Pale and milky was the moon that night. The night had an eerie glow to it that cast cold light and dark shadows about the countryside. Yet even so it was a type of night that Mikey Joe looked forward to. The type of night he could walk outside his house and stare with great wonder at the marvellous moon. Always he had loved the moon even as a young boy. He would walk slowly about the yard toking gently on his joint. He often felt anxious out there in the dark a the dead of night and this was no different yet his fear was quelled by his old companion the moon. Mikey Joe had done his moonlight ritual for many years puffing as he sauntered aimlessly about the yard and down the path to the farm below. Sometimes he listened to music sometimes to the silence of the night. It was only on the clear nights of the palest purest moonlight he would dare to have his little dalliance with his lunar lover, for the nights that were dark cloudy and black as nothing filled him with a terrible dread. Even on this night with the light beaming from the moon and the brightest stars he had flashes of dread which he soothed by looking at the moon and saying “It's alright now” or some other stoner’s mantra. That dread came to him most nights and tonight was no different he did as he always did and toked on his joint. “It's almost finished” he thought as he looked at glowing red dot that was very near his finger now.”Soon back inside to comfort and a nice round of toasted cheese sandwich.” He he began walking back up the path to the backyard and his house, stepping slowly and carefully as to not trip on the brambles and briers growing all over the ill kept path. He meandered across slowly and gently till he could see the yard light through the trees. He continued on and the light became bigger and bigger until he was almost blinded by it. He froze dead it was surely not his yard light it was far to strong he became rigid with fear. He racked his brain frantically to figure out what he was seeing but after a few seconds the fear truly had him he didn’t care the fear had him. He turned on his heel and ran down the deep dark path straight into blackness. He ran until he heard or thought he hear something up ahead. “ A figure? A man?” he wasn’t sure what he saw but something moved past him up that dark path. He stopped in his tracks panting, hes wild eyes darting everywhere. Forward to the blackness of the path back to the growing light towards his yard. “Get to my house and the phone” he thought in a second of clarity. He ran back at full sprint towards the every growing light. But after no more than 5 steps he tripped on a bramble and fell head first into a bush. He looked up from the bush scraping his head on thorns as he did so. He saw the black figure still away down the path and then suddenly blackness. He awoke to a dim light flickering above his head. He arose to find himself in a small empty room with a candle hang on the wall. There was no door but an open entrance led to a narrow cramped passage. The walls of the passage and and room where made of a red soft substance not unlike play-dough he observed. When he pulled at it seemed to stretch for a moment then go back to its original shape. After a minute of exploring his new environment he was struck with by his new dreadful predicament. Questions raced around his head a thousand a once going 90 miles an hour. He had no idea how to begin to understand what was going on and he felt overwhelmed and fell to his knees and began sobbing pitifully. “I’m some kind of prisoner or I’ve lost my mind or worse” he whispered as he sobbed. He felt a hand on his shoulder he stopped crying. He was dead still. He knew he had to turn around to face what was touching him but he couldn’t bring himself to. “Are you sick?” asked the voice of the man that put his hand on his shoulder.” You seem very weak and you are crying out in pain are you OK?” He knew now he must look, he must turn and see he captor. He turned to the left side slowly to see the mans had on his shoulder, but it was red! He turned in horror to see his captor and there he was an ordinary looking man dressed in a white robe but with bright red skin! This was too much for him and he fainted on the floor in a heap. After some time he awoke again, his eyes staring directly at the cavernous red ceiling above he was lying flat red table which was oddly soft and comforting. He felt it move slowly as if it were breathing or pulsating. He jumped to his feet and looked about the huge cavernous room. The ceiling was visible only barley in the dim light that radiated from the floor. The walls or entrance couldn’t be seen as it disappeared into the eternal blackness encircling him. A figure came from out of the darkness slowly walking towards him, it seemed to him to be quite far away. He noticed he wasn’t gripped with fear this time but with a dopey fascination with the figure. As it approached it seem to change shape and suddenly grow taller and longer until before him again was the red man he had seen before. But this time he was different, he wore a old style suit and spectacles. “How are you feeling now?” he asked “ You were quite distressed. I had to give you some medication to calm you. I hope it makes you feel better.” Mikey Joe nodded in answer. The red man smiled. “ You will have many questions, and I have many answers to give now that you are more calm and sociable” “Are you gonna kill me? Or do crazy experiments on me?” blurted Mikey Joe, his body was calm but inside there was still a little fear, despite his dopey drowse state. “No, No of course not I am not cruel I’m here to help you and your planet its so primitive even the forms you take are so unusual…. But we can solve all that, teach you to do great things navigate the stars as we have. Here let take this it will relive the drowsiness.” From nowhere as far as Mikey could tell a cup appeared in the red man hand and he reached out and gave it to Mikey. “Yes, drink deeply yours is most interesting species bipedal, hi level intellect and highly adept at communicating but so developmental lacking… why? Much lower intellect lifeforms have achieved higher levels of civilization in this…..” as he talked Mikey drank and became more alert and fearful his situation seemed hopeless he needed a way out of this nightmare. “Ah more alert I see, but anxious too perhaps one of your own medical treatments might help” a syringe appeared in his hand. It was full of a clear liquid he moved closer to Mikey Joe gentle grabbed his arm and smiled. “Is this it” Though Mikey “I am I really going to let this red bastard kill me and eat me or something, no I have to make a move!” Mikey punched him hard in the face he dropped the syringe. ‘Why?’ he groaned “ I bring you only love” Mikey hit him again and again crying manically as he did so. The man made no attempt to defend himself or fight back. Mikey's hands where covered in blood, tears were rolling from his eyes he went to dry the tears from his eyes but a drop of the blood landed in his mouth. The taste was pure pleasure to Mikey he had tasted nothing like it it was the most savoury sweet orgasmic taste he ever had. A madness took him he began to lick his hands clean his tongue orgasm-ed with each lick. When his hands were clean he looked down at the body his eyes ravenous with hunger for that taste. He picked up one red and began to chew on the fingers. “No stop I bring you love, I am your friend” the red man said feebly. Mikey took both hands and strangled him till he stopped his polite protests. After eating half of the red mans hand Mikey remembered his situation and the danger. H e got up and ran into the darkness but it only stretched on and on with no end so he ran back to the man near the table searched him for a key or remote, but nothing. “How will I get out of here, what kind of monster have I become I’ve killed and eaten this poor man” he cried aloud in a desperate howl. Then the craving came over him maybe if I eat more ill feel better” He thought “he's not human, It was him or me! I had to do it!” He grabbed the other hand and pulled at the index finger when suddenly a large wall and monitor came darting out of the blackness. It was beeping and whirring flashing in with and black the deepest black he had ever seen then suddenly there was enormous roar and then blackness. Mikey Joe, woke up strapped to a bed unable to move any part of his body he head fixed at white ceiling and a fluorescent light. “Mikey” a voice asked through a speaker” are you able to answer our questions?” “ What happened?” Mikey eyes watered at the memory he was so sad and ashamed, to his horror hes tongue watered as well. “ I ate him” he sobbed “ I ate him” The doctor behind the screen wrote his diagnosis and handed it to the team of men in suits. “From what I can observe from here that's my conclusion gentleman” he said in thick Austrian accent. “ What do you mean, in plain English bud?” asked one man in the far corner of the room with hes eyes squinting at the paper that was passed to to him. “Vell….. the patient is completely insane” “Well I could have told you that and I’m no doctor” laughed the man “ saying he ate one of those aliens I’ve never heard of something so ridiculous” It had been week since the ship had crashed into the desert in Wyoming and special agent Jack Turg was heading the background investigation. It was a sensational case the U.S. Government had of course found alien tech and parts of spaceships before but never a maned vessel with such a large living crew! Jack remembered when he first saw the remains it was the size of a stadium and inside the investigation team had found 50 live “alien creatures” he had seen the classified videos they were strange stupid horrible things no limbs or features just black and grey blobs pulsating formlessly. “How in the hell could that freak even consider eating one of those disgusting things” he though “They are repulsive!” He decided his team would have to get a firsthand look at these things to decide next course of action. It made really no logical sense why would you eat something you're terrified of? The next morning Jack was briefing his C.O. in his progress so far. At the end of the report he paused. “Was there anything else Jack?” he C.O. probed “Well sir it's just… we … my team and I…” “Come on Jack speak your mind!” “We like to get a look at the live specimens to help make sense of the actions of the detainee” The C.O. exhaled loud and slow”Quite frankly you and everyone in anyway involved with this whole operation would. But that's impossible it's not even being handled by this agency.You should count yourself privileged to know what you know.” click\* the call ended. But Jack a veteran agent 20 years with the agency never question orders, who turned a blind eye to the darker side of the C.I.A.


I have built a throne of shame, the foundation started in my childhood. A strong foundation at that. Many have tried to break the foundation, but it doesn’t show a single scratch. I sit on it the throne, and wear a thorny crown of self disgust and hatred. It hurts me, but I won’t let anyone else wear my crown. It’s my responsibility, my legacy. It was passed to me by my father. Its all I have of him. The thorns adorned to the crown dig into my temples. Blood drains from my head as I wear the thorny crown, covering my eyes in red. Its all I see anymore. Red is anger, it is hate, it is doubt. The blood is my own life force draining away from me to betray me by clouding my eyes from the reality that I can’t seem to view on a daily basis. It covers my eyes and enters my mouth leaving me unable to speak. I can’t ask for help because my own blood prevents me. My own blood covers my vocal chords. When I try to speak, it is garbled nonsense. I speak, but no one can make it out. No one can see that I am in danger by my own blood. My life force drains from me freely from the holes the thorns dig into. On the outside, the blood moves down my face, dripping onto my body. Eventually my shoulders are covered. The blood has been spreading for years. The viscosity of the blood is so thick, I am no longer able to move. The weight of the blood on my shoulders causes my slouch in my throne. Sitting there, blood draining to my chest and belly. My belly once full and gleeful is now becoming flat. Blood drains from my body, once full of life, swollen with pride, now withering and wrinkled like a raisin. At one point of time, I would have been happy to be that thin. Now, I just see it as sorrow. Once I enjoyed eating, but now iron is all I taste. Now it is without joy. My belly flattens as the joy leaves my life. My legs, once quick and light have become heavy with disgust. I drag red iron anvils with an unsteady gait, eventually too tired to move. Each step heavier than the last. My legs are so heavy now, that I am stuck in this throne. Stuck with this crown of regret and shame. I ask for help. Nothing comes out. I reach for help, my arms are too heavy to lift. I look for help, but all I see is red. I try to run, but I can’t move my legs. I am stuck here now. By the end, my body is without blood. Drained. I’m covered with the very thing that used to keep me alive. The very thing that killed me. Trapped on my throne, wearing my crown with pride, I die. Alone, Misunderstood, Rigid and Red.


The barn door creaked open. Patches looked up from his bead of old work shirts and yawned as the Goodman ambled inside. Sunlight poured in and washed over Patches. He stretched, raising his hind into the air, and grasped out with his front paws. The warmth filled his bones and a satisfied purr leapt from his throat. “Ki, ki.” The Goodman said with the voice of scratches and creams. Patches plopped down from his pile and a nagging bite chewed at his hips. “There’s my baby boy.” A smile lit the Goodman’s face. Patches weaved between his legs and rubbed his cheeks on the Goodman’s boots. The Goodman reached out a hand and ran it down Patches’ back. Their eyes met and Patches blinked slowly at the Goodman. He rolled onto his back and showed his belly. “That’s a good kitty.”            Patches stood up and jumped onto the table where the Goodman kept his pounders and twisters. He licked at his paw and rubbed it across his face and ears.            The Goodman made his way over to the table and opened the table’s topmost mouth. Clings and Clangs spewed from it as his hand fished back and forth.            “Have you seen my hammer, Patches? That whore lovin’ board popped up on the porch again.”            Patches watched as the Goodman fumbled and mewed into the table drawer. Not for the first time, he caught a smell in the air. In recent days the smell had grown stronger. It was the smell of spoiled guts and bad blood. The smell that came from his mother and sisters before they took the long nap. The smell was stronger when the Goodman was around, but a small amount lingered around Patches no matter where he went. Soon he’d find a nice dark place to join his kin in the long nap. Would the Goodman do the same?            “There it is.” A satisfied smile stretched across the Goodman’s lips as he pulled a small, clawed pounder out of the table’s mouth.

           Patches glided the space between them and nuzzled against the Goodman’s wrist. In return he received a scratch between his shoulders. He kneaded the wood and his tongue stabbed out of his mouth and hung there like a limp mouse.            “All right, boy. I’m going to go beat that crooked board till one of us breaks.” The Goodman turned and Patches watched as he ambled back toward the door. But, before he reached the warmth of summer sun, the Goodman dropped the Pounder and stumbled against a tall beam. He clutched his chest. “Woo got a little woozy there. Maybe I’ll take a sit with you for a while.”            Patches leapt down, ignoring the bite in his hips this time, and pranced over to the Goodman as he sat in the “Ol’ Rocker,” as he called it. He gasped and his chest heaved. The Goodman’s lips had turned blue, and he quivered like when cold-sky-water falls. Patches sprang onto the Goodman’s lap and brushed his cheeks against the Goodman’s. The scent was stronger than ever. It was like he’d walked into a room filled with buckets of long curdled cream and fly eaten fish.            “That’s my good boy, Patches.” The Goodman’s voice was haggard and distant. “I’m feeling mighty tired. I think I’ll just catch a few winks if you don’t mind.” The Goodman ran a gnarled finger against Patches’ cheek and then rested his hands in his lap.            Patches felt an odd sensation on his back. A well-known pressure of being watched. He turned his yellow eyes onto a young woman standing at the barn door. She didn’t block the Sunlight or cast shadow. It bled through her like light through the water pitchers the Goodman brought out on hot days. He somehow knew that she was there and wasn’t all at once, like a memory brought to life on the glass box the Goodman stares at sometimes. The one with the small people inside.            The Goodman didn’t seem to notice. His head rolled back, and his eyes closed. Patches watched the see-through woman enter the barn and cross the dusty floor to the “Ol’ Rocker.” Patches was ready to make himself big and to hiss at the woman, but a breeze broke through the air and carried a long-ago familiar scent. In his mind, flashes of a smiling woman played. He heard her sweet bird song, and could taste the sweet cream she brought, and the nice scratches behind his ears. She smelled just like the Goodwoman. He meowed eagerly, she didn’t look the same, but he wouldn’t mistake that sunflower and melon smell.            She smiled at Patches and scratched him behind his ears like long ago. Cracking purrs rolled from his throat, and he kneaded at the Goodman’s faded blue denim pants. She didn’t speak, but he heard her in his head. She called him a sweet “Ki, ki,” and thanked him for staying with the Goodman after her long nap. If the nap could turn the wrinkled and greyed Goodwoman into a bright blue eyed, brown haired kitten, he wondered if it would take away the peppered grey in his black fur and bite in his joints. He blinked slowly at the Goodwoman, and she blinked back.            The smell of rot exploded from the Goodman. It was enough to break Patches from reverie and jolt his muscle into recoil. The Goodman mumbled. His whole face was blue, and his breathing shortened. The Goodwoman placed her hand on the side of his head and caressed his cheek. A long sigh and with it the Goodman spoke his final word, “Charlotte.” A fine blue mist escaped the Goodman’s lips, and the smell was gone.            The Goodwoman smiled, patted Patches, and strode back across the room. Patches looked up at the Goodman and admired how peacefully his long nap had come. He knew that not all were as lucky. He also knew that things had changed now. There would no longer be sweet creams, or “Ki, ki,” calls followed by good scratches. And his heart felt heavy at that.

           The barn door creaked wide open, and another scent mingled in the air. There was the smell of hickory and vanilla, the smell of the Goodman. He looked back to the door and a young man reached out his hand to the Goodwoman. He smiled at her and kissed her knuckles before sweeping her up into a spinning hug. There were no sounds, but Patches felt the echoes of laughter and kisses in his head.            The young Goodman looked over at patches and gave him an inviting smile. Patches wondered for a moment how nice it would be to go with them. To be in that warmth and get scratches and creams and to be young like them. His heart fluttered, but his eyes grew heavy. There was no cold. How could one be cold before such light and warmth? He decided then to put his head down and nap in the Goodman’s lap. To him, it was as good a place as any and in fact—it was the best place to be. Before the sleep came, he heard the last sounds he would with his cat ears. “Ki, ki.” And he knew no more. On the Goodman farm out in Godsfield, Indiana, a small black cat with square white patches on his back bounded out of an old red barn. He raced up the dirt trail leading to an old white farmhouse with a covered porch. He jumped all three steps in one mighty leap and ran over to the porch swing occupied by two smiling lovers. He leapt up into the young man’s lap and curled up for a long nap.


So This is a story about one of my very lucid dreams. I am currently converting my dream journal into short stories, but from a characters points of view instead of my own. So here is my first entry: Recently I find myself living on the street. When just a few weeks ago I was an aspiring artist selling my work for a living wage. However, in just the past few days my eyesight has completely deteriorated. Doctors told me they could not help me. It was inevitable. So now, I sit on the streets, selling art that I cannot even see for myself just to scrape by. Once I ran out of paintings to sell, I had nothing left, and nowhere to spend the cash. At this point, I had given up on life, I began wandering aimlessly through the streets getting help from strangers and sleeping wherever I could, until one day when walking down a long alley I bumped into a man. “I am so sorry!” I exclaimed as I bumped into someone. “You are quite alright” a man’s voice responded. "You poor thing, are you ok? Do you need a place to stay?" his voice was deep yet soft, it brought much comfort to me. “I am blind… I don’t have anywhere to go,” I responded. “Well now, I can take care of you.” His voice sounded sincere and true. I was at such a low point in life what was I to do with an offer like this? Someone willing to take care of me; help me get back on my feet? On the other hand, multiple scenarios played out in my head, was it all a trick to lure a poor blind man away just to be murdered? A few seconds of silence passed before I finally replied. “I would like that.” “Then no time to waste, we have places to be!” he exclaimed and wrapped his arm around my shoulder, he felt rather bony. He led me further down the alley before stopping. “The car door is in front of you, be careful not to hit your head.” I cautiously opened the car door and entered. Upon opening the door, a wave of new car smell hit me. As I sat down, I felt that the seats were made of leather. The car from what I could feel and smell was very nice. The man entered shortly after and began to drive. “What should I call you Mr.?” I asked the driver. “I don’t really go by a name… I do not have one… I guess you can call me J.” his answer was rather odd. In addition, it seemed like it took him a second to come up with the name J. Did this man really go by no name? “Well since we are using initials as names you can call me T” I crossed my arms and leaned back in the seat. “Only a few more minutes and we will be there.” His voice sounded excited, but I still felt anxious about it all. Later we finally arrived. J exited the car and opened the door for me. I stepped out and he grabbed my shoulder. “Let me show you the way. We have quite a lot of stairs in and around the house. Wouldn’t want you to trip and fall.” He carefully walked me towards a staircase leading towards the house. I felt each step with my feet and once I was comfortable began ascending. We reached the front door and I finally entered his home. “Obviously you can’t see, but if you haven’t put the pieces together I am a rather rich man. In this house, I have 26 bedrooms but no one to enjoy it with. I do hope we can become better acquainted in due time.” His voice was sincere. “I hope so too,” I responded smiling. After a short discussion, J led me around the entire Mansion. Allowing me to feel the walls, marble flooring, and the most expensive of furniture. Some rooms were so large I heard a faint echo with every word. After a few days, I had a map of the entire mansion in my head. I knew where every staircase was and which ways were shortcuts throughout the house. Many days I found myself walking throughout the house looking for something new. In addition, talking to J when I felt lonely. From then on, J had taken the responsibility of taking care of me and getting me back on my feet. In just a few days, the Man had begun to teach me braille, and how to live a normal life. This coincidence of chance was life-changing and amazing, but there was something wrong about all of it... the Man had never told me his real name, or any name at all, and refused to do so. "I have no name," he would tell me every time I asked. I grew frustrated with his repeated answer and eventually stopped asking him about it altogether. Besides his odd answers, everything in my life seemed to be falling into place. It was almost like a dream that I could not wake up from. I was perfectly content with my new living situation besides one small odd occurrence. Late one night I awoke to a peculiar sound. It sounded as if something was ripping, or being squished. It was a gross combination of wet sounds that made me feel extremely uncomfortable. I finally rose out of bed and went looking for the source of the sound. It sounded as if it were heading from the main living space near the kitchen. I walked down the stairs and reached the bottom in front of the living room. “What are you doing awake?” J’s voice pierced through the silence and squishing sounds. His voice alarmed me at first but I was quickly relieved. “Oh, it’s just you J. What is that gross sound I keep hearing?” “It’s just the rain. It's making quite a racket tonight isn’t it?” I heard him stand up from where he was sitting and he approached me. He caressed my face with his hand. Parts of his fingers were damp and the wet touch caused me to retract and quickly wipe my face. “I am sorry. My hands have not dried from the dishes I recently finished. Why don’t you just go back to bed?” his calm soothing voice had relaxed me. My fear of the sounds seemed to vanish now. “Alright, talk to you tomorrow” I walked back up the stairs and went to my room. As I closed the door, the gross sounds continued. I ignored them as best as I could and went to sleep. This strange occurrence happened frequently over the course of a few weeks. The odd gross wet sounds in the night echoing through the halls sometimes waking me in my sleep. If the sounds did wake me, I would cover my ears and roll back to sleep. That was until one particular night. I woke up to the wet sounds once again late in the night. I looked around my bedroom and blinked a few times. I then realized I could see. I could actually see the room I was in and everything around me. My heart leaped with joy. Somehow my eyesight had returned to me, but I was not about to question it. I quickly began to affiliate everything I have touched with what it actually looked like. I began touring the mansion once again with a new stride. It was more beautiful than I could have ever imagined. Marble pillars branched upwards holding the ceiling. “Just how rich was this guy?” I muttered to myself. After touring the glamourous mansion my attention went back to the terrible squishing sound. This time I was going to figure out the cause of it. I walked to the center staircase and began descending. As I neared the end of the staircase the sound, grow monstrously loud. I quickly jumped down to the last step of the staircase to finally see what was making the sounds. I was swiftly taken back by what I witnessed. A few feet in front of me was this large skinny naked figure with its back towards me. It was hunched over rising and lowering itself with each breathe it took, but even then, it still seemed six or so feet tall. Its skin was dark and leathery. Its skin gripped its body tightly revealing its bone structure, which was very humanoid. Through certain parts of its body, thick long spikes protruded from its bones. Down its spine, it was ribbed with 6” black spikes sticking out every other bone leading all the way to its tailbone. These spikes were also protruding from its elbows. It was hunched over a pile of red goo which I quickly figured out it was in fact blood. I stood there frozen trying to process what I was even looking at. Was this all a nightmare I was having or was this some kind of otherworldly being in the house? Suddenly the thing stood up. It had to be almost 8 feet tall or so now. Its arms reached past its knees and its fingers were much too long to be natural. This entire “thing’ wasn’t natural. In its mouth was a hunk of flesh and in the pile of blood was patches of fur and flesh. Cats it seemed like and who knows what else it was eating. With one long-clawed hand, it grabbed an end of the fresh flesh and ripped it with its jaw and claws. It made the terrible squishing wet sounds. I had been hearing this sound for weeks and now I knew the source of it all, this Thing. It turned directly toward me now. “T, what are you doing out of bed?” its voice was deep and smooth. Then it all came together. This “thing” in front of me was J. the man who had taken me in and took care of me for weeks. What was this thing and what did it intend to do with me? Was this in fact the same man who I had been living with? When it spoke to me, my heart dropped. Was he going to kill me now that I have seen what it actually was? I stood there in silence for a while trying to collect my thoughts and calm down. “Is something wrong?” it asked me calmly. His mouth did not move as he spoke. The voice just seemed to emanate somewhere from it. As I stood frozen, I began to see its face. Its eyes were none existent. Instead of eyes, it seemed to have a sunken impression where eyes should be, but skin grew over them leaving skeletal sockets. Its jaw then began to hang. It began to hang lower and lower. It extended as far as its chest and drooped unnaturally. It had rows and rows of sharp long teeth that looked almost like needles. With a few teeth in the front being much larger and thicker than the rest. I looked to the floor and tried to come up with something to say or even the slightest of mental strength to even speak. Then I remembered something. It still thinks that I am blind. Maybe I can use this to my advantage, I thought to myself. I pulled myself together as quickly as I could and responded. “I had a hard time getting to sleep… I kept hearing those weird sounds again…” I tried to focus on what I was looking at. I didn’t want to give him the slightest impression that I could see what was happening. He then got on all fours and began crawling to me. My body completely tensed up and I tried to leave my eyes focused on one central point. So that I would not scream. Its hand extended towards my face and caressed it. Blood streaked across my face as he did it. I pulled back to the wet touch. “Oops, I’m sorry; I forgot to dry my hands after dishes again.” It began to laugh and as it did; its jaw dropped lower and lower almost hitting the floor now. Its breathe then began to reach my nostrils. It smelled of rot and iron. Like a handful of old pennies mixed with decay. Its face then loomed closer. Was it on to me? Had it figured out I could see its monstrous form? “Go back to sleep.” His voice sounded very deep as he guttered the words. Its long hand reached back and gripped another piece of flesh. It brought it to his mouth and began ripping the flesh apart. Small spatters of blood sprayed across the room some even hitting my cheek. “It’s just the rain!” he laughed again, this time almost hysterically. The human quality of his voice almost seemed none existent as he said it this time. It sounded like something words cannot possibly describe. A sound that should not exist in this world. “I’m going to bed now!” my body forced the words out of me. The thing then turned and looked directly at me with its sunken eyes and terrifying mouth. It smiled a smile so sinister it shook my soul. It stretched far and long creating something horror stories could have only conceived. With the final bit of will power I had left, I turned around and ascended the staircase. I could hear the splatters and squishes continuing behind me. As soon as I reached the top of the staircase and turned the corner, I ran for my life. Tears were rolling down my face as I ran for the exit. I escaped with my life and quickly called authorities. I was later informed that the police found no one in the house. The only damning evidence there were pools of blood and flesh belonging to many things. People, cats, rodents, and other assorted animals. The police found the house under no one’s name, and there was no vehicle to find whatsoever. The house technically should not have even existed at all come to find out. There was no address for it, or permit for building the home. The entire situation was clouded in mystery. Besides determining whom the victims were who were mutilated and eaten, the case was closed and nothing was ever brought about from it. By the end of it, nothing made any sense and nothing could rationalize what I saw and experienced. I still do not know why J had taken me in to take care of me. On the other hand, how could a creature like that have a car, house, and luxurious life like the one it had. When I look back at the times I spent with J, none of it seems to make sense. What exactly was going on the entire time that I could not see? I doubt my encounter with the thing at the staircase was the only monstrous act it was committing while I was under its roof. What did it intend to do with me? Did I have some kind of purpose for being there? Was there some alternative goal that I do not know about? Today I am going to find more answers. I have everything packed and ready and I have weapons with me. For if I am to encounter J again I will be ready to fight back. I am going back to the house, and I am going to get answers.


The moment her fingers wrapped around the neck of a guitar instead of around the spine of a book, I knew that the family tradition would die with me. From the moment my twelve year old daughter plucked at those strings for the first time, she was a goner and everybody knew it. Everybody acknowledged it. They even praised her for it. But, according to the whispered rumours flying around the shelves I stocked on a daily basis, I was villain in every story that featured my daughter.

I don’t understand why she won’t support Danica’s music.

All Larissa ever cared about since little Dani was born is their family legacy.

A bookstore owner or a librarian is hardly a profession to be proud of, if you ask me.

Dani’s won so many prestigious awards already.

When will Larisa realise that the poor girl is better off following her dreams than being stuck in this town like all the other women in their family tree?

I never cared much for idle gossip. I found it amusing; a much needed source of amusement for avid readers looking for a more entertaining shopping experience. Hardly anyone in the whole town found the married and bored Mrs Drewby a credible source of information anyway. But on days like those--on days like these --when it all became a bit too much, I would find herself closing my eyes and replaying images of old memories to keep the cold at bay. I would visualise a younger, more enthused Danica running up and down the shelves, dragging me towards a shelf and pointing at a book on the topmost shelf with unwavering adoration.

On days like these, I would watch at the shadows creep into my store through the large glass door and see her walking through the door; her eyes locked onto the shelf pushed against the farthest wall. Her guitar would be slung over her shoulders and her feet would lead her towards her target before the bell can stop ringing to announce her daily arrival. But then I blink, and the memory of my teenage daughter fades away.

I let out a shaky breath and glance back down at the headlines glaring up at me from the wooden surface of the store’s front desk. Upon first glance, they aren’t that different. But the more my gaze glides between them, the more glaringly obvious their differences become. One is printed across a typical, neatly folded Eldrige County newspaper. The other is printed against an A4 sheet of paper with creases along the edges of were it was folded into quarters. One of them has a picture of my daughter on stage with a guitar and an award in her hand. The other has a picture of my daughter and her brother being shielded by my husband as they’re accosted by the paparazi outside a police station. Both of them are dated May 5 th . Both of them were supposedly published from the town’s printing office two days ago, but only one copy circulated this town that morning.

TWENTY YEAR OLD MUSICAL PROTEGE STILL MISSING

MYSTERY BEHIND LARISA LEROUX’S MURDER FINALLY SOLVED

Two very different headlines rest side by side in front of me. I grab hold of the one that doesn’t belong in this town and turn it over. A single question is penned in the elegant strokes of her handwriting. It greets me as soon as I flip over the article she photocopied and slid between the covers of the book on my shelf. After unfolding her note in half, it was the first thing I saw. I’d scoffed as I read it, but that was before I saw my name across the headlines. I look down at her question with new eyes.

Do you believe in a parallel universe too?

I feel a vibration against the side of my thigh. I place the creased note back down on the countertop to unearth my phone from the confines of my jeans. I blink down at the sight of see my husband’s name flashing across the screen for a minute. After blinking away the moisture pooling just above my lower eyelid, I hold the phone up to my ear.

“How’s the search going?” Direct. To the point. The phone calls between myself and the rest of the people Dani left behind have been this way ever since the night she disappeared. I shake my head, my eyes straying to the picture of the musical protege in her shining moment--then to the picture of a girl whose face is gaunt and cast in shadows. “It doesn’t matter where I look, Phillip. There’s no sign of my Dani anywhere.” “We’ll find her soon. I know we will.” I wish that I could say the same. I wish that I had an ounce of his unwavering faith left inside me. I wish that she hadn’t sent me the article.

A moment of silence passes on his end. Then Brent’s voice drifts through the phone. “Where’s the pasta sauce?” “Not now, Brent. I’m on the phone with your mother.” “Hey, mom,” Brent says, his voice significantly louder, “where did you put the pasta sauce?” “Check the cupboard next to the one above the oven, sweetie.”

“It’s been five hours since the search teams headed home,” my husband says, resuming our earlier conversation. “How much longer are you planning on staying out there without taking a break?” “I’m not in Ridgemond right now,” I tell him, making my way around the front desk. As I approached the store’s entrance, I added, “I’m at the bookstore.” “Again?” Brent asks, too surprised to bother hiding the incredulity in his voice. “No offence, mom, but I think the last place you’d find Dani would be at the bookstore.”

The corners of my mouth lift up into a rueful smile despite the empty void expanding in my chest. I’d be lying if I said that thought hadn’t occurred to me. But around a week ago, I realised that her public aversion to the store is what made it the perfect hideout during the day. When everyone in town was out searching the whole continent, it made sense for Dani to hide out in the one place nobody expected her to be. I started leaving notes again, just in case she did indeed wander in when no-one was watching. And then one evening, when I went to check the shelves, the sunset was the most beautiful it had been in weeks--all because of those two glorious words. The sun shone a little brighter each day that I continued to open Charlotte’s Web and unfold one of her notes.

Now that I know the notes hadn’t even been from her to begin with, I don’t know if the sun will ever shine again.

In the background, I can make out the faint beeping of our microwave. I flip the OPEN sign attached to the door to CLOSED when Phillip’s muffled voice reaches my ears. “You’ve been going out of your way to lock up the bookstore a lot lately. Is there something that I should know about?” I cast a glance at the newspaper on front desk; at the battered copy of Charlotte’s Web beside it. “No. Not at all.”

“We promised not to keep secrets in this family, Larisa. Not after the way Dani’s secrets caused her to run away from home.” “She didn’t run away .”

“I’m on my way to join the search,” Phillip informs me. “Come home as soon as you can, okay? I don’t feel comfortable leaving Brent alone, considering everything that’s happened.” “I have one more thing to do and then I’ll head home.”

I hang up and grab hold of the newspaper on the counter. Its pages crinkle in my tightened grip, but I barely pay attention on my way to the photocopier in the back room. I detach the front page away from the rest of the newspaper and find a pen while the machine whirs to life. A million thoughts, a million possible responses, pop into my head before I settle on one. Tearing the cooling sheet of paper away from the machine, I flip it over and scrawl a messy reply. By the time I wedge the battered book onto its perch in the centre of the shelf, some of the weight pressing against my chest eases.

I may have lost all hope that my daughter wants to be found by me, but somewhere out there is a girl who hoped to never stop feeling her mother’s presence.

I may never be able to have the opportunity to tell my Dani just how much I love her and appreciate her music more than any stupid family legacy, but I can make sure that Danica never forgets the feeling of just how much her mother cared about her.

…...

My hands wouldn’t stop trembling.

The moment we received the call about the arrest from the county police--the moment I watched the life drain out of our father’s eyes--I knew we’d have to experience the pain of her death again like a second tidal wave. It wasn’t until we went down to the station today and sat across from mom’s killer that the cold started to creep in under the surface of my skin. We were in two separate rooms. A thick wall of glass separated us from her murderer. If he glanced our way, his eyes wouldn’t be able to see anything but his own reflection. His calloused hands wouldn’t be able to reach out and grab me at all, and yet as soon as I raised my eyes to his, I felt like he was looking directly at me. He knew I was there; that we were there to watch the police officers interrogate him again. He stared directly at the glass and recounted every sordid detail of the night he slit my mom's throat with a smile.

Why did you do it, Mr Fitzgerald? She blackmailed me about coming out to the police with my secret. She uncovered the truth about a rumour, you see. Dug her own grave, if you ask me. Would you state what rumour you're referring to for the record? I don't have to. Her daughter knows all about it. Don’t you, Dani?

My hands haven’t stopped shaking since we left the station. No amount of stacking the shelves will get them to stop.

“It’s not your fault.” I glance up from the steaming liquid in the mug my hands are wrapped around to see my dad watching me with a worried crease in his brows. I shake my head, not trusting myself to speak. A hand reaches across the table. I want to flinch away, but he I can feel his shared grief through the contact. He wants to shoulder my burden. He needs to share his own grief at losing his wife.

“It isn’t your fault,” he repeats, his tone firmer, more resolute. “Everyone is entitled to their secrets, Dani. But using his own secrets as a motive for a murder that he committed makes him the one at fault, not you.”

It wasn’t about that. It was about so much more than that. I never told mom a thing about what happened when she was alive, and she took it upon herself to uncover the truth. I didn’t tell her what happened, and it led to her death. I need to make sure I don’t make the same mistake with dad, but every time I think of coming clean, images of all those secret encounters with our neighbour flash through my mind. I can almost feel Mr Fitzgerald pressing his body against mine when no-one else was looking. I can feel his unwanted caresses, his forceful holds. I can hear the rasp in his voice and feel the tears stream down my face every time it happened.

After everything that happened, how can I possibly tell my dad that every time I look at Mr Fitzgerald, all I see a sexual assaulter, not a murderer?

Everyone is entitled to their secrets.

But what if I wanted to start carrying mine around on my sleeve for my family to see?

My dad glances down at his watch with a frown. “I have to head out to work soon.” He looked torn between stepping out the door and keeping an eye on me. I forced a smile and shook my head. “I’ll be fine dad. Go to work.” “Call me if anything happens.”

“I will,” I promise. And strangely, despite everything, I meant to keep my promise.

The moment he walked out the door, the shadows started to creep back into the bookstore. Nobody had entered all afternoon. The townsfolk were probably giving me the time and space that my father practically yelled at them to give. I finish my tea in an attempt to chase away the cold settling inside me. When the last rays of sunshine completely disappear over the horizon, I drag myself over to the shelf and grab hold of Charlotte’s Web. A page folded into quarters slides out of the book and onto my waiting palm. The headline of a newspaper from May 5 th  stares up at me--" Twenty Year Old Musical Protege Still Missing" --and proves what I already guessed about mom being from an alternate universe. I flip her note over, expecting to see a lengthy explanation about how she, too, used to tell Danica all about her conspiracy theories every time she made pancakes on a Sunday morning. What I read is something completely different, yet very much needed. I don't realise just how much I needed to hear the words until they were scrawled in her handwriting for me to discover.

I never had the chance to tell my daughter how much I love her before I disappeared. If your mother was anything like me, she didn’t care about the family legacy at all. Don’t hold on to the pain of losing me for too long, my Danica. I’ll always be here if you need to talk, but if you’re keeping any more secrets from Brent or from dad, take a chance and trust them with your secrets. Your family will always love you no matter what. I will always love you, no matter what happened to you or who you become one day. Au revoir, ma fille.

Love, Mom

The pressure against my chest vanishes the more I read over her words. I feel the beginning of a genuine smile start to spread across my face. I feel something akin to hope for the future start to blossom within me. It's a feeling I thought I'd lost the ability to experience. And although she signs her note goodbye, it’s been so long since I heard my mother speak French to me that the simple phrase-- Goodbye, my girl-- chases away the cold I haven’t been able to shake off for weeks.

I reach into my pocket and unearth my phone. I press my finger against his name before I can even consider talking myself out of what I’m about to do. Because mom is right. My family doesn’t know a thing about what really happened and Brent still hugged me on his way back to school. Dad stayed behind all afternoon to make sure I was okay.

My family loves me regardless of the little they know.

He answers on the third ring. “Danica?” I click on the button that connects Brent to our call. He answers almost immediately. “What’s going on?” he asks, no doubt noticing I have him on a joint call with dad.

“There’s something I need to tell the both of you. It’s about Mr Fitzgerald, and what he did to me for months.”


Sisters I will not shoot an unarmed woman. She’s not unarmed, she’s holding a nail-gun. It’s not a real gun though. What part of ‘nail-gun’ makes you think that’s not a gun? … A strange, strangled scream from the bedroom. The door burst open. Good morning my love, coffee? Fuck off! What…? I said fuck off! No coffee, no fucking cornflakes.

He blinked. She slammed the front door behind her. … A nail-gun can’t hurt anyone at this distance. It’s a powder-actuated model. What? It’s powder-actuated. As in gunpowder? As in gunpowder. You can tell because there’s no battery, no power cable and no compressed air tube. Also I just know. Cripes. It can shoot a hardened nail through three inches of concrete. Terminal velocity over 400 metres a second. Do you know the terminal velocity of a bullet from a .22 rifle? Nuh. 330 metres a second. Oh. They’re not accurate though. Correct, numpty. As in the nail could end up anywhere in the general direction of here. Why is she so mad at the old woman? Dunno. She keeps yelling something to do with DNA. … His phone rang. He slid off the breakfast bar stool and slipped it from his jeans pocket. Hi Maria. Yes, well, it wasn’t what you’d call a conversation. More a short burst of personal abuse and then a slammed door. Well, as I have no idea what the problem is, I also have no idea where she might have gone. Hold on… He walked to the window. Yes, good guess. That was the squeal of the tyres on my Beamer as someone in a REALLY bad mood took off up the street. Well, I heard her phone ring a minute before she left then she made some weird noise. She just had on her denim shorts, one of my white shirts, which is embarrassingly see-through, and her pink trainers.

Huh? No, look, she’s your sister. Not much I can do except hope she doesn’t trash my car. Maybe put out an all-cars alert on a stolen BMW? I dunno, you’re the copper, you sort it out. She called you? Why? Thought she’d called your mother? Hung up on you? Yes, sorry I keep asking questions back at you. Has she always been that volatile? She only moved in a few weeks ago and I’ve never seen anything like this. I thought we were as sweet as. … Do we know who the other woman is? Not yet. She’s a bit older eh. A lot older I’d say. Why would you take an old woman hostage? Whoa. Watch it! The gun has come up. No, it’s gone down again. She seems to know how to use it which is strange. You have to be trained to use one of those. They are really yelling at each other aren’t they. They certainly aren’t the best of friends today. When are the HQ lot due? 15 to 20 minutes I think. She’s Sergeant Broom’s sister you know. He nodded. How can we tell if she’ll use the nail-gun? We don’t. But if she holds it up again, let off a warning shot. … Hi Maria, you again. No, she never said anything about you and me. She’s known about that from the start and it was never a problem. No we never talked about you. I moved in with her. I didn’t take that step with you. She always seemed reassured by that. Also you and me was years ago. Yes she did the DNA test a few weeks ago. She was expecting the results any day now. She’s done what? Your mother? Bloody hell. Oh. The nail-gun? Bloody hell. Well, I showed it to her, but she didn’t actually shoot it. No. All right, yes I showed her how it works. Why all the questions about the nail gun? It was in the boot of the car. It belongs to the company. No I am the one trained to use it and they don’t like to leave it on site. Yes, for attaching serious kit to masonry and concrete. Oh shit… Yes, I’ll be here. Are you coming or… yes of course. I’ll be out front. … Sergeant Broom pulled up at the miniature train station in the police car with a constable in the front passenger seat and Harvey Lister in the back. They jumped out of the car and ran up to the local constables who had been watching the two women argue noisily on the pedestrian bridge over the miniature railway line. Harvey look at his BMW parked nearby but it didn’t seem to have any dings. Long skid marks on the tarmac leading to the tyres. Mum comes here for a walk every morning. Guess that’s why she came here – to find her. Oh put the fucking gun down constable. She’s not going to shoot anyone. Screaming and yelling. The nail gun raised in the air. A massive BANG as it went off. A scream from the woman holding it as the recoil bashed it back into her shoulder. It fell from her hand and she dropped onto her backside holding her shoulder, and began to sob. Her mother looked down at the others and waved Maria up. Maria walked up onto the little bridge and spoke to her mother while her sister sobbed. A look of horror swept over Maria’s face. She walked back to Harvey and the coppers while the mother comforted her daughter on the bridge. You should leave now she said to the two local constables. Thank you for attending. Please send me a report so I can report to HQ. What happened? It’s personal. Please go now. They walked to their car, casting a few curious glances at the family tableau. She looked at the constable who had come with her. Please wait in the car. His eyebrows raised, then he nodded and walked back to the cruiser. She turned to Harvey. Did you know you were adopted? Yes, I always knew, he said. How do you know? What has that…? Never wanted to look up your birth parents? Well I had my DNA tested years ago but nothing came of it so I haven’t even looked in recent years. So on Ancestry you are Harvey Lister? Yes, of course, why..? Gaynor had her DNA tested recently. Yes? She paused, looked at the ground, looked back up at him, his broad shoulders, long hair, those pale blue eyes. “She is…we are…your sisters.”


*Author's note: Wholesome short about being at Pride for the first time. There's not much of an actual plot. Just a little something fun to get ready for June.* The sun beats down on us, arms already slick with sweat as we arrive at the vast park downtown. It is almost the end of June in Florida which means Alex is passing around the bottle of sunscreen they always carry in their oversized bag. Out of solidarity with Alex, I slather some all over my exposed arms and legs even though it would take hours in the sun for me to burn the way Alex does in ten minutes. Alex readjusts their They/Them pronoun pin from last year’s Pride on their rainbow tank top and pushes back their short red curls back with a bandana. Stephanie refuses the bottle, shaking her head. She doesn’t even try to humble Alex. She makes a point in telling us she was made for the sun. I hand back the bottle and we stand there taking each other in. I already feeling sticky and disgusting before we have even done anything.

“Are you ready to experience your first Pride, Mira?” Alex asks. I shift nervously, thumbing the straps of my backpack. Alex and Stephanie have been going to Pride since they were in high school. I felt like I didn’t belong, so I never asked anyone to go with me. I felt too straight to go as someone part of the community and too gay to go as just an ally. I still haven’t figured out if the imposter syndrome is a natural part of being bisexual or if it stems from constantly being questioned about my history like I’m supposed to always carry a pass with me that would offer an acceptable answer.

“I’m nervous. There’s already too much to look at but we just got here,” I answer. There are booths of art, food, and activities everywhere in the grassy area of the park. By the fountain there are groups of people trying to seek refuge on the park benches barely shaded under the trees. There is cornhole and an embarrassing group of people holding signs saying we are all living in sin being shouted at by a bigger group of people here to enjoy Pride.

“Don’t look over there,” Alex says grabbing me by the shoulders and swiveling my body so I’m looking at Stephanie instead of the protesters. Alex is now trying to block them out of my view with their body. “This is a safe space.” “Wait until the parade starts,” Stephanie says laughing. “That’s when the real fun starts.” Her hair is tied into two knots on her head. She’s dressed in the colors of the lesbian flag, incorporating the colors with her eyeshadow and lipstick. Most of her torso is showing and the spray on body glitter glistens on her skin. She looks so beautiful and ready to take on the day. Alex, cool and comfortable. Then there’s me feeling like the outsider. My clothes don’t scream look at me with the muted shades of magenta, purple, and blue that look more like a coincidence than a statement of an identity I am still figuring out.

We start walking around, grabbing everything that is handed to us as we follow the sound of music blaring from a stage somewhere on the other side of the park. I feel mesmerized by all the different people, outfits, and colors. So many people are walking around holding hands and almost everyone is smiling. I don’t think I have ever been somewhere with so many people where almost all of them looked so happy to be with those around them. I feel less self-conscious as I see more people wearing outfits that make me feel less like I missed the mark for the occasion. But a part of me still feels like someone will ask me what I’m doing here if I stray too far away from Alex and Stephanie. “Ooh this looks fun,” I say, pulling away from our little line, expecting them to follow me. I bee line toward a pit full of soap bubbles that are bubbling out from all sides of the sectioned off area. There are people laughing and singing as they build shapes out of the bubbles. This is like living out a childhood dream of filling the bathtub with too much soap, turning the bathroom into a castle of bubbles. It’s silly but makes my heart warm up and distracts me from my worries. I turn my attention away from Alex and Stephanie as I wade through the bubbles. Someone smiles at me and puts a crown of bubbles gently on my hair. I return the gesture with a sad little handful of bubbles I grab from a pile next to me. We share a laugh as they continue handing bubbles to everyone they walk by.

I forget where I am for a while taking in the happiness radiating around me. I can hear the music and smell the food, the outdoors, and the beauty products. I get lost in the moment smiling at everyone who smiles at me. We don’t have to talk or ask questions. We are just all here in this moment together. We made it. We are here.

I realize Alex and Stephanie are nowhere in sight. There are people all around me but none of them look familiar. I twirl, trying to remember which way I came from, but I feel disoriented. I’m covered in bubbles that now tickle my skin. The mixture of soap, sunscreen, and sweat begin to make my skin crawl. I panic realizing I have never been here before and most likely won’t get a text back from Alex or Stephanie if I send either of them a message. Neither of them checks their phones every five minutes like I do. I have to find them.

Suddenly someone grabs my hand gently as if to say

It’s okay, I’m here, pulling me out of the bubble pit as I try to get out.

“Raven pronouns she/her,” she says smiling immediately. She has two long braids running down her back and glitter make up dusted across her face. She lets go of my hand and readjusts the trans flag draped across her back. “You looked like you were starting to have a panic attack so I thought you could use some help.” “Thanks, I’m Mira. Also, she/her. This is my first time at Pride, and I lost my friends after getting distracted by the soap bubbles. I couldn’t help myself,” I say starting to laugh as I calm down. She doesn’t look like she came out of the bubble pit so she must have seen me as they walked by. “I’m carrying this for my brother Clay while he eats. He’s not the best at multitasking.” Clay is trailing behind her and waves a hand at me with a paper plate in the other and mouth full of fried dough. His glasses slightly fogged up from the heat rising off the funnel cake.

“I’m here as an ally and supporter,” Raven continues. “And because it’s a lot of fun.” Clay wipes one of his hands off and pulls a few beaded necklaces off from around his neck. “To match your outfit and make it a little festive,” he says putting a pink, purple, and blue necklace around my neck.

“We were going to watch them set up the parade cars. Do you want to sit with us before we look for your friends?” Raven asks. I nod and follow them. Happy to be on the quieter side of the park for a few minutes. I already feel better with the breeze coming off the water. The parade vehicles are lined up on a long road that runs through an empty section of the park along the water. A few people are sitting on the stones that look out into the ocean.

“Look!” Raven shouts as she grabs my hand again to pull me closer to the edge. I tear my eyes away from the parade in progress and see dolphins swimming back and forth. Everyone sitting down exclaims with excitement and brings out their phones to capture the moment. I send a quick blurry picture to Alex and Stephanie hoping they will see it and find me before it’s too late. We sit down in the grass and watch them talking about anything and everything but not once questioning why we are here. The dolphins a wholesome addition to the beauty of everything else around me.

* “We finally find you!” I hear Alex exclaim behind me. I turn around to wave Alex and Stephanie over.

“I made some new friends,” I say smiling at Raven and Clay.

“I’m so proud of you!” Alex claps as they greet Clay and Raven before sitting down in the grass with us. “Maybe we should lose you more often on our outings. Me and Stephanie clearly aren’t meeting anyone else.” Stephanie sits down too, her hands full of more stickers, buttons, and bracelets. They both look a little red and a little tired. Alex’s bag stuffed to capacity and powdered sugar is lightly dusted on the front of their shirt, matching Clay. While I was busy being lost from them it looks like they had their own adventure.

“We befriended Mira. Three of us is plenty but we can make an exception for today,” Stephanie says. All five of us watch the water, the dolphins having returned into the depths of the ocean. We enjoy the shade of the tree and the quiet until the parade starts. The worries I had when I first arrive might come back, but for now, I can just enjoy the moment being a little lost and a little found.


Sarah Jackson held the small leather journal against her chest excitedly as she nearly skipped her way out the campus. The words of her physics professor, Adrian De la Rosa, were still fresh in her mind, none of which had anything to do with the subject.

The young woman had found a kindred spirit with the older man the moment he’d begun to share his fascination with the world of spiritualism and how he utilized his expertise in the field of science and applied it to the world of magic.

Every end of his class, Adrian would take some time to share with his students his vision of the world with passion and fervor. And while everyone listened, very few gave merit to his words, content with having half an hour spent in anything else other than the college's curriculum.

Yet that soon differed. It had promised to be another typical lecture about the balance and order of the universe up until the man had produced a small leather bound journal from his jacket, the very same that now in her possession. As soon as Adrian had brought out the journal, everyone's attention was focused on him, the air shifting inside the classroom to something akin to shock and awe, but also fear. And for the first time since their professor had begun to impart with them his beliefs they listened, hanging from every single word the moment he’d uttered two words.

Astral projection. It had caught everyone off guard, Sarah being the most affected by it. The words sent a pleasurable shock of electricity straight to her brain. The older man handed the small journal to his students, instructing them to pass it along as he began explaining what the concept of astral projection entailed, detailing the process that went into reaching a paradoxical state of mind -both dreaming and awake- required to partake in such a practice. And with each excited and fascinated explanation, Adrian continued to assure his students that it all related back to Plato's old school of thought about the true world resting above theirs; the world of ideas . By the time Sarah was finally handed her professor's journal the bell rang, signaling the end of today's classes. One by one, her peers trickled out the classroom as they often did, talking excitedly amongst themselves as they left. Sarah herself purposefully moved slowly, eager for the moment where only herself and the professor remained.  When the last of her classmates had left, Sarah mustered enough courage to approach the older man. Dozens of questions poured out of her mouth before she had time to give them order, allowing for very little breathing room in between. Yet Adrian seemed unbothered by her excitement.

The man smiled fondly at her despite Sarah not noticing in her feverish questionnaire. It wasn’t until the man had uttered two singular words that her questions were brought to an end. “Take it.” Adrian had offered sincerely. Sarah was at a loss for words, unable to process what had just been said and resulting in it being repeated once more.

Soon confusion turned into pure delight as the words finally settled in. Sarah wondered if there had been a gleeful gleam in her eyes with the way Adrian's flashed with recognition and pride. That was how the journal had come into her possession. Everything afterward seemed miniscule in comparison. Sarah could barely hold her excitement in, spoiling herself to a few entries before reaching the privacy and safety of her apartment. Yet another emotion lingered at the back of her mind, gnawing away every second she’d spent reading the journal. Fear . Her heart raced with eagerness as soon as she reached what appeared to be one of the more detailed travels, her fingers caressing the worn pages as she read about a seemingly infinite and ever shifting city of white sand and salt where shadows old and new coexisted in harmony. The usual transit time Sarah endured each trek to Kabata university and back appeared to be non-existent, easing her mind until she finally reached her destination.

By the time she’d crossed the threshold, Sarah plunged her room into darkness, perturbed at the idea of prying and curious eyes questioning her on what it was she was about to do. A soft short lived breeze cooled her face as the pages were turned until they were back at the beginning, where a series of experimental first projections from her teacher had been recorded until a considerable success had been achieved.

Eighteen. It had taken professor Adrian eighteen attempts before he'd reached the fabled world of ideas, and with some luck she'd be able to reach it in her first try. It all came down to whether or not she followed her professor's established rules perfectly, though the consequences that were constantly implied at the end of each entry remained unclear to her. Even then, the night couldn't come quickly enough. Utilizing what little sunlight remained, Sarah accommodated her bedroom for the coming night while familiarizing herself with the rules that came from interacting with the world above theirs. By the time the blue summer sky turned black and the stars began to glimmer into existence, that initial delight and excitement was slowly fading away. She couldn't explain why, but Sarah was overcome by this oppresive fear of the darkness in the corners of her apartment. It was as if a thousand eyes watched her every move from every miniscule shadow that the light could not dispell, the feeling only growing more unbearable the closer she was to finalizing the necessary arrangements for the projection. Sarah was beginning to get cold feet, but still pushed on.

It was difficult to ignore the feeling of being stalked like prey when she settled into her bed.

She could sense the invisible eyes burning through her behind the blouse covering her eyes, she felt as they pierced her flesh until they were staring right at her soul. Whispers and murmurs echoed in the dark, hidden beneath the white noise of the soft pitter patter of the rain playing through her speaker. None of the rules Adrian had written in his journal had spoken of such things, but the fear of stopping now, of taking the blind off and seeing the dark, of seeing what it was that stalked her inside of it made her continue with the rite.

Soon the cacophony of sound and sensations reached its maddening crescendo and Sarah screamed desperately in an attempt to drown them out in her own sound and pain.

She wanted out, wanted to rush out her apartment and into whatever light she could find. The journal could burn for all she cared, her interest in that which remained unseen be damned, tainted by the sentient darkness.

She was this close to taking the blind off when she saw it. It was dim at first, barely noticeable, but all her attention was placed on it as a last attempt to ignore the horrors she had unwillingly invited inside her room. A light, not of her room, shone beautifully, bathing her in colorful hues she could not begin to describe or understand, only admire for its beauty.

Suddenly, the darkness exploded with that impossible light, yet it did not blind her, instead filling her with warmth as the terror that consumed her no more than a few moments ago melted away.

The entries could not do the sensation any justice, for there were no words in existence that could even begin to describe the ethereal. The whispers were gone now, and so too was the feeling of being watched. It seemed as if they had retreated under the might of her protection's light, acting as a shield to the lurking darkness that accompanied the cosmos. Still, the prior run-in with such a bizarre and paralyzing nightmare would be impossible to forget, even when witnessing a beauty beyond words.

Poor Sarah wished she could have at least caught a glimpse of the shifting citadel of sand, or the howling forest even, instead she now found herself wishing she’d never been offered the book in the first place. The experience now tainted and distasteful.

She tried to stir awake, forever done with the unknown, yet as she hoped for the bright light to subside and let the dark of the cloth take a hold once more, the storm of colors only grew in its intensity. Sarah continued to fight the pull of the light to no avail, growing panicked when the world shifted beneath her. Something dark and humid slithered all around her, moving over each other as snakes yet flowing seamlessly like a river. The tendrils creaked and snapped as they kept expanding, snaring her feet where she stood. The feeling was harsh against her exposed skin, scraping away small bits of flesh with every minuscule movement she made. Wood . Sarah thought in surprise. The empty space had been overtaken with a sea of roots.

Sarah had thought that perhaps she had been rewarded with the sight of the howling forest, yet that possibility died as quickly as it had spawned. There was something different from what the book had described, and even if she’d hadn’t read the entity the sensation of wrongness would have lingered still.

Life was often related to the image of trees, but such a concept was not transmitted by that thing. Whatever it was, it used that image mockingly, twisting it with its vile nature. Appearing more like thorns than roots. The ground suddenly shook, pulling her away from her musings. The world shifted again, and the sea of thorns parted like the red sea under the tremor's might. And from the newly formed pit, large figures shifted within. Sarah squinted her eyes in hopes of getting a better look, but it was like staring at a static screen. A thousand lines moved from within, but she was slowly starting to make out some silhouettes from inside the darkness.

She counted two, maybe three large humanoid bodies wriggling from within as they continued to ascend. Their bodies convulsing as the thorns convulsed, spasming violently as the black thorns snaked across their bodies like veins. It wasn’t long before Sarah could see the divine bodies more clearly, their white emancipated bodies sat proudly on their thrones.

What might have been a proud and powerful race now laid dead before her, their carcasses towering over the corrupted world were thorns now reigned supreme. Her mind cowered at the thought of something celestial dying, of it being possibly killed. Sarah suddenly turned her head to the side, swearing that something, someone had been standing beside her. A voice echoed inside her mind, speaking her name urgently before vanishing just as the figure had done.

Then a new voice told hold of her brain, speaking her name with a more mocking and vicious undertone. Sarah. Sarah. Sarah… With each uttering, her skull vibrated painfully, bringing her to her knees.

The roots from the bodies shifted once more, the dead gods collapsing from their thrones as the thorns escaped from the corpse’s frame, leaving only a hollow shell behind. The sentient roots converged above the three thrones, creating a mass of snaking wooden tendrils that expanded and fell in on itself. The voice kept growing louder inside her mind, driving her closer to the edge of madness. And as the mass of roots kept becoming larger and larger, flashes of a creature birthed of thorns invaded her mind, its branching arms burrowing themselves as roots into countless worlds as the one she was standing in, a sea of dead gods laying at its wake. Join us. Join us. Join us. Join me. Be whole with me. Sarah kept desperately trying to wake herself from the projection to no avail, her mind too overwhelmed to properly focus back to her physical body. She continued to try over and over again, meeting with failure each time, provoking the cruel laughter of the demonic being. Then, like a miracle sent from the heavens, Sarah felt the connection with her anchoring body. It was a barely noticeable connection, but it was a connection nonetheless. Eager to escape the clutches of the monstrous thorn god, Sarah let herself be taken by the same warmth that had enveloped her when the rite began. The nightmare finally appeared to be coming to an end, yet as she began to breathe easy again the amalgamation of roots shifted once more. She'd barely any time to scream when she felt her body be pierced by a thousand needles. Her skin bulged outward as the smaller roots turned her body into their new home, threatening to tear at it with their violent thrashing. By the time the pain finally settled in her mind, her vocal chords had already been cut by the thorns growing inside her. And as the darkness overtook her no last time, the voice whispered into every crevice in her mind eight words that sealed humanity’s fate as she felt herself finally return to her body. Together. Freedom.

Together. Awake. Together. Nothingness. Together. Rebirth.


Once upon a time, long, long ago and far, far away there was a little bird. And the little bird loved to fly high above the trees. All through the hot summer days, the bird soared and dipped and dived. She found such joy in the spread of her wings and the feel of the wind in her feathers. She would weave in and out of the full branches, feeling the brush of the leaves along her wings. Hearing the songs of her companions. Feeling so full of life and bustling with energy. And time passed. As the bird flew, the leaves changed their colors, and the skies clouded over. There was a briskness in the air that hadn't been there before. And still, the bird took to the skies every chance she could. She dipped among the many-colored leaves and gloried as they fluttered around her, falling to the ground. She smelled the distant scent of smoke and saw the fruits and vegetables ripen and be harvested. Soon, the trees had lost all their leaves leaving their branches bare. The sun hid behind the ever-present clouds and the sky was dark. The snow fell. Lightly at first, then with greater urgency. The snow piled around the base of the tress, muffling the sounds of the forest. Hiding the beauty under a blanket of white. The chill air hurt the bird as she flew through it. The deep breaths that had brought her the summer-fresh breezes and the crisp autumn winds took a cruel turn. The coldness if the wind bit into her skin as she continued her flight. Her heart became as heavy as the sky now. The efforts it took to flap her wings and lift herself into the sky made her very bones ache. But on she flew. With an ache in her bones and a chill through to her skin. On she flew. Until, one day, she just… couldn’t. The bird landed. So tired and so cold from the winter, from the abuse of the elements. She landed, shivering, on a bare branch, nestling in close to the trunk of the tree. And she rested. But soon, as she rested, she noticed, next to her in the branch, a tiny little bud. And as she rested, she noticed a slim shaft of light breaking through the clouds and warming her. And each day, as she rested, more buds blossomed around her, and the shaft of light grew brighter and stronger. The buds turned to fragrant blossoms and bright, fresh leaves. The forest, shaking off the chill of the winter, was starting to come alive around her. And as she rested, *she* grew stronger. And one day, when she had rested, she stretched out her wings again. And with a strong flap, she lifted back into the skies. Braver for the winter she had endured. Stronger for the time she had rested. And wiser for the time that had passed. But still, she took to the air, rising on the currents. And she dipped and she dived, and she flew, and her heart again soared.


Cupid is striking hot!

Dear readers, Just when everyone thought we would be having a quiet summer, nope, it does not look that way, especially on Chestnut Way. Things are heating up. Majorly, actually. And folks, it’s guaranteed to be “hotter than July!” News has it that our “on-again-and-off-again lovebirds,” aka the mysterious Mr. M and the bright Ms. E, were caught in some kind of love triangle. Yes, you read that right! We all have taken notice of Mr. M’s ways: low key, speaks little, but a total party boy. Oh boy, the man can throw the loudest and most lavish parties at his mansion. If you have been lucky enough to attend one of them, you would know what we mean. Anyways, he seems to have been caught two nights ago with another woman, late in the evening. The two looked very close. But no one knows who she was. Ms. E was nowhere in sight. No one had seen the platinum blonde with bright neon-colored clothes anywhere close by. So, speculations have started…..obviously! This is what can be said for now. The new couple was seen leaving the Plaza hotel holding hands. It was close to two in the morning. Maplewood, being such a tight-knit community where everyone knows everyone, can be particularly explosive. We asked the staff of the hotel, and the bellman was the first to respond, “With all due respect, sir, I do not recall seeing these guests leaving our property last night.” At the reception, the same response. Even among the other hotel staff—and there were many—including the housekeeping service, no one seemed to know about this mysterious woman. It looked as if she appeared at the door, they got in a car that was waiting for them, and off they went. Oh snap! Things are heating up in Maplewood. Dear readers, Since our last column, no one has yet seen the mysterious woman who was seen leaving the Plaza a few days ago with Mr. M. We will now start referring to her as Ms. A. Ever since it happened, we have been asking about her. Some people who saw them leaving the hotel lobby said she was part of Mr. M’s entourage. They had dinner together, just the two of them, and they kept holding hands throughout the entire meal. He had ordered steak and she only had a salad. But the champagne, the Dom Perignon, kept pouring. Suddenly, the waiter got a sign that they were leaving. After that, it was a blur for everyone. Known for their loyalty to all their guests, the staff at the Plaza have been tight-lipped ever since. This was the only thing we know from them. Since the two were caught leaving the hotel late at night, there were not many people who could have possibly seen them. Upon some investigations, there are multiple sources that came forward with a version of the story. Maplewood is not such a big place after all! More soon! Mystery on Acord Street Dear readers, The saga continues in Maplewood. A young man driving by on the evening of the infamous night out confided that he had seen Mr. M having a heated argument with Ms. E in the park. This was a few hours before the incident. He was shouting at her and at some point, she slapped him and took off. He tried to run after her, but then gave up. Out of frustration, he was seen throwing his cap on the ground and walking to his car. Meanwhile, one of Ms. E’s neighbors said she had seen her leaving the next morning, with two big suitcases that she could barely carry. This made her wonder what she could have been carrying and what may have been inside. Then, she assumed she was leaving town after the scandal and heading to her parents' house in the Hamptons to cool off. They owned a beach property there. This may be the reason why a delivery man also said that Ms. E seemed to have vanished. He had tried to deliver a package at her home the day after the incident. He rang the bell several times and no one answered. Her housekeeper, who is generally the one who comes to the door, was nowhere in sight. So, he left the box by the door. At the local Starbucks, the owner would not say a word. When asked, he could only say, “This is none of my business, but the three seemed quite tight when they last came in here to get coffee.” No one else seems to have seen them, but he is adamant this happened shortly after the incident. So for now, all three seem to be missing in action and the lights at Mr. M’s mansion have been off. Have they suddenly left town? Look out for our next update, soon. When there is smoke… Dear readers, Just when we thought that the local news was only fake news, things are re-heating again. As the saying goes, “when there is smoke, there is fire!” We eventually caught up with Mr. M and he has been tight-lipped but with a smirk on his face. Ms. E. seems to be frequently going to the local bookstore, skipping the Starbucks, and looking contemplative. Meanwhile, Ms. A, whose identity has now been revealed to us, seems to be the life of every social event, almost as if she's enjoying this new attention. All of this leaves us to think, just as the local baker said, "I think Mr. M dropped something more than a muffin." Also overheard the librarian murmuring, “Books aren’t the only things checked out here!” Up to you to fill in the blanks on these comments. When there is a way… Dear readers, When there is a way, there is certainly a will...and perhaps a little thrill! Now, one might wonder if Ms. E's contemplative bookstore visits are more about chapter turning than just book learning. Or if Ms. A's newfound zest for social gatherings is a recipe for a story sweeter than any dessert the local baker could whip up. They say still waters run deep, so keep your eyes peeled and your imaginations running wild, because it looks like this tale is just getting started—and who knows what juicy details might tumble out next! What really happened on that fateful Friday night? Only time—and perhaps a few too many espressos—will tell. Until the next slice of scandal, keep your mugs full and your rumors spiced!


#Welcome to Roundtable Thursday! Writing is so much fun, but it can also be very challenging. Luckily, there are so many other writers out there going through the exact same things! We all have unique skills and areas in which we excel, as well as places we’d like to improve. So I’d like to present a brand new weekly feature. This will be a weekly thread to discuss all things writing! And… to get to know your fellow writers a bit! Each week I will provide a topic and/or a few questions to spark discussion. Feel free to chime into the discussion in the comments, talk about your experiences, ask related questions, etc. You do not have to answer all the questions, but try to stay on-topic! *** #This Week’s Roundtable Discussion **This week I want to talk about Focus. For me, it’s one of the most important parts about writing but also one of the most difficult. What I need to help me stay focused on writing is quiet and comfort but you might need something different. So this week’s question is:** **What helps you focus on your writing?** #Introduce Yourself: - **We’d like to know more about you! How long have you been writing? What’s your favorite genre to play in? Your favorite book? Anything! Let us know in the comments!** *** #Reminders - **Use the comments below to answer the questions and reply to others’ comments.** - **Please be civil in all your responses and discussion.** There are writers of all levels and skills here and we’re all in different places of our writing journey. Uncivil comments/discussion in any form will not be tolerated. - **Please try to stay on-topic.** If you have suggestions for future questions and topics, you can add them to the stickied comment or send them to me via DM or modmail! *** ###Subreddit News and Happenings - Come practice your micro skills on or experiment with long-form writing on - You can also post serials directly to the sub! Check out for more information.


I’m in a ditch, lying in a crater of my own making. Glass mixed with leaves and bracken on the floor, the heavy weight of machinery crushing the soft, wet earth that always supported me so well. I’m scratched by gently-swaying branches; I always wondered what they felt like as they blurred past me on brighter days. An animal sits poised as it watches me, illuminated only by the last remaining bright thing, me. The world oscillates gently in the wind, but not me. I am still. A wheel sticks up at an angle, like I used to see cats do when they thought nothing was watching. The familiar weight that always pulls me downwards is somehow different; like I’m on a hill, but much worse. Rain spatters where there used to be windows, gently soaking into my seats where people should be. I like rain, but not like this; rain should be on the outside, and the inside should be dry. The inside should be safe. It’s quiet, at last. The fear, the lights, the panicked voices have all disappeared into the distance over the hill, on some other road to be swallowed up by the clouds. I never saw the corner coming, but I see it clearly now, even in my dim glow. I see the wet earth, the oh-so familiar texture that shook me and took me by surprise. Having navigated so many miles, what a strange thing to end on. I remember them now. I remember their faces, I know them so well. I remember Dad, so excited to bring me home to show Mum and Chloe what he bought for them. I was so excited to meet them, so excited for all the adventures we would have together. They all knew that Mum was heavier because she was carrying Sophie like I carried them, but I didn’t know that then. They never knew that I knew them, but I could feel them. I could feel their comforting weight, their warmth, their excitement to see the world with me. I love taking them places, I am so very lucky to be theirs. Dad takes care of me like I’m always brand new, and keeps me company on a Sunday afternoon. One day, Dad forgot to close the window in the car wash, and Chloe squealed in delight as the water flicked through the hole, soaking us all. I remember that day, I had wet seats that day too. But not like this. That water was warm, the lights were on, Dad was happy and laughing, even if a bit annoyed with himself. That was my favourite day, we all shared a joke together for the first time. Mum would say the most interesting things, especially when Dad wasn’t around. I would listen as we drove, she would tell stories to Chloe, and then sometimes to herself when she thought there was nobody else listening. I remember the time she cried on her own by the shops, and I cried with her. I kept her warm, until we turned around and I took her back to Dad and Chloe. Dad was sat on the driveway, and looked so relieved to see us back home. I was part of the family, and I knew I was so lucky. The rain is beating harder. Another car drives past, slowing to look at me before disappearing off into the night. I’m growing heavier, the light is fading. One of my lights is buried in the mud, the other sticking up awkwardly in a futile attempt to illuminate the clouds. Dad taught Chloe the word illuminate, I love illuminating. I never thought I’d get to illuminate clouds. Chloe is my favourite. Dad would take us to the drive through on Thursday nights while Mum was at work, and I’d keep them both warm as she told Dad about her day. Chloe loves Thursday nights with Dad, and so do I. Dad is such a good listener, and always tells Chloe he’s proud of her, and that as long as she does her best, everything would be okay. I remember the night Sophie arrived. I was so clean, packed and ready for my very important. Dad was so calm in the traffic on the way to the hospital, but Mum kept making noises until we pulled over. Very soon, I was carrying three people. They were busy, scared, relieved, but I knew they were grateful for me. I knew Mum had done something important in carrying Sophie around, and I knew I was important for carrying them around, too. I don’t understand why Sophie walking was such a big deal; they don’t need to walk, I’d take them anywhere in the world. But when she could, Dad brought us to the beach, and I watched the seagulls as they ate ice cream and Chloe made sandcastles with Sophie. A seagull pooed on me, and Chloe laughed and laughed, but I knew Dad would take care of it on Sunday afternoon, like he always does. We were a long way from home, so we huddled together for warmth when the clouds came and started our long journey back. The rain came as we drove; I don’t know why they’re always so worried about the rain. I can keep them safe from the rain. I was watching the branches, the corner came from nowhere, and the earth moved underneath me in a new, scary way. We all made noises we had never made before, the world spun until I landed in the crater of my own making, but I kept them safe. I took the force of the earth just like I’m supposed to do, and gave them the airbags that I know I can only use once. It was over very fast, and now it’s cold, and it’s quiet, but I know I did my best. We didn’t have chance to say goodbye, but I won’t forget them, and I don’t think they’ll forget me. I hope Chloe never forgets me. I’m so lucky to have seen such lovely things. The sun is rising, but my light is nearly out, and I’m nearly one with the earth. The animal disappears into the bushes. I love them. I kept them safe. I did my best, just like Dad said. Everything is okay.


“So, what’s the catch?” “No catch, man, it’s just like I told ya.” “Really? When it’s too good to be true, well, you know, it usually is.” “I’m being straight with ya, man. This ain’t like that Nigerian Prince scam ya get in your fax machine. No, no. This is one hundred percent, full disclosure, top notch, no bullshit stuff I’m talkin’ ‘bout here.” “Okay, so let me ask. Why me? How’d you land on my sorry ass, huh? What, am I on the cover of Gullible Magazine this month?”

“C’mon, nothing like that, I’m just trying to do you a solid, that’s all. It’s all above board, nothing sketchy. Honestly, hand to God, it’s for real. So am I.”

Harry pushed the stool back from his makeshift desk, reread the last bit of dialogue and stood, stretching his tall frame side to side until he felt a few cracks and pops in his aging back. After hunching over his computer for over an hour it was good to bend and move. Not bad, not bad, but I don’t know where I’m going with this idea, he thought, scratching his bristly white scalp with chewed fingernails. I’m just letting it flow, stream of consciousness style. Frequently it worked for him and sometimes he didn’t have the foggiest idea what he was going to write about, but after sitting down at the screen, it just came. Often, he would reread what he had just typed and would marvel at where it had come from. It just seems to write itself, he thought.

He found it helpful to begin with the word “So” and go from there. This way, he wasn’t looking at a completely blank page. That can be intimidating. All his blog posts began that way: So. . . .  And so far it seemed to be working for him.

He began his blog about two years ago, after finding himself unemployed, grief stricken and frightful of venturing out into a Covid infected world. It helped fill his day. It helped distract him from his heartache. He would blog about the injustices in the world, about the political and social outrages he saw and read about, and about personal things as well, anecdotes and events he had experienced. It felt good to get them down on paper, well, not paper exactly, he thought, but in writing nonetheless and it was cathartic. Like letters home from a war front or a secret diary hidden by a child, he would record and recount the stories of his life. Of her life. Of theirs.

His blog entries gave way to more fully realized stories, not necessarily about himself. He began to enter writing contests where the idea was to write a story based on a selection of prompts offered up by the website. Just as the “so” of his beginnings acted to jumpstart his creative juices, so did these prompts, leading him to areas he would not otherwise have gone and he was on a roll lately, producing more completed work in the past few months than he had. . . well, ever.

So, what to do with this newest challenge? So, what’s the catch? The “catch” being the crux of this new contest. To start a story with that phrase and explore the possibilities. He didn’t want it to be some Twilight Zone variant, although he did love that old show with its twist endings, but rather wanted something more. . . heartfelt. Not sure. I’ll stop thinking about it and let my subconscious work on it, he thought, and lay down on the leather couch for a nap, chiding himself that it was some kind of research.

As he slept the dreams came, as they always did. His wife. Her face, her laugh, her final breaths. They were the kind of dreams that he both wanted and dreaded. Sad and heart wrenching to relive moments of their lives together, but also happy for the chance to do so. To see her in his mind, hold her there, trace the curve of her face with his sleeping fingers. Breathe her in. He would have breathed for her if he could at the end, but the virus would have none of it. It was her ventilator that kissed her then, filling her lungs with the dispassionate air of a machine. In the end her metallic lover couldn’t save her and the lungs that had once sighed whispers into his ears, just stopped, like a faulty bellows unable to rekindle an ember.

He awoke, momentarily unsure of where he was. A blurry image coming into focus, lines sharpening at the edges. Easing himself off the sofa, he stretched again, bent to touch his toes and then the ceiling. It was dark out now. How long had he slept? The glow of his computer, screensaver sliding random pictures from his photo library, lit the kitchen countertop. At the moment it was a wedding picture, where she had smacked his nose with icing after cutting their cake. That spontaneous moment always made him smile, as he remembered rubbing noses with her and listening to her giggle. He could hear it now, through the cloud of his grogginess. Rachel would have been so proud of him, he thought, for the work he was producing. All those years he talked about it, but aside from the occasional anniversary poem, there was nothing.  Now, he wrote consistently both on his blog and on that writing site for fiction. His blog had over two thousand followers and his fiction was beginning to gain a bit of attention, despite having never won a contest, it still garnered many likes and positive comments. He appreciated the ego salve it provided.

Harry removed two shiny cold triangles of foil wrapped pizza from the fridge, placed them in the toaster oven, and poured himself a glass of white wine from an open bottle. He would continue with his story after dinner but for now he raised his wine glass, silently toasting Rachel.

So, was this the bargain? Was this the catch? Did she have to die in order for him to begin writing in earnest. Did the torment, does the torment still, unlock an inner cell of emotion and creativity, allowing him to vent his pent up feelings. No answer. He looked back at the first few lines of dialogue he had attempted to address this latest challenge with and realized that it wasn’t leading to any sort of “catch,” it was only a placeholder waiting for the true story to emerge. That story, the one where he “catches” her attention and they create a life together, where she herself was the “catch” of a lifetime, is the one worth telling.