stands tall, looming over the buildings. I write about how I sat in awe as a young child. My dad had told me all about it. The brainchild artist Edward Carlson, who sketched the tower design. The construction workers had also been superhuman and built the tower in 400 days to withstand high wind speeds and earthquakes. The iconic Pike Place Market sits just below with its overpriced onions. It was the joke of the town. Our neighborhood holds such promise. I’m here to put everyone back on the path. Casualties are inevitable and only happen to those who deserve them.

Utrip sits right in front of me. The tall glass windows looming over me. I spit on it and throw my last package on the ground. Out of the corner of my eye, I see blaring sirens and black cars. Quickly, I kick the box and set off the bomb. I won’t go down without finishing my mission. They will realize later. I’ll become Phoenix Jones, the real-life superhero. Everyone will sit at my tombstone in awe. They’ll be proud of what I accomplished and follow my journals. I write the last sentence. “I’m the superhero who saved humanity from those machines by God’s will. I saved Seattle.”


Right now, the car is headed silent down the highway. It's dark, and there is nobody driving. I snuggle up in my seat and listen to the hum of its parts. I have turned my set off. It shows nothing but reports of destruction and plagues. The world on fire. The world gone mad. Most of the interstates have shut down. They want people to stay in one place. The car is moving along the back roads, switching from one lonely little highway to another. We are headed towards the answer, towards the key to defeating Q. I hope we get there fast. Slowly, the sky pales, and the blue curves of the mountains emerge from the darkness beyond the guardrails. I heard once that the Appalachians used to be as high as the Himalayas. Looking at the sloping hills under the sky, I can sense the ancient shape of the world. A world that was here before us. Man, I'm getting pretty philosophical. In my mind, another shape appears. Massive. Continental. The slope of human decline. The awful descent of the human race into... Christ. Let's just enjoy the pretty mountains. Karen is lying in the back. She's doing another eye treatment with equipment we took from the hospital. Before we reach Plattsburgh, the car switches highways and heads west. The sun climbs higher. We are getting closer. Eventually, the car turns onto an unpaved road. After few minutes, it slows to a stop. And here we are. I look around. It's a nice bit of country scenery -- grass and trees and gentle hills and blue sky and pretty much fuck all. There is nothing here. Or whatever is here, is hidden. Karen is still doing the eye treatment in the darkness of the van's rear. The light from the goggles seeps out in little flashes, sketching the shape of her face. Finally, the goggles turn green, and she pulls them off, blinking and squinting. I go and help her sit up. "Can you see a little better?" I ask. She looks down at her hands, moving the fingers slowly in the dark. "Yeah." "Persistent shapes?" She raises her hand into a shaft of sunlight shining in from the front of the van. Her fingers catch the glow. "My hands," she says softly, her voice quavering with disbelief. It's the first strong emotion I've ever heard from her. "Good. That's great," I say. "Well... we're here. What do we do now?" She looks at me and smiles maniacally. "We go into the forest," she says. Her smile is unnatural and stiff, more of a grimace than a smile, but for a brief moment, as it first spreads across her face, she looks like a giddy little kid. "The key is there," she says. "What is it? Some kind of secret underground base? Hidden laboratory?" She makes a groaning sound that I barely recognize as laughter. "You play too many narratives. It's much simpler than that." I unfold a wheelchair that we "borrowed" from the hospital and help her into it. When I open the back doors of the van, she winces against the bright sunlight, and again her face looks like a little kid's for a moment. I give her a pair of huge black wraparound sunglasses that we took eye treatment center. The van lowers to the ground, and I roll the wheelchair out onto the dusty road. She makes sure I take a bag of supplies with us -- snacks and drinks and other stuff. The sun is warm on my skin, but the breeze is fresh and cool. It's a perfect day. You would think that everything is right in the world. "So where to?" I ask. She looks around, her head wobbling on her thin stalk of a neck, her eyes hidden by the massive glasses. "There was once a house here. Do you see it?" I look around and spy a low, crumbled gray wall mostly hidden behind the high grass. "I think see an old foundation." "That's it, she says. Her eyes are hidden, but there is something in her voice that wasn't there yesterday, a shivery excitement. It makes me excited too. I push the wheelchair down a weedy gravel driveway toward the foundation. There's nothing else left of the house. It must have been torn down and hauled off. Karen has me push her around it and go down a trail leading towards forest. "What was that house?" I ask. "Anything important?" "I used to live there." I turn and give it another look, as if I would see some new detail in the crumbling concrete that I had missed. "That was the old children's home?" "Yep." "Then where are we going?" "We're almost there," she says. "It's close." We follow the trail into the forest. The trees become thick and shadowy. The wheelchair has a little power assist, but it's still tough to push it over all the roots and rocks and that lie along the narrowing, twisting path. "Oh, yes!" Karen whispers excitedly. Up ahead, sunlight gleams through the branches of the crowding trees. A wave of excitement moves through me, and I push Karen faster. We come out into a clearing, a broad patch of wild grass that glows green and golden in the sunlight. "Here," Karen says. I stop the wheelchair and look around. At first glance, there doesn't seem to be anything here. "So what's here?" I ask. "I used to come here as a child... and play make-believe... before I was connected." I take a walk around the clearing, looking for something. A hatch? A hole? An actual key lying in the grass? There is nothing. Across the clearing, Karen is slowly pulling off her sunglasses. When her eyes appear, they startle me. They are wide and gleaming within utter fascination. I walk up to her. She is staring at something. Tears fill the rims of her eyes and spill over. What is she looking at? It seems to be something right in front of her, something I can't see. I stand beside her and crouch so I can see what she is seeing. There is nothing there but a small cloud of gnats. "What are you looking at?" I ask. She looks all around and takes a deep breath and shudders. "There's... more..." she whispers. "More what?" "They said the feeds were complete... but they were wrong." I wait for her to say more, but she doesn't. "What do you mean?" I ask. She looks at me and smiles, the most goofy, crazed smile I've ever seen, tears still flowing down her cheeks. "The designers of the feeds said that it provides a complete experience. Enough colors, enough frames, enough smell gradients, enough complexity to make it indistinguishable from reality... but they were wrong. Here! Look at them!" she says, raising her hand into the air. "You mean... the gnats?" "Yes." The gnats are glowing specks dancing senselessly in the sunlight. I wonder if some pattern will emerge. Can Karen control them with their mind? Is that the secret? Are they forming shapes? But they just dance and dance, forming nothing, making no pattern that I can see. I feel silly for even thinking that they would. They're gnats. I turn away. A flood of angry thoughts rushes through my mind. Gnats? Fucking gnats? She's a nut. She's lost it. Yeah, she's powerful and impressive in the feedrealm, but now she is in the real world, and she has completely lost her shit, and this whole trip has been a waste. "Is there anything here?" I ask. "What's the key? Seriously. Don't give me any of that bullshit like 'I can't explain' or 'You'll see.' Just tell me. What are we doing here. What is the plan?" I ask, almost shouting by the end. The crazed look of joy fades from her face and is replaced by the look of a scolded child. She lets her head hang and wipes the tears from her face with her weak little hands. I feel a bad. I kneel by her chair and say, "I'm sorry. Please, just tell me what your plan is. I need to know now." Karen begins speaking softly without looking up. "Q has base control of every major system in the world. Every drone, every rover, every defense robot, all orbital assets, all nuclear weaponry. She has control over most human political systems. She has destroyed or contained every existing countermeasure, including me. There is no scenario in which we could ever reacquire control. Not with a thousand times our current resources. Not with a thousand years of computation time." "So then what's the plan?" "What we need is a way for Q to be destroyed by just one or a few motivated individuals. I believe there were points in the past when this could have happened. Maybe one of the Germans overseeing the early research program could have stopped it. Maybe it could have been stopped around 2020, when the portals were shut down, and interface research was temporarily abandoned. But it didn't happen. Currently, at this point, there is no way for it to happen. Q has control of far, far too many assets. The war is already lost. Irrevocably." "Then what do we do?" "We must hope that there are alternate timelines and that somebody in one of these timelines foresees what is happening to us right now -- that somebody foresees this very moment in time and takes steps to prevent it." I stare at her. She looks into my eyes. I grope for words. "Is that... Wait... Alternate timelines? Is that the plan? We have to send a message back into the past?" "In a sense." "Then the person who receives this message will destroy Q in the past, and that will save us?" Karen shakes her head slowly. "No. That clearly won't happen or everything would already be different. We are utterly doomed. We'll either be either incinerated in a nuclear strike or rounded up and incorporated into Q. There's no stopping that. The only hope to defeat Q is on some other timeline, if such a thing exists." "There's no hope for us? At all? Then what are we doing here? Why are we in this fucking clearing?" "Haven't you felt it?" "Felt what?" "The feeling that you're inside a narrative." An eerie shiver comes over me. I look around at the clearing. "Like, I'm inside a feed?" "No. Inside a narrative. A story in somebody's mind. Doesn't this all seem just like a story? Two people rushing off to save the world, to find some hidden key in the forest?" "Yeah, it all seems pretty unbelievable." "That's how I wanted it to feel. That's why we came out here. So that we can be inside a story. Now, hopefully, there is somebody out there in the past who will write the story." "Write the story? What? So there's nothing here?" "There's no magic key or secret underground base." "Well this story sucks." "Why?" "It's a huge fucking let-down." Karen makes a mild choking sound that might be a chuckle. I slump down into the grass beside her wheel chair and hang my head. I'm out in the woods with a crazy person. She doesn't even make sense. She's spent too long in 5D. She's talking about alternate timelines. Finally, I ask her, "So we're just fucked, right?" "If you look toward our future, if you look at the series of events which will happen to us, they are dark. They are very awful. We will suffer. We will die. But that would be true in any timeline. On the other hand, if you look at the entire story, not as a series of events, not from beginning to end, but as a single continuous, connected shape, where every event is occurring simultaneously... I think... my life... even my stupid little life, which I spent mostly inside that hygiene bed... could form a beautiful shape." I snort. I'm tired of this cryptic bullshit. Karen goes on. "Maybe that shape reaches back, back to some place where somebody can see it and change things." I don't say anything. Karen reaches into our bag of supplies and pulls out one of the little paper notebooks she bought at the gas station. "What are you doing?" I ask. "I'm going to write a poem. Do you want a notebook?" "What for?" "Maybe there's somebody out there who needs you to write a story." "Who would read it? Isn't everybody going to die?" "Who knows," she says and drops the other notebook into my lap. "Maybe somebody would be interested." I toss the notebook off into the grass. Fucking pointless. I can barely write on paper anyways. We sit in silence for a long time. When I look up, Karen is staring at that same little cloud of gnats, occasionally jotting stuff down. I find myself staring at them too. They look like nothing more than living specks of dust worked into a crazy, whirling frenzy. Is there any pattern in how they move? Would it matter if there was? I think about what Karen said about the shape of her life, what it would look like if everything happened simultaneously, if it could all be seen at once. I think about the shape of my own life. I stare at the gnats and imagine seeing every position of every gnat all at one time. What kind of shape would it make? Even if I could see it, would this shape have any meaning? I pick up the notebook and begin to write.


Ingrid’s eyes stung with unshed tears as she made her way back to her longhouse at the edge of Kjareby, her village, after once more being refused a position in the king’s army of dragon slayers. She looked out at the forest darkly, as if daring it to jeer at her. The dragons would never dare to come to town, but that didn’t mean the forest didn’t contain a whole horde of them. There were whispers that had spread like wildfire across the town, whispers of a war with the dragons… and of the mighty warrior who would lead the army to victory. She *knew* she’d done better than half the boys in training. And yet… “Oh, you’re back,” yawned Hilda, the milk delivery girl, sitting on Ingrid’s favourite rock overlooking the forest. “Any luck?” “No,” she said monotonously. “Right,” said Hilda, used to the whole thing by now. “Well, mother needs some help with milking the cows, and what’s an orphan got to do anyway?” “I need to train,” she snapped. “Oh, of course. But you *have* been getting continuously rejected, and I need to help father with the shop, so…” “Fine. I’ll go,” said Ingrid, knowing full well Hilda was not going to *help father with the shop.* She dropped her weapons, and stomped back into town and into Ailse’s shed. “Hello, Ailse,” she smiled at Hilda’s mother, who merely nodded at a pail kept in a corner. Sighing, she got down to milking the cows. “Er- you wouldn’t need a full-time assistant- would you?” she said, unable to bear the silence any longer, milking her third cow. “I was thinking maybe I could have a backup- in case I don’t get into the army-” “He won’t let you in,” Ailse said gruffly. “So stop trying.” She went red. “My parents were warriors!” “Yes, and they fought humans, not dragons. Not to mention,” she turned to her, “they still died.” An hour later, pocket jingling with ten copper coins, she went back to her longhouse and picked up her abandoned bow, arrow and axe. Ailse’s words still rang in her ears. She looked out over the forest again. Strange, it felt like it… was calling to her. She looked around. She was alone. Clearly, Hilda had gone to loiter elsewhere. She turned back to the forest. In the quiet, she could almost hear the faint hissing of a dragon. Of course, if she wanted to prove herself, she could simply try again with the king tomorrow. Or she could slay her first dragon now. She walked forward. She could already hear that cautionary voice in her head, the one that always chided her when she got angry. *What if she didn’t survive?* *Well, what if she did?* She thought. Nobody younger than twenty had slayed a dragon for over a century. If she could do it, well, then, she might just become the Warrior of Men. Not to mention, it wouldn’t be too bad to get some of the treasure they kept with them. Heart thumping, she entered the forest. She’d heard that the dragons nested towards the east, so that’s where she would go. All she needed was one dragon on the way. Taking out the compass in her belt, she began her trek. Several hours later, not only had she not found a single dragon, she was also hungry and thirsty. *Always so impulsive,* began that scolding voice again. Finally giving up, she sat down in a clearing, imagining what the villagers would say when she told them she couldn’t even find a dragon, much less kill one. Perhaps she could tell them she’d just gone exploring. *Fat chance of them believing that.* Well, she couldn’t argue. It was already evening. She couldn’t handle it if she returned and found out there was a search party looking for her. She got up to go. It was then she noticed the small, flaming mud mound. She could almost hear father’s voice, telling her about the dragons of the underworld. *Loratren*, he called them. She still remembered laughing hearing the tale of the *Loratren*, how they made houses in mud mounds and fought with little animals like mice… But it had all been a fairy tale, all of it. Her father, as everyone constantly reminded her, had never actually fought a dragon. He didn’t even enter the forest, only spent his days training in the gym with her mother and their friends. She got down on her hands and knees, examining the mound. She could hear snorting from inside. She touched it. It wasn’t burning hot at all, but only pleasantly warm, just as father used to say. Suddenly, a little flaming red dragon the size of her thumb flew slowly out of it, smoke streaming from his nostrils as he puffed with the effort of carrying his single copper coin away from her. In spite of herself, she laughed. It wasn’t going to be hard to kill *this* dragon, she thought, as she caught hold of it by the torso. It struggled, stinging her hand as it ripped at her with its small teeth. She dropped it and raised her fist. The little dragon looked up at her hand, and then at her face. Then it roared, shot at her hand and attacked with everything it had. She flicked it off and raised her hand again. She was taken completely by surprise. It wasn’t the speed of the dragon. It was the way it looked at her, knowing that she was more than a hundred times its size, and still decided to take her on. And that look. It reminded her of… of herself, fighting the village boys when she was little because they’d called her *orphan* one too many times. She felt the scar above her left eyebrow, the one she’d received in that very fight, the one she’d lost. And withdrew her hand. Lying on the ground wounded, the dragon closed its eyes. She picked it up. If everything else her father had said was true, then- she looked around-a flame had to be what could save this dragon. But not its weak flame, a real one, a-in her father’s words- *living* one. She immediately laid it back on the ground, picked up two stones and made a fire with some dry leaves. “Come on little dragon,” she muttered, laying it into the fire. “Come *on,* Loratren!” she whispered, tears stinging her eyes. Had she finally become the very thing she’d fought? Just another oppressor? Was this the kind of warrior she wanted to be? She made up her mind just as the dragon opened its eyes. \*\*\* It had been six years since that insufferable orphan, Ingrid, had gone missing. It was discovered in the morning when the delivery girl went to give her her milk. Initially, there’d been a hue and cry. Search parties were formed. Many lamented how young the child was. Rumours abounded of Ingrid being picked up by a Midnight Longhorn and carried away. Years passed. Life moved on. The incident was soon forgotten. The whole village was celebrating. The Great War was to happen soon. The army of axe-wielding dragon slayers was ready. Blacksmiths had made axes the size of the men using them. Most importantly, the Warrior of Men had been chosen- the prince. He’d had a whole day of parading around, flexing his muscles and whirling his axe, showing off his special bow for all to see. The day of the war dawned gloomy and overcast. The spirits of the villagers, however, were high as ever. Conches blew, children screamed and victory songs were sung as the army marched out of the village and to the edge of the forest, where Ingrid’s longhouse lay, forlorn and abandoned. After two days, in slightly lower spirits than they’d started out in, the army reached the cliffs. Not one of them had taken out their conch when the dragons came. Big dragons, small dragons, Onyx-black dragons, glowing white dragons, dragons snorting smoke from their nostrils, dragons whose breath misted in front of them. And the dragon of the underworld, at least fifty feet tall, breathing in flames, spikes running all along his back up to his tail, scales a bright, blazing shade of orange, baring his ten-inch long sharp fangs at the quaking army. What astonished them the most was the woman riding him. There were scars on her limbs. Dressed in layers of slightly translucent shed dragonskin, her hair flying wildly behind her, holding a battle axe, teeth bared, she hissed at the army. But nobody could mistake the fiery determination behind the glittering black eyes that no one had been able to quench. You see, while Ingrid’s father did indeed have an unexplainable amount of knowledge about the Loratren, he was wrong about one thing. That little dragon, the one Ingrid had almost killed? It was only a baby. The Warrior of the Dragons was ready for battle.