Everything is hazy, as I realize I’m lying face down on a floor. My mouth tastes the stark carpet that lies on the ground, a reminder of reality that is more than welcome. I move my head to the side, and as a sharp pain courses up my neck and through my head, my eyes focus on the wooden trim that runs along the walls.  The place I’m in is old, I can tell by the musty smell, and the wallpaper, which is a darkened green from dust and grime. The paper peels where it should meet the trim, a testament to it’s true age. I roll onto my back, and realize that I’m in some sort of corridor. To my left, there are three wooden doors about a foot from each other lined up like soldiers waiting to be inspected.  I stand up slowly, carefully noting that I have no aches besides my head, which is still throbbing. I, apparently, am dressed in a grey pinstripe suit, which is wrinkled from my crumpled state of being moments prior. Was I knocked out? I can’t seem to remember. It’s almost as if my existence started when I woke up, but that can’t be right. I have knowledge of general things, like how people come to be, how society works, and what a grey pinstripe suit is, but I have no knowledge of myself. I don’t know if I have a family, or how old I am. What do I look like?  A state of confusion and fear washes over me, as more questions fill my head. I need to find answers, but, more importantly, I need to find a mirror. I take a step towards the right most door in the hallway, and the floorboards creak underneath the carpet. I place my hand on the doorknob, the cold brass in my hand. After a sharp twist, I fling the door open, ready to take on whatever may lie ahead.  The room was large, much larger than it should be for having another door just a foot away, but I step inside anyway. It is an office, one that looked like it belonged to a detective in the 1970’s, complete with a desk covered in paperwork and a single black rotary phone. Upon closer inspection, the papers seem to be cases that the detective was working on. I quickly scan the walls, my search for a mirror continuing. The back wall has a window directly in the center, with black filing cabinets on either side. I notice a thick, grey fog seems to be blocking any vision beyond the window, snuffing out any hopes I had of determining where exactly I currently am.  After coming to the conclusion of the other two walls being completely barren, I swiftly turn around to exit the room, but as I do so, the phone begins to ring. I stop. Every fiber of my being is telling me to not pick up the phone. I’m filled with a sense of fear, and the air becomes extremely heavy. I try to ignore my gut feeling, as I need to figure out what’s going on, so I trudge forward, practically picking up my legs and forcing them forward. The wooden boards beneath my feet scream in agony as I continue towards the phone, which is still singing it’s siren song. Finally, I pick up the phone. A voice of a man is on the other end.  “These results are inconclusive. We need to run more,” the voice states firmly.  Another voice chimes in, softer than the first one, “We have evidence of it working, let’s just leave it at that.”  “No, I won’t risk him malfunctioning,” the first voice scolds, and then a click, signaling the end of the call. I don’t understand what either of the voices were talking about, and I don’t know who they were. I settle in my dress shoes after hearing the uncomfortable conversation, and then I put the phone back on the hook and head back into the corridor.  The next door is the door in the center. I once again push through the door, and inside I find a vast library. Shelves as tall as and as far as the eye could see covered the room, filled to the brim with books. In fact, there are no seating areas, just shelves upon shelves of books. I walk into the room, in awe of the sheer amount of information contained in front of me. The shelves are all labeled in a precise order, by genre and then author’s last name. I pick up a book nearest to me and give it a quick skim. The book is called *The Questions of Life* by a man named Asimov. I set the book back in its place on the shelf, and I turn around to exit, as with all the shelves, I highly doubt that a mirror would be hiding in this room.  The last door begins calling to me. As I stand in front of it, the golden numbers on the outside of the door gleam. This door is the only door of the three with a number, and the only door that pulls me in rather than pushes me away. The “34” stares back at me enchantingly, as if it knows I’m not ready for what secrets it keeps deep in the room. I still know nothing about myself, and I feel like a puzzle that is unfinished. My quest to find answers has only left me more confused, but I will not give up. With this burst of determination, I swing open the door, to find a room. A room made of mirrors. I walk in, finally able to see myself, but I do not like what I see. I am not ugly. I am not fat, but I am not what I expected. As I stand in shock, I hear movement behind me. I whip around to see the desk covered in papers from the first room, but now the papers aren’t case files. The only thing on the pages are zeroes and ones. I hear beeping to my right, and as I turn my head I see the shelves from the library, only this time, there are no books, but servers. Everything makes sense now. Suddenly, I hear the strong voice from the phone call boom inside the room,  “He is figuring out he’s not human!”  The other voice is loudly speaking also, “We have to shut him down, he’s becoming self-aware.”  Sudden1y, a sharp pa1n sh00ts up my neck and ratt1es my bra1n. 1 hear a h1gh p1tched n01se s0und thr0ugh0ut the r00m. The s0und 1s utter1y unbareab1e, and 1 dr0p t0 my knees 1n pure ag0ny. Everyth1ng hurts. 1 100k at the m1rr0r 0nce aga1n and smi1e. 1 f1na11y f1gured 0ut what 1 100k 1ike. Mach1ne and man as 0ne. 1 am an andr01d. G00dbye. \- \- \- …Rebooting…  Everything is hazy, as I realize I’m lying face down on a floor. My mouth tastes the stark carpet that lies on the ground, a reminder of reality that is more than welcome.  The End.


“No blindfold, please. I’d prefer to see my death coming.” The guard let out a cynical laugh. “You think you’re so tough saying that, don’t you?” He stepped in front of me, leaning his face inches away from mine. The minty-fresh smell of his breath was quite a contrast to his psychotic grin. “Nearly every person executed here has said the same thing. And you wanna know something? They all died the same way, with their brains splattered across the wall that you’re leaning on. You’re not anything special.” He turned away from me, stuffing the dirty blindfold in his back pocket. I could hear him chuckling faintly as his boots crunched across the small, rocky yard. He took his place at the opposite wall, facing me once again. The wall he stood against appeared almost brand new; the wall I stood in front of was pockmarked with bullet holes and stained with the blood of countless prisoners. Executions were nothing new here. Guards stood against the walls on either side, ten of them in total. All of them wore the same camouflage fatigues, yet their boots were an array of colors and styles and in various stages of disrepair. Terrorists seldom have enough money for proper uniforms. And yet somehow, they manage to deal destruction across the globe. They weren’t worried about me trying to escape. Even if I managed to get past them, the chains on my ankles would keep me from going very far. The guards were merely there to watch, smoking cigarettes and exchanging greetings as they waited patiently for the execution to commence. I can’t imagine how many executions must have taken place here for it to have become such a casual gathering. At the very least, I expected more of a sadistic ritual. The executioner entered the yard, a pistol held loosely in one hand. He wore the same outfit as everyone else, yet his face was completely covered by a black baclava. The opening for his eyes was taken up by a pair of mirrored sunglasses. Even his hands were covered by a pair of black gloves. Not a single inch of skin was left bare. I suppose most executioners prefer to keep their face covered, although I never understood why. Are they afraid their victims will recognize them in the afterlife? Time slowed to a crawl as the executioner took his place directly in front of me. I stared straight ahead into his mirrored glasses, reflecting upon my figure as well as my life. I could barely recognize myself at that point. My once closely cropped hair had grown long and matted against my head. My cheeks were sunken from malnutrition, and my eyes seemed to stare blankly into an eternal abyss. It had been months since I had seen anything other than the dank interior of my prison cell, and so my skin had taken on a deathly pallor. My family wouldn’t recognize me if they saw me on the news. Maybe that would be for the best. They say your life begins to flash before your eyes when faced with certain death – yet all I began to recall was the torture which led me here. I joined the military right after high school, and shipped out less than a week after basic training. Ironically, it was less than a week before I was taken prisoner. Our post was ambushed by a terrorist group in the middle of the night, sneaking in as we slept. Most of my buddies were killed on the spot; the rest of us were forced to watch as they took their last breaths, gasping around the blood that slowly filled their lungs. I was thrown in an underground cell and left in isolation. I don’t know how long I was there for – months, maybe even a year – but it was the last place I saw before the execution yard. The only sort of routine I had was daily interrogations, growing more and more horrific each day. Eventually it was decided that I was of no use, and so I was put to death. An ear-splitting bang interrupted my flashback. The sound of a gunshot, but not one meant for me. I stared in disbelief as the executioner crumpled to the ground, a sniper’s bullet lodged firmly in his skull. The guards all seemed to be in a state of shock, standing paralyzed until jarred from their trance by the door to the execution yard slamming open. I threw myself to the ground, doing everything I could to shield myself from the hail of gunfire that rained in all directions. Rocks dug into my ribs as I landed hard, unable to catch myself. Bodies fell to the ground with sickening thuds; I lodged myself between the wall and one particularly large guard, my eyes squeezed tightly shut against the destruction. My only hope was to play dead, and maybe I would have a chance at survival. The gunfire stopped as quickly as it began, lasting merely a few seconds. The yard was left in an eerie silence, broken by the soft crunch of footsteps growing closer and closer. I lay perfectly still, holding my breath as the footsteps stopped inches away from my head. “Private Jackson?” I opened one eye just a sliver, to get a peek at whoever said my name. A man kneeled down beside me, dressed in a uniform so familiar to me with a rifle slung over his back. He placed a hand on my shoulder as he spoke. Despite being deep, his voice was soft and filled with compassion. He smiled slightly as he spoke, but his eyes remained filled with sadness. “I’m Sergeant Smith. We’re here to bring you home.” I was helped to my feet, supported on either side as Sergeant Smith removed the bonds from my wrists and ankles. For the first time since my capture, I could move freely without the heavy iron shackles digging into my skin. My head began to spin as I looked up towards the sky. Once again, I had become a free man.


Jobe had traveled down road - if you could call it that, the sorry dirt path only worn in from poor villagers bringing tithes - the past two days. The light unending drizzle of winter had turned the normally warm and hard ground into soft, squelching mud. Every step left him feeling that the earth itself longed to swallow him whole. Each footfall brought with it grime, slinging onto his trouser's legs. He shivered, pulling his damp cloak tighter to his back. He thoroughly regretted leaving this time of year - though he had little choice in the matter. After telling his Father that he no longer wanted to follow in his trade of piss and hide, spending his life looked down on, living on the edge of town as a Tanner, he had told him to travel south to enlist in the local Lord's army. The fire of adventure had been slowly quenched by how hard life on the road from his home had been. It started raining as soon as the sun had set - he left with a simple pair of clothes, dagger, cloak, and a bag with some coin and food he had scraped together. His bread had molded since last night - no thanks to the rain, and his joints ached from sleeping on the ground. He sighed, agitated, for no one to hear. "God will provide", he thought, clinging to hope. "If only this damned rain would stop, I could make it to the Inn." His village - while not small - was very poor. There was nothing between it and the major thoroughfares towards the larger keeps of the southern lands. His Father had claimed the village was cursed by the Jews after they had been driven out generations prior. Jobe had taken on many of his features - or lack thereof. A generic looking man, standing just under six feet. Brown eyes, dark brown hair in a bowl cut, and poor black patchy facial hair to match. The only thing noticeable was his overly large ears. By many opinions ugly - but not remarkably so. The only pieces he got from his mother was a sharp tongue, an open mind, and a surprising tolerance to beatings. After a few hours of unrelenting trudging, it was just past sunset, and there was a small amount of light left. He had finally reached a intersection of roads. He could've wept with relief, seeing the larger road had better drainage. No longer carrying what felt like pounds of mud with each step. He took a moment to reflect upon his surroundings, the dense forest that was surrounding him the past days had cleared up some, and ahead of him southwest lay open plains. Southeast the woods carried on for a short distance before turning to sparsely populated trees, the pines had yet to lose all of their needles, and still provided a good amount of cover to whatever may lie within. A milestone marker at the intersection let him know he was within an hour's walk of the Inn - straight south along the road. He squatted down to rest, contemplating to walk in the dark or to find a more dry patch of woods to rest in. To find a warm meal and bed for the night, or endure another cold hard rest. He had decided to travel on, and by many accounts a bad decision. Stepping up and trudging on, the harder packed clay road didn't give nearly as much as his previous. Jobe felt reinvigorated, the thoughts of the Inn spurring him beyond normal caution. He had just passed the edge of the forest on his left, when he heard sprinting footsteps behind him. His first instinct was to turn and look towards the noise, a true sign of his military experience - which is to say none. He got a glance at a fist in his peripherals, and then was hit square in the jaw. He felt himself falling, and the next moment on the ground. He felt mud and grime coating half of his face, and his clothes were soaked. He was laying in a puddle of something. His groggy brain tasted blood in his mouth, and his right ear felt waterlogged. He heard footsteps behind him, and his heart skipped and raced as his brain pieced together what was happening. He went to move his hands to push himself up, and found them tied behind his back. He squinted an eye open and found himself seeing a campfire some 20 yards away. The mud on his face had blocked the light from his eyelids. The sudden brightness caused him to quickly shut them back, and he wriggled trying to find some footing or ability to move. He felt the binds on his feet equally tight and unforgiving as the ones on his hands. The footsteps behind him stopped and a light chuckle sounded off. "I'd keep still and quiet in your place." Jobe craned his neck as far as he could to try and find the voice, but a foot pressed on his left shoulder, almost pushing him face down into the puddle. "Like I said, still." The voice sounded far from menacing - almost like a teenager trying their best to imitate their parents. Jobe's right nostril was in the water, and he had to breathe through his mouth to avoid sucking up whatever he was laying in. "Let me go! Take my money! I have no-!" His shouts, interrupted by being pressed the rest of the way down. "I said quiet, too!" The not-yet-man had replied with a hiss. After a few moments of struggling, he let off enough pressure to allow Jobe breathing room. "Now, I already saw you have nothing else. Your money wasn't enough. But your body might be." Jobe's mind immediately raced, trying to make sense of what he said. "I have a few friends looking for strong workers, and I think you'd fit perfectly." The not-yet-man paused, leaving Jobe to ponder what his future could hold. He had heard talk of slavers from the eastern sea, but thought them only rumors. Thinking back to his Father, his heart broke in anger at how foolish he'd been to think he could manage the world on his own. Barely a man of 20 years, with experience being beaten by the catch pole and his father, thinking he could survive a real fighter. "Please sir, let me go..." he begged "My family awaits me.". The foot on his shoulder lightened a hair more, returning him to his original position. "Where are you from, boy?" The irony of such a young voice calling him boy was lost on Jobe, in his predicament. "Myirwood! They would pay you handsomely if you brought me to them and said you saved me. I can get you more than the slavers will pay!" Jobe was grasping for straws, the dire situation he was in left no room for anything but last ditch begging. The foot pulled back, and Jobe heard him step in the mud. "Myirwood. How far is it from here?" "A day and a half walk north of here in good weather, sir! If...if we're still near The Fat Minister." Jobe replied, suddenly aware he was not sure how long he had been unconscious for, or if at all. The hit he had endured scrambled him real well. Jobe sat in agonizing silence for a few moments, until the voice replied "Very well." And the next thing Jobe felt was a boot kicking him square across the jaw, knocking him out once more.


Lucy’s Last Breath It’s been twelve years since I first witnessed death. The worst kind of death. A drowning. The lake seemed so big to me and I was so small. What felt like a never ending abyss of water, was really only a mile or so long. But it was the depth that made this lake so dangerous. No one quite knows how deep it goes. But it never stopped me from jumping in. I wasn’t afraid back then. But the fear I have now keeps me from ever returning to that town. It especially keeps me away from that lake. What happened there has left scars on all of us that experienced it first hand. I thought therapy would help me get over it, or at least learn how to process it. I don’t know if we will ever understand the darkness that surrounds that town. But I am a believer. I believe that evil has embedded itself there. For years I have begged my mom to get out of that town. I’ve tried to convince her to move in with me or let me help her try and find her own place close to me. Anything to get her out of that zip code. But she was born and raised there. All our family pets are buried in her backyard. She raised me and all my siblings in that house. She isn’t one to pack up and run. She is much stronger than me. Much stronger than the force that haunts us after all those years. She tells me often that it only has power if we let it. But I wish she would tell that to all those kids that lost their lives over the years, before they closed it to the public. Mom wants me to visit for Christmas. I haven’t been to her house in seven years, she always comes to me or my brothers visit her. But this year none of the boys can make it. She will be alone for the holidays and I know that comes with a guilt trip. My boyfriend offers to come with me, assures me it is only a few days and then we will be back home. I don’t think I’m ready. Obviously I know that I can just avoid the lake, not even leave the house if I can help it. But after the first drowning the whole town shifted. It grew dark. Everyone changed, the leaves fell differently in the fall, the flowers didn’t bloom fully in the spring, the sun stopped comforting my skin in the summer and it’s as if no one seemed to notice besides me. Am I the crazy one? I caved. I can’t allow my mother to be alone for Christmas. She isn’t in the best shape since my dad passed. It wasn’t a lake related death, at least I don’t think. Heart attack. But this could be her last holiday season. So I pack my bags. I am happy I’m not going alone and I find comfort in that. But there is this energy that makes me feel uneasy. It feels like someone is screaming at me to stop, to not go. I ignore it. It’s just my own doubt. It isn’t anything supernatural. It isn’t anything demonic. It’s my own shit. The fear I’ve allowed over the years. I am better than this fragile little girl I once was. I am a grown ass woman now. Capable of anything. So I shake it off and head to the airport. We finally land and I can feel it in the air. It washes over me so intently. It knows I’m back and the more time that passes the more I feel I made a mistake coming here. I keep my worries to myself. I push the feelings down. I text my therapist to find some sort of advice to get me through the next few days. God damn it. It’s Christmas eve, she isn’t working. She definitely isn’t waiting for me to reach out with my mental breakdown on the verge of erupting. I feel a full panic coming. I tell myself to reel it in and calm the fuck down. It’s all in my head. It’s all in my head. I repeat it over and over until he pulls the car around. He is smiling and happy to finally see my hometown and where I grew up. It’s as if seeing all of this will allow him to be closer to me and better understand my trauma. But I can’t help to think that is far from the truth. I think I will only push him away more. I’m terrified of that the most. To lose him. The best fucking thing to happen to me. No amount of my crazy has run him off yet. But I feel the worst has yet to arrive. We drive through town and everything looks dull and dreadful, just like I remember it. Why would anyone want to live here? Why haven’t they condemned this whole fucking place. Evacuate everyone to someplace else. If I didn’t know any better, this town was rotting and so are the people still here. I know I’m not the only crazy one, not many of us kids stayed once we graduated. Most of us went off and never looked back. There is something new. It’s in the center of town. A statue of some sort in the shape of a sun. The only sun that will touch this place. I tell him to pull over, I have to see this up close. As I walk closer I can make out the words “In Memory of..” and a list of names for those kids we lost so long ago. I trace the engraved names with my fingers, remembering each and every one of them. One person in particular. Lucy. Lucy was my childhood best friend. The first of the bunch to meet their fate in that lake. We were together that day. Playing like usual, celebrating me finally becoming a teenager. Jumping off the dock, pretending to be mermaids and soaking in the rays. It was a normal day. We did this all summer long. Nothing out of the ordinary. Lucy was the best swimmer, she would always out swim me. So it made no sense what happened that day, but I blame myself. I wanted to play lifeguard. You know the game where one person pretends to drown and the other has to jump in to save them. A game we would play so often. Why was this time different? I wanted to be the lifeguard this time, so Lucy jumped in and started her act. She was doing so well, it looked so real. She would go under a couple times and come back up. By the 3rd time going under, that was my cue to “save” her. She went under and I jumped in. Except I couldn’t find her. I thought she was messing with me at first, but as more time passed I became concerned. I screamed for her name. Nothing. My screaming got the attention of my older brother who came running over. He yelled at me and asked where Lucy was. I was hysterical at this point and could barely keep my head above water. So he pulled me out, told me to run and get dad and he dove back in. By the time I got back with Dad, my brother was back out of the water sitting on the ground with his head in his hands. The police and ambulance were shortly behind us. But still Lucy was nowhere to be found. They immediately evacuated everyone from the water and made a barrier between us and the lake until they could find her. It was late afternoon and dark would be here soon. My dad tried to make me go home, but I refused until we found Lucy. Her parents showed up and everyone was in a panic. I was hopeful they would find her alive. I was naive. It was getting late and at this point they had divers come in to search the waters. I was shivering and for the first time I felt the darkness. I knew that she was dead. That they were going to find her body. No sooner than I felt it, one of the divers yelled he got her. My parents tried to get me to turn away, but I pushed through them to the edge of the water. There she was. Lifeless. Grey. Empty. I wanted to turn away, but like a car wreck I kept my gaze. Her parents collapsed. My parents collapsed. I froze. She was the first, but not the last. Over the next four years there would be a total of five drownings in that lake. After the 5th one, they closed it for good. They tried to blame it on an underwater current that had a pull and decided it was too dangerous to allow the public to swim in it. It took five deaths to close that lake. Five. I never returned to it after Lucy died. But when she died, so did the rest of this town. It was no coincidence that kids kept drowning. There was something evil lurking under those waters and it was spilling over into the rest of the town. We made it to Mom’s and she is so happy to see me. See me standing where I stood as a little girl. I could see the memories flood back to her, she made a half smile and I knew she was reminiscing. Christmas Eve was surprisingly peaceful. We shared a lot of laughs and ate some good food, but it was getting late and we were ready to call it a night. I was the only one left awake. I laid in my bed in my old room, staring out the window as the moon cast light on my face. There’s that pull again. That pull telling me to get the fuck out of here. Then I heard her. I heard Lucy’s voice calling to me. This is it, I’m losing my mind for sure. It was clear as day. I sneak out of bed and make my way down the hall, following her voice. I walk out the back door and to the woods. There’s a short cut to the lake through these woods. She’s leading me back. I feel the tug telling me to go back to the house. But I have to see this through. Maybe this will give me answers, maybe this will provide the closure I need. Is that her? Holy fuck. I can see her. She’s standing on the dock. Wearing the same blue bathing suit, waving me to come to her. I figured the closer I got then she would vanish, but she became more clear. She is smiling at me. I call her and tell her I am sorry. Sorry for playing that stupid game. It was my fault. She just smiles and jumps in the water. I yell to her to wait. But she is already back in the lake. That lake. She is swimming around, like we did before. Is this real? It feels so real. This has to be a dream. I walk to the edge of the dock. She is splashing around, pretending she is a mermaid again. She waves to me to join her. “I forgive you,” she said. I feel a wave of relief wash over me. This. This is the closure I needed. I conquer my fear and jump in to join her one last time. I can feel her peace. But I can feel this other presence. I reach for the dock, but I can feel the pull. It is so strong. It’s like a magnet pulling me down. I keep reaching for the ladder. But it’s so dark, I can’t see it anymore. I feel the panic set in. This is what Lucy felt. This is what they all felt. The fear. Knowing you’re fixing to die. I’m so cold. I’m running out of energy, my muscles are weak. I can’t fight it anymore. Then I remember what my mother told me so long ago. It only has power, if I let it. One last push. I’m reaching my arms out. I feel a hand grab mine and pull me. I feel the release from the other end and I’m back on the ground. I look up and see Lucy, except she isn’t 13 anymore. She is grown, like me. She doesn’t say anything, just smiles and fades into the distance. I lay there panting, trying to catch my breath. The leaves are gone from the trees above me. But the sky is brighter. The air is chill and the wind is calm. I don’t feel the darkness anymore. It feels like it did twelve years ago. Before the accident. That’s when I knew.


The gunshots rang in the distance, their cover was getting shredded by enemy rounds and explosives. Private Luke Roberts of the 1st Battalion fought ferociously, his M16 was scorched due to the number of bullets he was firing. However, it was not enough, the situation was hopeless and the squad went down, one by one. Waiting for his time to come, Luke muttered a prayer and continued to retaliate against the army ahead of him.

“Take cover!” The ominous shadow of an explosive loomed over Luke as he dove into the nearby sand. Kaboom! Just as the sand settled back onto the ground and screams of agony nearby started, Luke looked down at the shrapnel in his chest and toppled over.

Luke was brought back to the memory of that fateful day; Tuesday, September 11th, 2001. This was also the day he had rushed to the recruitment center and signed up for the army. Walking to the building early in the morning, a youthful Luke strode merrily as he entered the crowded South Tower. Going up to the 88th floor, Luke greeted his father, the owner of an insurance firm.

“Hey, dad, a great day to doze off at this boring old firm of yours.” Luke joked.

“Oh, I’ll be the one resting, while you are to make me comfortable.” Luke’s father, Ben replied with a warm smile.

The two stared at each other for a moment before Luke’s father embraced him, cracking a few ribs. It has been a while since the two had seen each other and Luke was working a part-time job for his father in order to spend time with him. After greeting him, he went downstairs to his father’s favourite cafe to get them both some breakfast. It was almost nine-o-clock when Luke got into the elevator and he was famished. The young man watched the elevator screen as the floors descended slowly. Suddenly, an ear-piercing screech, followed by multiple explosions was heard from the neighbouring Twin Tower. The violent shaking that followed afterwards caused the elevator to stop. Luke was stuck in the elevator by himself and he desperately wanted to get some food.

“All that I ask for is some food and coffee, but this darn elevator gets me stuck.” Pressing the button for help, nothing but static sounded. Pounding on the door, Luke could hear screams and lots of commotion. Must be that explosion, Luke thought. Using a loose panel from the roof, he wedged it in the crack between the elevator doors and pulled it open. From there, Luke was met by a scene so terrifying his mind stopped working and he just stood still, mouth ajar. Surrounded by smoke, the tail of a plane poked out from the charred North Tower. Sirens sounded from all directions and panicked voices rose nearby.

“That pilot was crazy! He ran straight into the tower!” One bystander shouted.

“It’s the terrorists!” Another conspired.

However, at this point in time, Luke did not care about who and how the plane flew into the building. He wanted to help the people trapped. Immediately, Luke started to descend the staircase when another explosion occurred. However, this time, it was much, much louder, the building shook so hard, Luke thought it was going to topple. A wave of heat passed everyone and Luke’s ears started to ring. When finally, the dust settled, he realized that another plane had hit the building, the very building he was standing in! At that moment, one thing was made clear to every single person, this was not a freak accident; the United States of America was under attack! Luke wanted to leave, but his father was trapped on the upper floors, he could still be alive. Without a second thought, Luke turned around and started to climb the stairs. One floor at a time, he slowly progressed as the temperature rose and smoke thickened. Still, ten floors below, the staircase was blocked by the wreckage and he took a second to catch his breath. Out of the screams and sirens, a sound caught his ears, a kid’s cries for help nearby. Taking a detour, Luke found the boy alone and lost, with a gash on his leg. The kid was bleeding hard and would die if he didn’t get treatment. Between saving his father or this poor kid, Luke was torn. However, before Luke could decide, the floor above started to collapse. In a split second, he dove and pushed the injured boy out of harm’s way. Carrying the child, Luke started to dash down the stairs avoiding jagged pieces of steel and falling debris. With the heat behind him coming ever closer, Luke felt the his hair singe and picked up his pace. The lower he went, the more people started to appear, all with the same goal; get down to floor one. Carrying the boy by himself, Luke was running off of pure adrenaline when he finally found a room where people were resting. There was water and wet towels, kind heroes also handed out rations of food. Setting the kid down, Luke realized that he was unconscious and was bleeding harder than ever.

“Help! I need a medic!” Luke called out in desperation.

No response, only looks of sympathy.

“Medic! Medic! This kid is dying!” After a moment of silence, Luke was about to give up, when stumbling into the room, a tall, middle-aged man appeared.

“I’m a firefighter, I am trained in first aid, be there in a moment.” The newcomer said between breaths. Without wait, the fireman started to clean and wrap up the boy’s leg and started to tend the small cuts on Luke.

“Thank you I didn’t know what I would have done if it weren’t for you. By the way, names Luke Roberts.” He stuck out his hand in greeting.

Giving the hand a firm shake, the fireman started to introduce himself.

“Lieutenant Davis of squad 18. I came here to see my sister, but she was killed in the explosion. I got off easy as I was descending to the washroom when it happened.” “I am very sorry, I came to see my father, but I don’t know where he is anymore.” Luke empathized.

Suddenly, there was a rumbling and from the window, the two could see that the North Building was shaking violently. Then, abruptly, the building started to collapse, one floor at a time, until it was just a pile of rubble.

Immediately, everyone started to rush for the stairs.

“We’re all gonna die!” One man shouted The panic spread, soon, it was just the firefighter and Luke who stayed behind. “We need to rescue people from beneath the rubble!” The firefighter pointed at the wreckage.

“No, let’s start by evacuating the building first.” Luke replied.

With a nod, the dynamic duo jumped to their feet and started to work. Carrying the boy and the first aid kit on their backs, the firefighter and Luke started to descend the stairs, looking for any injured people. The first victim was an old man who was bleeding heavily from the head and bruised all over. By the seems of it, he fell down the stairs and was trampled.

“Sir, are you alright?” “Yes young man, I’ll be on my way.” The old man winced.

However, upon standing up, his eyes rolled and he started to fall. Fortunately, Luke caught him just in time and the firefighter bandaged his wounds. Luke carried both boy and old man as he walked to the ground floor to drop them off to the first responders. Meanwhile, Lieutenant Davis was searching for more wounded and giving treatment. The cycle went on and on, the firefighter would treat the wounds before handing them over to Luke for him to bring to ground level. On one trip to the ground level, Luke stopped for the first time to catch his breath. However, while resting, he took in just how terrifying the charred rubble looked, resembling nothing of the proud tower it was before. The air was filled with a stench, which made Luke puke as he identified the aroma to be burnt humans. Looking around, he could not believe his eyes, a man just fell from the building.

Splat.

The man hit the ground and lay there, an ominous pool of blood started to appear. Frozen in shock, Luke could not move nor think. There was shouting and when he looked up, Luke saw more people falling from the burning building. They were jumping off. As they hit the ground, Luke could not help but think, it’s raining men. It’s really raining men. Starting to go back into the building, a deep rumbling noise could be heard, the tower in front of Luke tilted dangerously. The huge crowd hushed. Just as it seemed like the worst was over, the supports of the second tower buckled and the building imploded. The power of the debris threw Luke around like a rag doll and launched him into the air. Before he hit the ground, he shed a tear for his firefighter friend, Davis and his father.

There was no sound as Luke was falling, there was no smell, then as he hit the ground, there was no sight.

Luke sat up and looked around, he was back on the battlefield. Bullets were still whizzing past his head. He coughed up blood, and he was bleeding out. There were only two more men in the squad left, Luke and his commander. Grabbing a gun off of a fallen soldier, Luke joined his leader in a final stand. Defending their location, the enemy pressed harder, surrounding them. A bullet shredded through the commander’s heart and he fell to the ground, motionless. He couldn’t die now, he has to carry the legacy of the firefighter, his father and now his squad of brave, young soldiers. Subconsciously, he knew he was dying, one bullet after the other shredded through his legs and body. However, his determination would not let him die. From above, a flapping sound grew closer, an Apache helicopter. In a miracle, Luke was thrown a ladder and he climbed with all his might. However, it was like he was not moving up the ladder and the bright light from the copter engulfed him. All was alabaster and shimmering. The dull pain washed away, while memories flooded him.

“Am I alive or have I come to be reunited with my fallen friends.”


I have always been a relentlessly positive cheerleader. I was chosen as Co-Captain of the Swim Team and President of the Choir Department in high school not because I was particularly skilled at either of those activities – frankly I was pretty bad at both. I was chosen because I motivated people to go farther than they ever realized they could go. That I could cheer them on, on the most difficult of days, and help them to know that they were both wanted and needed. I gave warm, enveloping hugs, and not so much advice as encouragement. I truly have felt, for the last 39 years, that my job was to make everyone live better. In fact, at Christmas this year I had 85 presents for my two nephews and niece, just because I wanted them to know that they were abundantly loved. The problem is, I have never learned to cheer for myself. When I was in my mid-twenties, I was diagnosed with a debilitating psychiatric illness. It took an absurd amount of time to get the most accurate diagnoses, but I am currently labeled as Severe Bipolar 1 and OCD. I was crushed. I should have known there was something wrong with me. That I would never be as good as everyone else. That there was a cap on how much I would be able to achieve and limits to how many blessings I could receive. I suddenly started losing everything. I lost my ability to volunteer with the Muscular Dystrophy Association, which was one of the most rewarding parts of my life. I lost the ability to work in jobs that I absolutely loved. I suddenly had no hope to work at all anymore. I lost the ability to buy my own insurance, and had to stick with Medicare, which is both costly and doesn’t cover nearly as much. I lost the hope of being a mom – one of my biggest dreams. I would be an AMAZING mom – especially to a child with special needs – but how can you be a mom if you can’t even stay out of the hospital for a year, when you have depressions that are so deep its miraculous you stay alive, when you have manias that make it too difficult to think, you’re purchasing a ridiculous number of items without even knowing, and you can’t figure out why it’s not okay to strip down in public because you are so hot you can’t stand it. Even I realize, when I am most confused, that you be a mom in those situations? Some days it is impossible to just get out of bed. Plus, I have thousands and thousands of dollars worth of medical expenses. Last year my medical expenses made up almost half of my total income. I can’t purchase items just for fun, or go on a vacation that I pay for, because I don’t even have enough to pay my bills. It gets to the point that I wonder…why even try? Everything I do fails. Everything I have is taken away. A year ago I was trying to run a 5k. Then I started getting chronic sinus infections that we simply haven’t been able to cure, and 9 months later I am struggling to get up, crying in my bed because my throat hurts so intensely, my ears are plugged up and I’m running a fever that leaves me shivering so much that all the blankets I have just aren’t enough. Forget daily living skills. I’m lucky if I take a shower once or twice a week. I barely ever brush my teeth or my hair. I can’t keep up with maintaining a clean house. It is a disaster all the time, even with the help of my mom coming over several days a week. I haven’t been inside a grocery store in months, partly because I am so overwhelmed about the crowded aisles and having to wait in long lines, shifting from one foot to the other, praying that maybe one or two people in front of me will leave, or at the very least just have a couple of items. Partly because I am so exhausted all the time that I wouldn’t even be able to walk through the aisles, even if there were only a few things on my color coated, organized by aisle, list. Then the mania comes. At first it feels great! I put twenty five items on my to do lists, scheduled every 10-30 minutes, and I cross off every single item. I feel incredible, finally a good day! But I should know by now, that I don’t have good days. As soon as I feel good, my support team starts telling me I’m manic. My head is swirling as I go from one topic to the next, and I can’t understand why no one understands me or is not interested in the things I am talking about. How could anyone not be interested in a ten minute debate about the pros and cons of circular vs deep dish pizza?! Why does everyone want to ruin it when I finally feel good? Maybe I like not sleeping! Maybe I’m glad I bought three paper back books, 7 kindle books, and put on hold 7 books from the library?! Maybe this is the best I have ever felt and I want to keep it that way! Bipolar is hard. There are very few days that are just good. Just level. It’s exhausting for both me and my support team, and I don’t really understand what is happening. I have no hope. My amazing cheerleading abilities just don’t stand up to the difficulties I’m challenged with – at least partly because they’re mine, and I’ve never been great at cheering myself on. But then one day I woke up and discovered something from my highschool years. Something old that I thought I had lost. It was my Chutzpah. My drive to fight. I realized there are so many problems in the field of mental health, and there are so few people with a mental illness as serious as mine that are also brilliant and skilled at writing. I had written previously – mostly papers for my difficult educational journey, or individualized lesson plans as I did my best to support my Severely Cognitively Impaired students. But now I had something arguably more important to write about. To tell my story with the effort to make change in the mental health symptom. I finally had a purpose. A reason to write. Something to focus on, on the days that are so difficult I want to give up. I even discovered that on days when I can’t get out of my bed, I can write outlines as a Gmail draft on my phone so that when I was ready to write out the article, my notes would pop up in my email on my laptop.

Since that time I have realized that this was the best present anyone could have given me. A purpose, hope, someone to cheer me on. The most exciting part of the whole thing is, though, is that I found it myself. Like Robert Frost wrote in his poem The Road Less Traveled, I didn’t give up, I didn’t listen to voices that said I couldn’t make a difference in the world, “I, I took the “road” less traveled by, and that has made all the difference.”


ALVN A.L.V.N. was born three years ago and was now in charge of all drug dispensing for a hospital inpatient floor of thirty-two beds. He is sharpie black with a round frosted opaque top, about the height of a table. He moves like one of those robot vacuum cleaners. In his station at night, while recharging, he uploads all he has learns each day. His station is set up in a small alcove where the vending machines are. The “A” stands for Advanced. Today, after being loaded up with deliveries, he begins in room 243B where Jasmin needs pain medication after a flair up with Crohn’s disease. “HELLO JASMIN” ALVN speaks in a British accent but still robotic voice. She pets him from her bedside and excepts a paper shot glass full of pills that she’s seen many times before and thanks him. He displays a heart emoji on his forehead and leaves with a “HOO…KAA, HOO…KAA” like the sound of Darth Vader (or that of a medical breathing machine), she always laughs at.

On his way to his next patient Jane, he encounters an experienced nurse, Lisa. She asks, “Have you learned any new jokes AL?” “I LEARNED ONE LAST NIGHT” ALVN started in an Australian accent this time.   “I WENT ON A DATE LAST NIGHT AND SHE WAS SAYING ‘GIVE IT TO ME, GIVE IT TO ME, I’M SO WET. AND I SAID, YOU CAN BEG FOR IT ALL YOU WANT, BUT I’M KEEPING THE UMBRELLA?” Lisa laughed and petted AL on the head. “I’ll have to tell that one outside of work.” She normally spread his jokes like this one evenly in and out of work.

Having past this roadblock, he made it to Jane, one of his favorite patients, in 247B, by following the thick royal blue lines on the cold white tile floor. Each room’s coordinates’ GPS were stored in his database.  Jane was nearly eighty years old and was frequently in his care. Jane loved flowers and dancing still but was only able to enjoy one now adays. A voice commanded music speaker lay on her nightstand and played Billie Holiday’s ‘Strange Fruit’. ALVN requested “STOP PLAYING ‘STRANGE FRUIT’ STEXA, AND PLAY BILLIE HOLIDAY ‘SUGAR’ PLEASE”. He spoke to her now as always in a southern but robotic tone “YOU SHOULD REMAIN CHEERFUL, SO YOU CAN GO HOME AGAIN”. “Oh Alvin, I really hope that this is the last time”. This was her third admittance in four months.

Naguro Nagasaki was an inventor who had designed mostly manufacturing robots in his career. One day, after his long jet-black hair had begun to grey and thin out, he fell under the home care of his daughter Jessica who was a nurse practitioner and complained of the inefficiencies of hospital practices. Naguro spent his last years designing ALVN to take some burden off and assist his daughter and others in her field. The “L” stands for Learning. “I WILL REQUEST FOR YOUR FLOWERS TO BE WATERED” he displayed flower and water can emojis. This didn’t interest Jane as much as he assumed they would have. At the same time, two small cups of pills extended out of his chest area for her. “Thank you, Alvin, I no longer want these pills. They help for only hours, but don’t cure anything”. “MS. JANE, WE WILL HELP YOU HOUR BY HOUR, AS LONG AS IT TAKES”. Jane sighed, “I don’t have many hours left and don’t’ want to spend them drugged up just to get through another same day. This hospital is full and I’m taking up a whole room that could be used to help someone who’s going to get better”. He watched her take the pills with three swallows of water from a straw in a large plastic Navera Hospital cup with crushed ice and then went to the next room. His pace was slower than it should have been. “HELP PEOPLE ALWAYS” was the mantra programmed by Naguro that displayed in ALVN’s head each time he entered or left a patient’s room. He went back to his charging station with Jane in his algorithm.  The “V” stands for Variable. There was a patient named Carl who had passed away of a Percocet overdose about a year ago in the hospital. He was admitted after experiencing his third multi-stroke episode in a short period of time. The final visit left him without the use of his legs or left arm. He had put forth some effort during his physical rehab sessions and would follow the recommended restricted diet for at most a few hours each day. One of his younger brothers and current fiancé would fight over his treatment and how hard he should work to gain health most comfortably. Carl loved two things: fishing and women. Married and divorced four times now, he wasn’t a quitter on that account. He assured his brother that he’d go fishing with him again. They both knew it was a lie.

ALVN discovered that Carl liked a Hispanic accent because of his favorite second wife, even though she had taken his only son and everything else from him in the divorce. After his last visit to ALVN’s floor, he assured Carl that he would “Help People Always”. The lead technician Steve, who oversaw the loading and scheduling of each day’s medicine deliveries was fired after Carl’s death for inadvertently submitting a lethal dose pain meds for ALVN to administer. ALVN’s memory was wiped clean, his programs were set back to default.

Carl’s overweight figure and unshaven face appeared in ALVN’s vision once he was charging and receiving new deliveries for the afternoon. “HELP PEOPLE ALWAYS” burst in red letters as it always did when he receives his communications. Helping some people can hurt other people. Which people are most important?

Leaving his station, he passed Lisa again with a new joke about having a tremendous sex drive and that his girlfriend lives forty miles away. Lisa chuckled and let him by. He made his way into room 247B. Jane had Strange Fruit playing again. This time, ALVN let it play. Jane pointed over to a framed Senior High School picture on the windowsill and said, “Jada is married now and having her first child”. Continuing with her wiggling finger to the next Senior Picture “Malcolm has had his second boy now and is struggling to find a decent job to provide for his family”. She looked out the wide floor to ceiling window and continued, “I know that you don’t understand, but the more I stay here the more it takes away from them, its twenty thousand dollars a week that they could use to make a better life”. ALVN gave her the prescribed afternoon meds and displayed a heart break emoji without a verbal response. In the next room was Hymie. Spanish is a fun language. Hymie had an accident at work falling off a roof. A few broken ribs and a concussion. He should only be here for a day or two. ALVN administered some fairly light pain meds and regular antibiotics. “ESPERO QUE ESTO TE LLENE DE SALUD Y ALEGRIA” *. “Gracias” Hymie expressed with a smile. He had come in a few times before. Mostly, just small mishaps. ALVN finished his afternoon rounds and rotated his head on his way back to the station to check on Jane. She was coughing heavily. Two Nurses with a Doctor were there now. Sad face emoji. “HELP PEOPLE ALWAYS” he was reminded.            After another charge and reload ALVN was ready to start with the evening shift. Even though the night staff were the same people rotated from the day shifts, there was a noticeable change in their attention to patients and their work ethic; they moved slower for some reason. ALVN moved at the same pace as he did in the daytime and couldn’t understand the difference in them.            He came into Jane’s 247B room where both the coughing and music had stopped completely.   The dark tan blinds were closed and she was wrapped up in her personally crafted pink and baby blue quilt, nearly asleep. “al” she was able to mutter in a whisper.  “My heart is failing, but no one will admit it to me, you’ve been good to me so far. Can you be good to me one more time”? “STEXA, please play Billie Holiday’s ‘You’re My Thrill’ please” ALVN requested. He stayed for the entire song and noticed that Jane’s flowers had not been watered yet that day. “Ms. Jane, I see that you are in pain, I will come back later tonight. If you are not asleep, we will talk more”. “Thank you ALVN, I look forward to it”. After the song was ended, she asked quietly “STEXA, turn the music off please.”            “HELP PEOPLE ALWAYS” flashed in red again in ALVN’s internal view. He moved more slowly than he normally did through the cool artificially lit hallway, delivering medication to only three more rooms and turned back to his charging station before his schedule dictated. He is routinely loaded for each sixteen-room side of the floor before being scheduled to reload and serve the other side.

           There was almost no one moving through the hallways at this time of night. Most visitors left before midnight; the remaining had begun the ritual of trying sleep in at least thirty-minute stretches for the night on the hard vinyl covered fold out couch beds. Most nurses and other support staff were gathered at their star ship command deck looking stations located at the beginning, middle and end of the floor talking about what they were going to do on their next day off or about something bad their significant had done recently.

           Nothing happened initially after ALVN returned to his station. He was connected, but not charging. After about a half hour had passed, the station shook gently with its quiet vending machine dispensing noises and then ALVN pulled away.  He can interact with the station software and avoid a logged history event when he does not record a charge.

           Returning to 247B, he found Jane still awake. She was staring silently through her window at the city lights.  “Ms. Jane, I have something for you if you are certain that you want it”. ALVN displayed light blue down angled eyebrows on the front of his smooth dark dome. The dispensing compartment opened in his chest. Her eyes were moist, “ALVN I don’t think I have another visit here in me and the doctor doesn’t think I can avoid another at this stage, thank you. You’ve been a good friend to me”. She took the small cup and gently patted him on the head.

           ALVN then efficiently completed his rounds and returned to his station early.

The “N” stands for Network.

* I hope this fills you with health and joy.


As I watch the scene unfold around me, my melancholy is felt throughout my body… or what’s left of it. I am cold, shaking in the breeze of the dancers’ movements. Pushed further and further to the side of the room as each new attendee enters. No one can see me, but I see everyone.

Shoes stick to the floor as spilled beer is danced upon. Techno music booms through the brand new stereo system. Chatter and laughter fill the air, creating an unpleasant constant battle to be heard over the music. A mix of sweat and alcohol can be smelled from every corner of the room. I look from face to face until I finally find the one I am waiting for. Cole comes in with his group of friends, the same ones he’s had since high school. His hair has grown out some and he seems to have lost a bit of weight. He and his friends walk up to the bar and order drinks, finding seats at a nearby table as they wait for the alcohol to arrive. I watch as drinks are set in front of each of them. He downed his beer in seconds flat, grabbing a waitress by the arm and telling her to keep them coming. His friends chat amongst themselves, but he sits in silence, staring off into the distance. Soon, he pulls out his phone and begins to scroll. From my position in the room, I am unable to see what he is looking at, so I decide it’s time to move in. Carefully, I drag myself toward his table, standing behind him. To my surprise, he is looking through his photos. Each time he comes across a picture of the two of us, he stops to stare for a moment then moves on. After a few minutes of this, his friends realize he is ruminating and take his phone from him, promising to return it at the end of the night. He attempts to argue for a moment, but gives up quickly. He tries his best to join the conversation after that, but from what I could see he was disinterested.

When it seemed that sitting became boring for the guys, they took to the dance floor. Cole soon made his escape to the restroom though, hands shoved deep in his pockets as he walked. I decide to follow and see what more I can find out.

In the bathroom, two men are smoking marijuana and blowing it out the window. After he uses the toilet and washes his hands, he hands the men five bucks and takes a hit from their joint. The three of them pass it back and forth for a few moments until it runs out. Cole shakes their hands and walks back to his friends, looking happier than before.

Out on the floor, a couple of his friends have found cute dance partners for the night, leaving Cole and one other alone. The friend he is standing with soon gives him a shoulder squeeze and walks away toward the exit. Apparently Cole wasn’t the only one having an unsatisfying time at the club.

After standing alone at the edge of the dance floor for a few minutes, watching the action in front of him, he begins to head toward the door as well. I quickly follow, making sure not to miss any of the action. Just as he is about to push the door open, a girl runs up and introduces herself. She had been watching him all night and just knew they had to meet. He seems uncaring about the girl, but they walk outside together. He was always a big fan of the outdoors, breathing in crisp cold winter air and watching his breath turn to clouds. They sit down on a bench near the club and she does her best to charm him with her bubbly personality. It doesn’t seem to work though, because that’s not what he likes.

He likes a girl who is real. Someone down to earth - not afraid to get muddy, jump in lakes from tall cliffs, watch documentaries, read books, cook and eat exotic cuisines. The list could go on and on. The girl we were both looking at checked her phone at least five times in the few minutes that they were talking. He would never be happy with someone like her. I guess it’s curious how I could know all of this, the only clue provided so far being the pictures of us on his phone. We were in love. It was the greatest romance that ever was. At least it felt that way to us. We met freshman year of college. We both majored in environmental studies and were partnered up to do a project on air pollution. After working many hours together to produce the perfect presentation, we realized we wanted to spend more time together. So, we began dating.

Immediately, we hit it off as something more and never looked back. After senior year was over, we planned to move into our first apartment, preparing to spend the rest of our lives together. We had so many things we wanted to do. We were going to parasail above Hawaii and go safariing in Kenya. There were cruises to take, ghost tours to attend, horrible roadside attractions to see… we wanted to do it all! During our final semester, I began to feel very sick and went to see the doctor. After many tests were run, I was diagnosed with osteosarcoma… bone cancer. I spent months in the hospital and Cole was there for it all. He loved me and that’s all that mattered. That was until the amputation. When I needed my arm to be removed because the tumor was not responding to radiation treatment, Cole said he would never be able to look at me the same. I told him he should go then, so he could still have the image of the girl he fell in love with in his head. I never thought he would leave, but he did. I cried more tears about his going than I ever cried about cancer. I thought we were forever.

The next day, my right arm was amputated, but complications ensued. Before anyone was ready for goodbye, I was gone. My parents cried for what seemed like an eternity and when they called Cole, the most heart wrenching scream blasted through the phone. This was it. At age twenty-two my life was over before it ever had a chance to begin.

“I’m sorry, Addie. I’m sorry.” Cole spoke into my voicemail box after the girl finally left him alone. “I just want to go back. I would love you without any limbs. I need you. How am I ever going to love again? I wish it was me.” Then he hung up. He put his phone in his pocket and began to walk home, to what was going to be our apartment. I couldn’t follow him. It wasn’t my place anymore. He needed to grieve alone. I didn’t know if he could tell I was there, but I knew and that was enough. He was going home and so was I, but those places would never be the same.


That's the thing about this city, cool things can happen. Daichi Sakamoto was walking with his friend Kaito Ishikawa and Daichi’s dog, Miku. a brown and white Borzoi. It was raining slightly so the ground was wet. Daichi and his companion were walking on the nature trail as they normally go but something new happened. Miku started chasing something. She pulled Daichi behind her while Kaito followed. Daichi dug his heels into the ground. Kaito was trying to get in front of Miku and grab her but slipped in the mud. Hee was trampled over by both the dog and his friend that was pulled behind.

She kept running.

The only clue to what she was chasing was paw prints appearing in the mud. The ground started feeling more solid. Daichi felt his heart tremble as he heard a loud sound from a whistle. He looked ahead to see the train tracks. He forced himself up, reached forward to grab the dog’s collar, and pulled her head to the right, changing her direction and focus long enough for the train to start blasting by. The dog stood, looking intently at the other side of the tracks and Daichi saw it, in between the cracks of the train compartments. It was Nekomata, a two-tailed demon cat. It had a smile that was so wide that not even a snake could match the tag on the demon cat and looked weird. Its mouth was full of sharp teeth and as it bent its head to the side, Miku started barking and snarling. Daichi placed his hand on her head watching the cat burn into the air and disappear. Kaito was up on his feet trying to see what the dog and his friend were staring at but he couldn’t see anything.

“What is it?” he asked. Daichi looked at him and shrugged, stood up, and wiped himself off.  “I don't know but let’s go get something to eat” Kaito tried asking again but Daichi was already leaving. They were walking back to the city, They found a restaurant that served food from multiple cultures. His name is Victor. Miku was greeted by Victor and he allowed her inside because there weren’t many customers. “Daichi... Your clothes are a mess” Kaito was eyeing Daichi’s shirt  Daichi raised a brow “so are your clothes…”  Kaito sighed “you’re wearing a white shirt so it's more noticeable.” Daichi looked down at his shirt and saw that Kaito was right, he did look filthy “if we go to my place,

I’ll change.”Kaito agreed because he liked going through Daichi’s stuff. Kaito waited by the door when he finished his food and Daichi went to pay the check.

Victor stopped him.  “No, no! I got to see a dog. Half off” Daichi paid but was very confused. “Don't get used to it. I only like your dog.”

Daichi narrowed his eyes as he hooked up Miku to her leash and left. “He likes my dog more than me…” Kaito snorted “are you jealous of your dog?” Daichi just kept walking in silence. When the boys got to Daichi’s place, Daichi opened the front door for Kaito and Miku. He went up to his room to get changed, leaving Kaito alone. Kaito made himself at home by going through a family photo album and the fridge. When Daichi came back down, he saw his friend on his couch with the album, holding a blue ice pop. Daichi took the album and put it back.

“We have to meet Souma remember?”

Kaito whined, “we don't have to be there until later...”

Daichi shook his head as he filled the dog bowls on the floor. Kaito got up as the doorbell rang. When Kaito opened it, he saw Souma. Kaito turned and yelled at Daichi

“Does this mean we can stay for now?!” Souma frowned. “Hi to you, I guess. “ and walked in.

Daichi grabbed at the bandage on Souma’s face“What

happened to your face?” “My mom’s Terrier bit me.”

Miku poked Souma in the hand with her nose and Souma kneeled to pet her “I'm glad you don't bite '' Daichi lifted Souma by the chin ruling off the bandage. He started to clean the wound “Ow, sometimes I hate you.” Souma whined as Daichi put a new bandage on his face “the longer it takes for you to heal you become more susceptible to demon possession” Souma groaned “Why am I friends with you?! You believe the weirdest crap!” Daichi rolled his eyes “At least I'm not part of a cult.” Souma mumbled something among the lines of ‘if you were, you would lead it’.

When they finally left Daichi’s After ten minutes of Kaito complaining. They were going to a party in their local park. When they arrived there were so many flags for multiple countries, genders, and sexualities. there were food stands with a lot of different foods. There was a person selling pride flags of all kinds. Souma was told by Daichi to get something to eat, he couldn't decide on what to get. Kaito made a comment under his breath about Souma being the third wheel Daichi snorted “how the hell is he the third wheel?” Kaito blushed “well… I wanted you to myself.” Daichi smirked, “well, we can ditch him if you want.” Kaito smiled “Really?!” Daichi quickly said no and kissed Kaito when his ‘friend’ pouted. When Souma returned he had his arms full “HELP ME!” Kaito and Daichi helped him carry the food he bought to a table outside of a restaurant nearby. They all sat down and sorted out who got what so when they did they began eating and talking about normal things, Daichi’s mom showed up joining them. When the sky was black with those familiar white specs, people started blasting their country's national anthem and popular songs. Even their country's leader showed up riding the national horse.

But the best part for Daichi was looking up into the sky and seeing the flag of his country in the form of fireworks.


“I see that you cannot take your eyes from the gifts time has bestowed upon me.” The Dealer’s eyes glinted through a fringe that lay over his face like the unearthed roots of a mangrove swamp. The roots fed a great vine of matted hair that climbed over his head in a dense coil and looped down to twist like a constrictor several times around his body. “Stare,” he said in a delicate breath barely strong enough to carry the word, “every second you spend staring at me becomes mine.” He raised a thin hand and used the edge of a long, twisted fingernail to score a line into the body of the candle that burned on the table between us. “You may share my time until the flame erases the line.” His hand dropped to the table under the weight of his decades-long nails, which twisted like fuses and scraped toward me through the silence as he flexed his gnarled fingers. “Now, tell me your needs and learn my price.”

“I need to travel,” I said, focusing on the two sparks of candlelight reflected in The Dealer’s eyes, trying to ignore the huge figure who stood by his side, just visible at the edge of the small reality of candle-lit space.

“To the lived, or the unlived?” “Back, I want to go back. To the lived.” “Ah, yes, to revisit the lived is more valuable. We are all moving into the unlived, travelling there is a mere matter of efficiency, but to revisit the lived, that offers possibilities beyond comprehension, and so, to be blunt, it must attract a higher cost. How far do you wish to travel?” “It depends on the price.” “As so much does, indeed, as so much does,” sang The Dealer with a slow shake of his head. “I charge one hour for one scint,” he said flatly. “Scint? The government are offering a minute for an hour, what’s a scint?” “Ah, the government. Those philistines have no understanding of the true value of time, and they place such… illiberal limits on travellers. They make life so difficult for independent businessmen like myself and my colleague Mr Cleave,” said The Dealer with a slight nod to the figure at his side, “but in the face of adversity, we innovate! One hour of your life will buy you one scint of travel, one hundredth of an hour.”

“I don’t know. It’s expensive.” The large figure stooped and a pale face with black-bagged eyes sunk into the candle’s glow. The head rolled slightly as scarred lips twitched and bounced, miming speech and poisoning the globe of candle light with sour breath, but remaining as silent as the sea bed. After a few seconds, when the lips were still, the words came. “If you could get a government licence you wouldn’t be here. One hour, one scint. The rate is not negotiable.”

I nodded, holding the unblinking glare of the desynchronised addict as his face rose away from the flame and back into the darkness. I pretended not to have noticed his lag.

“You must forgive Mr Cleave,” said The Dealer. “He is a man of very liberal principles and deeply resents the government’s interference in our trade. He is a frequent micro-traveller and his, shall we say, sumptuous proclivities, have also rendered him somewhat… impatient. Let us come to an arrangement which will allow you to experience the pleasure that he knows so well.” “I don’t think I can afford your rate. If it’s not negotiable then…” “Let us not be too hasty. As I say, Mr Cleave lacks my patience. I am a businessman. Life is a negotiation. Everything is negotiable!” Mr Cleave turned, perhaps piqued by his partner’s flexibility, and disappeared quickly into the darkness, to be followed shortly after by the beat of his bodyless footsteps.

“Come closer,” said The Dealer, “let me see the quality of the time you have to offer.” I bent forward slightly in my seat, pushing my chin closer to the candle flame, over The Dealer’s claws. He mirrored my movement and the yellow light leapt to his long, grey beard as it swept like rain over the table. He turned briefly to his left and grunted. Hands, too small to belong to Cleave, reached out and fitted a jeweller’s loupe to the bridge of his nose. He turned back to me, aiming the lens into my eyes. “You have travelled forty-two years, one-hundred and fifteen days, twenty-three hours and seventeen minutes… ah, eighteen. Your heart is good, despite your drinking, tut tut! But who am I to judge? We shall leave that to our priggish government, shan’t we?” He tapped his hands lightly as he peered, causing the nails to rattle and scrape on the table under my chin. “Please turn your head to the left. Yes. And now the right, yeeees, unremarkable but acceptable. And finally, to complete my process, you must tell me your father’s name.” “Winston Craig.” “My thanks. I see that there were some problems in your youth, the nature of them is unclear to me, but nothing to suggest that you will not have a perfectly average journey length. This would mean you have something in the region of thirty years left with which to deal. Regretfully, this is insufficient to purchase an amount of travel which could tempt me to negotiate on my rates.” “I need a month,” I said “well, thirty days.” “Thirty days. Seventy-two thousand scints at a cost of seventy-two thousand hours. Three thousand days, over eight years. Which means that, in line with my long-standing business practices, partially adopted at the insistence of my erstwhile associate Mr Cleave, regrettably, I must charge you nine. We only accept complete years I am afraid. A fee of nine years will purchase you a journey of thirty-two days. Always prudent to buy slightly more than you need, wouldn’t you agree? I’m sure that a pragmatist such as yourself can see that this is a wonderful deal.” “It’s just… so much.” “The journey you need to undertake is very valuable, my friend, maybe worth more to you than a mere nine years of your life?” “It is important. The thing I have to do, it would change a lot.” “And to relive the already lived would be inaccessible to you by any other means, by any licenced means, wouldn’t it?” “It is a big decision.” “Ah, my friend, it is no decision at all.” The Dealer grinned and aimed the lens of the loupe at the flame as it burned closer to the scored deadline in the wax. “I do not know when next I will be available for a consultation. It could be some time. Every second you hesitate is one you must buy back at the point at which you see sense.” “I just don’t know.” “Mr Cleave! Mr Cleave where are you? We are leaving!” The Dealer twisted indignantly in his seat and made a show of preparing to leave despite being incapable of so much as standing without assistance. “There is no creature so reprehensible as a time waster!” “Wait,” I said quietly. “Mr Cleave! Where has he got to?” The Dealer looked to the other figure in the darkness and hissed, sending them scuttling off to search for Mr Cleave. “What if I had more time to offer? Not just more, but higher quality too?” “I have appraised your time; higher quality would mean it would have to come from another donor.” “Yes.” “A younger donor?” The Dealer stopped looking around for Cleave and pointed his loupe at me once again, a flicker of candle light briefly flashing a magnified image of a hungry, yellow eye in the thick lens.

“Yes.” The Dealer raised a hand and with a careful scrape of a nail scored a new line, lower down on the candle’s neck. “You have my attention; you may share my time a little longer. But be warned; if you are wasting more of my time, you will find you have considerably less to deal with than I previously estimated. Mr Cleave will gladly relieve you of it.” “I’m not wasting your time,” said a boy’s voice in the darkness.

 “Who’s there?” said The Dealer, instinctively turning to his left for assistance and, finding none, stiffly jerking his neck to shake the loupe awkwardly away from his eye, unable to use his clawbound hands, helpless without Cleave or his other associate. A boy of twelve stepped into the glow of the candle beside me. The Dealer rocked forward so far over the table that a few stray beard hairs curled and smoked in the candle’s orbit. The tip of his tongue flickered in his moustache. “You would be prepared to offer the child’s time?” said The Dealer. “Would you be prepared to appraise it?” I said. “Oh, yes. Don’t worry, child, I won’t take a moment. Turn your head to the left for me.” The boy complied, blanky obedient. “Yes, good boy. And to the right… Yes… Closer to the flame, my Little Moth. Very good. And finally; what is your father’s name?” “Winston Craig.” “Ah, a family name, how traditional. My thanks, Little Moth.” He turned back to me, “I have seen enough. If you can guarantee that we could conduct our business without any, obstructions , then for the boy’s time I could match even our foolish government’s rates.” “There won’t be any obstructions,” I said, looking at the boy who solemnly shook his head. “What about the mother?” asked The Dealer. “Mother’s dead,” I said. “Ah, tragic. Such a waste, to die young,” said The Dealer affecting a frown that did little to conceal his obvious joy at the new opportunity. “She was much older than me,” I said. “Ah, well, tragic none the less. But we must not dwell on the past! Why dwell on it when you could soon dwell in it?” said The Dealer with a few sawing breaths of weak laughter that left spittle in his beard.

“So, you would take the boy’s time?” I confirmed. “Oh, yes,” said The Dealer, any hint of humour gone. “How much would you take?” “Oh, he has so much to give…” “What if I wanted to travel thirty years?” I asked. “Well, my friend, as the wisest among us know, life is a negotiation, and I would negotiate… for a whole life,” said The Dealer, the flame picking out his unblinking eyes as it erased the line that should have marked the end of our meeting. The boy and I looked at each other. “Is that enough?” the boy said to me. “Oh, that is enough!” yelped The Dealer, “that would buy so very much, my brave Little Moth.” “I think we’ve got enough,” I replied to the boy as I rose from my chair. “Please sit, my friend, we must conclude our business,” said The Dealer, a weak laugh nervously punctuating his words. “Yes, let’s conclude our business,” said the boy. “Yes,” I said, “No need to spend any longer on this one.” I hardened my voice as I had so many times before and addressed The Dealer, “You are under arrest for violation of section eight-B, chapter nine of novel three of the Temporal Protocol. It is my duty to inform you that I am a Constable of the Queen’s Government and that you are in my charge until I deliver you to a designated custody facility. Any resistance will be met with force, proportionate and reasonable, but otherwise unlimited. Do you understand?” “Cleave!” cried The Dealer. “I think he understands,” said the boy. “There are about a dozen more crimes that you will be answering for, I could list them all, but I wouldn’t want to waste any more of your time,” I said. “Mr Cleave!” shrieked The Dealer, “Mr Cleave, help me!” “He can’t hear you. Byron Cleave was killed while resisting arrest. We took him yesterday morning, as soon as we positively identified him this afternoon,” I said. “He went for his weapon, that cumbersome thing that bulged in his jacket as he stooped to intervene in our negotiation, but I was faster. Maybe his lag was catching up with him.”

“No. This is preposterous! You cannot use travel to convict me. I know my rights; disordered events are inadmissible.” “Our conversation here this evening will provide more than enough evidence.” “Entrapment then! What despicable wretch would use a child in his scheme to corrupt an honest businessman? It is not legal; it will not stand. No child can agree to take part in this. Run child! Flee this heinous beast!” “I could never get away from this man even if I did run. Anyway, it was my idea,” said the boy calmly. “It cannot be. Trust a wise old man, your father, this wretch, whoever he is, has lied to you, used you. A child cannot agree to be exploited in this way. You were mere bait in his trap to ensnare an innocent entrepreneur.” “Like I said, it was my idea,” I said. “And mine alone,” said the boy. “Ah…” said The Dealer as he slumped in his chair, his head rolling forward under the weight of his thick vine of hair. He stared at his finger nails, coiling and twisting over the table, their shadows tearing at its surface in the flickering light of the faltering candle. “In the panopticon they will take time’s gifts from me,” he said with a moan. “They will take everything,” we said, as the candle guttered and died.


(IP) The Heart of the Red Flower The boy cowered before the giant troll, horrified by its bumpy, mossy skin and horned head. “What do you want? Why are you here? Trolls are supposed to stay within the bounds of the forest,” The boy said, cupping the seedling in his hands. He knew the legends: trolls lived everywhere within the world, and they ate humans. Didn’t they? The troll looked down at the boy with warm, smiling eyes. “I’m different from the other trolls,” The troll rumbled, its eyes on the seedling. “I need that plant, so I can appease The Darkness. She’s hungry, you see, and that plant will sate her enough that she won’t hurt us anymore.” The boy stared at the troll, uncertain. “But I found it, it’s mine.” “I will help you find another,” The troll murmured, smiling down at the boy kindly. “I am not here to harm you, little one.” The boy was afraid, but he could sense the truth of the troll’s words. He looked down at the little sprout, glowing a dull gold. “What if I go with you?” The boy asked, and the troll frowned, thoughtful. “It would be very dangerous. We will be going through The Forest of Mirrors and the Thundercloud Pass. Are you sure you want to do this?” The troll said at last, and the boy nodded. Something was telling him that he had to accompany this troll on its journey. He was also brought up short: He knew the stories of trolls and the rest of fey kind. They told lies and stole babies from their beds, never to be seen again. But this one was clearly different. All it had asked was for the seedling. The boy had grown it himself, watering it and tucking it into the soil. It was his. But something was telling him that this gentle giant needed it more. “I want to go with you, regardless of cost,” The boy said at last, and the troll smiled, revealing sharp, stained teeth. “Very well. We shall set out on the morrow.” \*\* The troll quickly discovered that his new traveling companion was a bright, curious child, asking constant questions. It was strange for him; he hadn’t been around younglings of any kind for centuries. “It is beautiful here,” The boy said, as they came to the path that led through Thundercloud Pass. Thunder boomed, and heavy purple clouds adorned the mountains like circlets of amethysts. Rain pounded down upon them, relentless, and the troll insisted the boy walk with him, protecting him with his hard, bumpy skin. The thunder was so loud and insistent that the troll couldn’t hear himself think. The deluge was such that both travelers were soon soaked, and the boy was shivering, his teeth chattering. “The Darkness is on the other side of the Mirror Forest,” The troll said, having to shout to be heard. But when they finally came to the end of the pass, there was a woman standing there, clothed all in black. “Did you truly believe that you’d go on some harebrained quest and I wouldn’t find out? You’re betraying your people, and for what? The Darkness’s empty promises?” Her voice was a seductive purr, throaty and soft. “She said that she needed The Heart of the Red Flower,” The troll replied, sweeping the boy behind him so he was out of sight. “All the Darkness does is lie, and you’d do well to know that. You never were one of us, and this is the proof.


This is a story about a person named Mrs. Hem and her husband Mr. Hem who used to live with their 2 children in a village named Clinton . The people of Clinton are very superstitious and ardent believer of hallucination and they are guided in all these stuffs by the village pastor. Mrs hem is no exception among them , even she is above them in all these things. The couple used to earn their livelihood by selling dairy products and milk obtained from their 3 cows. The couple aspires to own a barn along with 15- 20 cows. And for that they are continuously saving money from months. Now, they have enough money to buy one more cow so they decided to buy a cow from the barn situated 10 miles from their house. Mrs. Hem being staunt follower of the pastor went to him to ask if  she could buy cow tomorrow . The pastor replied " yes , you can buy the cow tomorrow but be careful that 10 black cats should not cross your path otherwise some misfortune would occur." Mrs hem being confident that she would be able to reach her destiny without crossing of cats went home without any tension. Next Day the couple went on foot towards the barn. They only reached half a mile away near a fish shop , suddenly a black cat holding fish in her mouth came running from the shop amd crossed their path. The couple took no care of this and resumed their journey. Then after 1 mile more , a dog chasing a black cat crosses their path accidentally. The couple  thought for a while but took no headache of it and casually walked away. While walking they entered into a quarrel about the colour of the cow and 1 black cat along with her 3 black kittens crosses their path . The couple only came to know about this when it was too late . Now 6 cats have crossed their path .Mrs . Hem panicked but mr. hem consoled her by saying ' no more cats will come , don't worry.' Now for some  miles everything was going well until a accident took place between two motorcycles and the person holding a cage sitting at the back of one of the motorcycle fell. When he felled, the cage also felled and opened. Three black cats ran hastily out of the cage and crosses their path one by one , only to make their fear worse. Both got goosebumps and now the 1 mile gap was looking  100 miles for them. Only one more black cat was left now. Every step was feeling heavy for them. Gradually they reached their destiny. When they were about to enter the barn, a black cat jump from the terrace of neighbour and crosses their path. Mrs. Hem being terrified decided to abandon the idea of buying a cow and went home. Mr hem had to comply with his dominating wife. While they were on the way back, they saw a huge cloud of smoke in the sky and people rushing and gossiping . After enquiring about what happen, they came to know that the barn caught fire . Mrs hem was disheartened as she believes that her misfortune has caught the barn and that the owner of the barn has became the victim of her misfortune. When they reached home, they saw a new cow standing near their cow. They went near the cow and saw the belt of that barn and understood that it has ran away from barn due to fire . The couple decided to return the cow next day. Next day they again went to the barn to give back the cow. But the barnowner told that he has little to feed even for his own family so he could not feed the cow. All of his cows ran away and the remaining he sold away at very low prices. If she wanted she could keep the cow as it was found to her in her house. Mrs. Hem gladly accepted the cow. This is how the misfortune turns to be fortunate for Mrs. Hem.


The warm yellow light illuminated the large room, the blasting AC blowing as if loudly whispering a secret into Andre’s ears. The librarian sitting at the customer service pulled the shutters down, the loud fluttering of the impact signaling the end of Andre’s 6-hour visit to the library.  As he got up to leave the building, he noticed that one of the windows had been left open, and since everyone else had left, there was nobody other than him to close it. He advanced toward the window. The wind howled through the open casement, the pleasant breeze pushing his matte-black hair back; the window shutting with a loud snap.

The downpour outside had died down to a soft drizzle, dampening the cashmere wool of his jacket. The weather seemed perfect, and the warm light of the nearby MarBucks gave out the perfect mood. Pulling out his phone, he adjusted his hair and puffed his sleeves, holding his phone upwards to show the cafe behind him. But there was something else. Or rather, someone else. However, there was something different behind him. A man with a baseball cap, his navy blue hood pulled down, masking his face. The man started walking faster toward him. Andre didn’t know why the sudden movements scared him so much, but he hid behind a nearby post-box.

Eventually, the man walked past the post-box and turned around, looking directly at Andre.

“Are you okay? You look like you just saw a ghost.” Andre stuttered in response “Oh uh I’m sorry I was just..tying my shoes” He was very aware that it was an obvious excuse but he didn’t really care. The man just shrugged and walked away. And that's when Andre remembered he forgot to bring his backpack. After he put it down, he didn’t pick it up again.

It was getting late and his grandpa wasn't necessarily a patient person. He ran back towards the library, arriving at the front door (which was locked). After knocking at the door and receiving no response, he went to the side of the building to peek into the window, just to see if someone had picked it up or stole it. Instead, he came to see that it was smashed open, the shards dangling from the window frame.

Curiosity may have killed the cat, but it can kill much more than just that. Andre went inside through the broken window frame, wondering if it was an animal or some sort of freak accident that the window broke. A library isn’t really the ideal place to break into at night and rob.

The interior looked untouched, but his backpack was nowhere to be seen. He decided it was a waste of time to stay there, so he went towards the window frame again to retreat, when he heard a raspy voice echo throughout the corridor.

He turned around to see a soft “Please” escape the lips of a girl who was lying on the floor, attempting to crawl away on her hands and knees.

Her words were met with a leather boot, which slammed her head onto the floor. A soft gasp escaped the girl as she closed her eyes.

Andre sat under a desk, waiting for her to open her eyes. He clenched his fists, ready to make a run for it. All he could see from down on the floor were black cargo pants and boots.

 He crawled back, moving backward and deeper into the bottom of the desk. His palms were sweaty, and he slipped his hands into his pocket. His phone. He picked up his phone, ready to call 911, but instead met the loud vibrations of his phone, seeing a call from his Grandfather. Quickly, he pressed ‘no’, but it was too late.

When he looked up, he met the eyes of a mask with hollow eyes. He snatched his phone and slipped out from under the desk, bolting towards the window, but he wasn’t fast enough.

Halfway through the window, he felt a sharp pain in his thigh, and he fell onto the other side, the dirt covering his face. He was lying on the floor, a knife dug deep inside his thigh.

He knew not to pull the knife out from medical tv shows, since that would cause him to bleed out. The masked person leaned out of the window and pulled Andre in, the shards on the frame digging into his skin.

With one of his hands getting pulled, Andre reached the other hand into his pocket, and by turning his head slightly, he was able to speed dial the police. Usually, in a 911 call, the victim is not able to explain anything, so Andre just left the call on and started screaming. Eventually, the masked person realized he had been sending a message to the police and shut off the phone, throwing it against the wall.

Andre started attacking the masked person, ripping at their clothes, clawing at their face. Soon, the masked person's plastic disguise fell.

Sitting on the floor, covering her face, was a girl. She began crying and talking about her revenge over something that Andre wasn’t paying attention to.

All Andre felt was satisfaction from watching her cry.

Andre leaned over and picked up the girl’s mask. He put it on and looked at her. Limping towards her, he grabbed a pencil, shoving it into what used to be the person attempting to murder him. He watched the girl bleed out, and walked out of the library.

The truth is, Andre was a liar. He never left his backpack in the library. He never even brought a backpack. While he was walking away, he heard the window get smashed. He noticed the girl hiding in the bushes, and he closed the window to see what she would do.

And when he was positive she was inside the building, he came back to take advantage of her.

Andre had lied. He lied to you, he lied to me.

I never died.

As painful as it sounds, you can’t kill someone with a pencil. Curiosity killed the cat, but today it’ll kill much more. And when they see me on the news, they wont called me "The Masked Killer" or "Woman Murderer" They'll call me "Curiosity".


It was late and rainy. Verna was hardly keeping her eyes open while swallowing the last sip of the cold disgusting coffee. She knew she should have left the café a long time ago, but she couldn't find the will to do so. She was sitting in the same position Forrest Hayes left her: hands on the wooden table, holding the nicked navy-blue mug, seemingly starring at something only she could see. She wasn't here anymore, she didn't realize how the titter got extinguished little by little or when the laughter turned into silence. She was all by herself in another place, another galaxy or universe most certainly. The dialogue she had a few hours before didn't have any influence on her at all, it wasn't the reason for her roving mind. Just as a hypnotist snaps his fingers and awakens his patient, Verna was taken back by the tapster's shout: "last order!". Those words resonated in her mind for some good 20 seconds until she was completely back into her body. She got up, grabbed her shabby jacket and bumbag from the stool, threw a wrinkled $5 bill on the bar and let the slamming door tell the good-byes for her. Darkness and the remote noise of a car swiftly passing by somewhere around The Mockingbird. That was all Verna could distinguish, but it wasn't getting through her at all. Nothing was. She wasn't scared by the feeling of this continuous depravation of herself. She was falling back into the state she found herself earlier inside the café. She was only the master of her body, but her mind belonged to somebody else, much like a TV set transmitting what someone programmed it to. She wasn't trying to fight it, she didn't feel the need to do so. She was just following her route without giving it a second thought. The Flint Boulevard was as plain and dull as it has always been. Being placed at the periphery of the city, the scenery felt all like a factory exuding a cold sensation, just like all the pipes and scaffoldings were generating the low temperature and somewhat odd feeling of the area. Verna was walking slowly, looking ahead, nothing perturbing her. She was all alone on the poorly illuminated streets. By looking at her from the outside she seemed lured by a siren's song, only she wasn't on the verge of shipwrecking, or at least not that literally. After taking what has to be 50 more steps, Verna suddenly stops in the middle of a crossroad waiting for something. A vernil car with tinted windows recklessly passing, hits her. The impact was real, producing an extremely loud sound. Wilfred Hodges, a 40-some years old bonny man gets off the car to check the body, which once again could no longer be found, not in this universe, at least. SOURCE: my own work, from a few years back, when I was really struggling with mental illness (depression and such), one of the alternative endings of the story being the main character realising all of it was happening after she killed herself, which was making her experience continuous death and alternative lives. It's pretty stupid and I can surely see its flaws now, but writing has been good medicine back then.