"Projected top 5 pick in the NBA draft." All my life I have strived for this. My dream, and it was all coming to fruition. Teams salivated over my skillset. A 38-inch vertical, an elite three-point stroke, and quick feet laterally, I was something of a dream prospect. All those years I spent playing basketball with my father. Waking up early for practice. Standing around waiting for a game on the local courts, well, at least I used to. Now when I show up, everybody clears the court. This isn't football, nobody is wearing a helmet on the court, so when you can hoop, everyone knows your face. That makes it even funnier when you win the game, and they want to fight you. Brother, what did you expect to happen? I was just that good. When people knew I was around, they would come from all over the city just to watch me play, or take a crack at kicking me off my court. All day I would take on any and all challengers, and I can't remember the last time I failed. What I can remember, is when my body failed me. The NCAA Finals. 76-61 game with 4 minutes remaining in the last period. I hadn't sat a minute of the game, against Coaches wishes. 33 points under my belt, it was only fitting an unceremonious career ending injury akin to Larry Bird before me would strike while his jersey number adorned the jumbotron below my face. In the biggest game of the season, the biggest game of my life, I went down. I had skied into the air for a huge dunk. I exploded from the ground and glided through the air gracefully, straight into the 7'0, 275 pound center. I could have easily gone for a simple layup, or hell, I could have just dribbled the clock out and saved some time at this point. But that wasn't who I was. I had always been a ruthless competitor. I didn't want to beat you, I wanted to embarrass you. A character trait I picked up studying the greatness of players like Michael Jordan, Kobe Bryant, and Allen Iverson. That killer mentality made me many enemies in all of my time playing basketball, but it won me more games than it burned bridges. I didn't just want to win the NCAA Championship, that wasn't enough for me. I wanted to put their starting center on my highlight reel and give the sports media something to talk about for days. The behemoth took an ill-fated swipe at the ball. His arm, the size of a tree trunk, whipped my shoulder down with such great force that it dislocated instantly. At the same time, I had turned completely horizontal to the ground. When I landed, I landed directly onto a point of my spine. Immediately I felt the bone smash and cave in, as a sudden jolt of energy overcame and jerked my entire body, and then, nothing. I wanted to turn to call out the giant for the hard foul, but I found I could not feel at all from my waist down, and had great trouble moving anything beyond my mouth and fingers. Live on TV with hundreds of thousands watching, I lie on the ground, sobbing in pain, unable to move, completely humiliated. It turns out that night, I was the one embarrassed. As they carted me off the field, and I heard the eruption of applause that typically accompanies a career-ending injury when the stretcher rolls safely off the court, I knew that there was a possibility things would never be the same. I didn't cry in the ambulance, I was far too hopped up on adrenaline for that. In my delirium with all the chemicals coursing through my body to ease my pain, I thought just maybe this was all a dream. But when I awoke the next day and realized this was no dream, I cried for days. It didn't take long for my draft stock to plummet. That very same night every talking head in the nation was talking about the end of my career. I guess in a way I did give them something to talk about for days. They never even gave me a chance of coming back. The sad part is, they were right not to. I never was the same. The NBA draft was out of the question. Shooting a basketball ever again was out of the question in fact. I retained most of my motor skills above the waist, but from the waist down, I am lucky to experience even the fleeting moments of feeling, or perceived feeling, that strike me on occasion. I was paralyzed completely from the waist down. The first few weeks were really hard. All of the "friends" I had made on my ascent to the top, one by one all began to grow distant if not disappear completely. All the deals I had lined up to feed me and my family, gone in the snap of a finger. All the women I thought I could trust? Well, they disappeared faster than the friends did. The very thing I had worked my whole life for, built the entire essence of my being around, all gone. The very content of my character had been ripped from me, and I had to build anew. The worst part was seeing the pain on the faces of those who did care about me. In a way, it was almost easier on me to be abandoned than to face the reality of my situation with those who loved and depended on me. When my mother came to my room, tears in her eyes, and told me everything was going to be okay and that I will always be her All-Star, there was nothing I could do but weep. So selfless as always, she wasn't worried about the loss of the future I promised her, she was only worried about the future I lost for myself. For so long, I didn't know who to blame, so I blamed everybody. I blamed the center for his hard foul, his unnecessary bone-crushing contact that ruined the very trajectory of my life and confined me helplessly to a steel prison on wheels. Then I blamed the coach, the man who didn't rest me for a single minute that game. Perhaps with just a minute of rest things would have gone differently, my body would have taken the shot better. But I have come to realize, there is nobody to blame if not myself. I went for an aggressive showboat move in the biggest game of my life, and I paid the ultimate price. Coach didn't demand I stay in the game, I did. I had something to prove even though my future was laid out for me on a silver platter. I just had to be the hero, the best player on the court, I had to be the man. I used to regret all of the time I dedicated to the game, but I don't anymore. The game taught me many things. It taught me humility, the dangers of hubris. It instilled in me the values of hard work and dedication that made me the man I am today. It taught me to never take anything for granted, and that in a moment's notice, everything can change before you. I'm doing alright now. The very team I got injured on graciously offered me a position on the roster as an assistant coach. Was it a pity job offer? Perhaps. But all that matters to me is that I can still be involved in the game I love, and I can inspire the next generation of players, and teach them not to fall victim to the hubris that put me where I am today. I see the twinkle in their eyes, their love of the game. I see myself in them, all of them. They show me a level of respect as if I had made the NBA. They listen to my word as if it is gospel. The most important thing I tell them? One on the court is better than two in the mock draft. Play the game the right way, and prioritize your health over climbing any draft rankings or making any highlight reel.


The house creaked with age and emptiness. Every good natured protest from the home amplified a singular expression. \*Loss.\* It was the loss of all manner of sayings, spells, and words of wisdom, and most of all, of the woman who spoke them. It was the loss that Evie Price knew keenly as she stood among furniture hidden under sheets of white linen, unable to feel anything else. That loneliness threatened to consume her, forcing a pressure behind her eyes and an ache in her heart. First Mother, then Grandmama, who’d been so old it seemed she would never retire, in mind or body. But then she did. All at once, Evie’s life… hell, the world, felt unbearably empty. Before Mother’s passing, Evie’s life had been so ordered. So predetermined. University courses, closing shift at the bakery, dinner, homework, rinse, repeat. Even the hint of skipping a short class, or leaving Mother to close the bakery on her own and Evie would earn the sternest of glares. What now, that her university classes were done, the bakery sold, and Grandmama was gone, too? Resentment welled up. Out of habit earned from one too many stern glares, she pushed it down. She could almost hear her mother’s voice scold her. *No sense in crying over it*. But Mother wasn’t here, and neither was Grandmama. Hopelessness dropped from her throat to her belly, and echoed back up like from a great depth. It whispered a lonely refrain. Alice would be along soon, to help her attend to the home Evie’d not visited since she was a girl. Putting the house in order was a task she didn’t want to think about– when Alice volunteered to help, Evie nearly cried. She still didn’t know what she wanted to do with the house. There was no one else to take care of it. The thought of renting it out felt like a cruel joke. Moving in though felt just as cruel. Staying here, without Grandmama? She didn’t even know how half the potions or pots in the kitchen worked. Symbols and words of power laced the rim of every implement. It would take a lifetime to learn what her grandmother had not been permitted to teach her. But Grandmama’s home could never be too silent or somber for long. Somewhere deep in the beams, *something* started*.* At first it was a whisper, and it grew to a hum. It was a sound she never thought she’d hear again. “*What is that noise, Grandmama?” She tilted her head up, swaying with the quiet music.* *The graying witch smiled, and handed a batter spoon to Evie. It tasted of cardamom and honey, with another flavor she’d never been allowed to know, but it was the taste that filled her dreams. In Dreamland, laughing fae that smelled of Grandmama’s fresh muffins danced to the hum of the cottage, but not even dreams could match the love that steeped her time at Grandmama’s in the waking world.* *“It’s the song of home, child. Wherever you are in the world, if you hear this song, it is because you belong there.”* It was the humming that drew her to the attic. A warm, nameless tune pulled almost imperceptibly up the loft stairs. It wove up the worn railing, and grew stronger when her feet rounded the last step. She found herself in the attic, staring at a cedar chest. On the chest sat a book that should not have existed, upon a doily of spider-spun gold thread, wrapped in a music that could only be of Grandmama’s making. Evie blinked and bit her lip, fighting tears that sprang of their own accord. Tendrils of warmth coiled in an almost familiar embrace wound around her as she reached out to the book. So interested was she, she did not hear the gentle footpads that followed after her, even as the floorboards have their croaky report. “What is it?” came a soft, curious voice behind her. She shook her head. “I haven’t seen this since I was little. I thought Mother burned it.” “What *is* it?”, the voice came again. “It’s a…” She couldn’t bring herself to say it at first, picking it up with a ginger touch. A layer of dust came away with her fingertips. “You’re gonna laugh.” “Pffft. Show me!” A gentle hand tugged at her elbow insistently. Evie stood paused for a long moment. The leatherbound cover was just as she remembered, with raised gold snakes and vines intertwining up pale pillars. At the center was a thinly etched circle surrounded by symbols of which she’d never known the meaning. There was a time she’d been promised that one day that knowledge and much more would be hers. That was before Mother whisked them away from Grandmama, 5000 kilometers and lifetimes apart, so it seemed. But she would’ve known that book anywhere. “It’s a spell book. My grandmother’s spellbook.” Alice’s chin popped over Evie’s shoulder. “For real?” “Mhm.” Rough paper edges whispered under her fingers as Evie flipped through the pages. Amidst the stiff parchment and flowing penmanship the faintest smell of dust and cinnamon tea came to her, bringing a smile to her lips. “This book is the reason Mother made us move away.” Her friend’s voice took on a cautious hush. “Is it possessed?” “No no, nothing like that.” She snuck a sly smile to Alice. “That I *know* of.” A slim arm hooked through hers, Alice’s gooseflesh brushing over Evie’s own. “That’s comforting.” The house creaked with a chilly draft in answer. Her companion’s shiver grated like sandpaper against Evie’s skin. The book hummed and emanated warmth. It did not apparently extend to other people. “Come on, we’ll put a kettle on, we’ll use Grandmama’s special tea.” The tea, on second thought, was a task Evie wasn’t sure she could complete. There were words, and an ingredient that danced on the tip of her tongue but that she could not find in Grandmama’s innumerable little vials. They settled on a tea Alice had thought to pack with them, and the two sat with the book on a settee of the deepest blue. They scoured each page, sounding out words they’d never heard before, cautiously forming half-spoken spells on untaught tongues. What it all meant, or could mean, was of little consequence to Evie. It was enough to not be alone. Soon they had mispronounced all of the potions and principles of the first chapters when they reached the incantations. Both curled up, half entangled, tea forgotten, Evie’s heart leapt at the next chapter’s title. “*The Art of Intention, Incantations, and Spellcasting,”* Alice read aloud. “Ooooh, like real, *real* witch stuff? Like wish spells and love spells, and…” “We could practice,” Evie said, eyes wide. “I always wondered if *love* spells really worked!” Then the ridiculousness and absurdity of speaking the possibility struck her, and she fell back in a burst of giggles. Alice joined her, collapsing on the pillows with a flounce and cascade of curls. “Oh, there’s no need for that,” she said softly. The two giggled again, nervous and giddy as they pored over the book. Evie wished it was true. Then she could stop looking away so fast when their eyes met. She could sink into a comfortable cuddle when Alice sat close. She didn’t have to feel embarrassed when their hands touched, like when she made tea for two. She wouldn’t have to pretend to be apologetic when she stole fries from Alice’s plate at restaurants. *She doesn’t like me. Not like that.* The whisper in her brain came with a little pang of loneliness. But at least Alice was here, when she had no one else. ‘*Friendship is a special magic. Never doubt the power of love that is given freely and intentionally*’, Grandmama would always say. *I should be more grateful.* She swallowed back the lump that threatened to break her composure in two and instead said airily, more sing-songy than she could ever possibly feel, “Well, I guess we’ll never know”. The book above their heads, Evie stared at the next chapter, *Incantations with Intention.* Unbidden, the image of Grandmama in her kitchen came to mind. There was always some lesson to be had while the octogenarian prepared some potion or another. ‘*All the intention in the world can be for naught if you never give it life, child.’* “Can you imagine it, just… casting a spell and having your wishes come true?” Alice reached up, taking one side of the book in her hand and pulled it closer. “Your Grandmama thought you could.” “She’d be the only one.” Evie released the other side of the book, letting the back cover hang against the pages, the paper fanning out from the binding. Her friend lowered it, laying the tome down, and slung her arm over Evie as they both settled further into the cushions. “I believe you can.” The sweet earnestness in her voice and lazy finger tracing swirls and nonsense in her palm melted Evie. For a heart as lonely as hers, once a devoid chasm deeper than the Marianas Trench, a spark flared. Grateful, she laced her fingers through Alice’s. “Thank you.” Encouraged by the sweet tones of a familiar humming, Evie rolled onto her elbow and curled into Alice’s embrace. She brushed errant curls from her friend’s eyes. Then she closed her own, and pressed her lips to Alice’s. A nigh-imperceptible exhale swept warmth across Evie’s cheek. It was followed by a smile, a cupid’s bow curved into her own and the kiss was returned. The cottage’s hum swelled gently around them both. Evie could have sworn it took on a voice, tender and joyful, as it whispered, “welcome home, my dears.


Once upon a time, in a forest by a river that always shone with the most promising of sparkles, there dwelled the faeries. Now, you cannot see them during the day, for they are secretive creatures; they hide amongst the leaves, disguising themselves as flowers. They are a quiet and graceful people who like to speak in riddles. The next time you are walking through a forest, close your eyes and listen carefully, you might just hear the light fluttering of a faerie’s wings… Fynn perched on the branch, eavesdropping upon the travellers’ conversation. It was interesting to hear how the humans thought of them. He fluttered his wings to see if they would look up. He watched as they bent down, examining a ring of mushrooms at the base of the tree. “What are you looking at?” That frightened Fynn enough that he wobbled. He held desperately onto Fabien’s tunic for support, hoping that the branches wouldn’t fail him. Unluckily, with a dreadful snap, the branch gave way, and Fynn tumbled out of the tree, dragging Fabien down with him. Fabien beat his wings, trying to stop them from hitting the ground, but he wasn’t strong enough to carry the both of them. They fell into the faerie circle. Fynn hit his head hard on a mushroom. Fabien was sprawled on top of him, looking equally as disoriented and humiliated. Fabien let his wings take him up. Fynn remained on the ground, looking at the sky – away from Fabien – to save himself the embarrassment. That disproved what the humans thought of them, they were definitely less graceful than they might have thought. “Are you all right down there?” The fluttering of wings neared. Fynn switched his gaze to Fabien, not prepared for the breath to be stolen from his lungs. Fabien hovered over him, flashes of his wings shimmering in the light. His hair was dark brown with streaks of lighter tones; residues of the warm weather where the sun almost bleached it golden. It swept across his forehead in loose curls. His eyes were lilac, pale against his mahogany skin that held a light sprinkling of freckles across his cheeks. Fynn had known those features almost his whole life, but he supposed that was the moment when he found beauty in them, it drew him in like a bee to a flower. They were laughing about the incident by the time night fell, but Fynn couldn’t quite shake the feeling he had whenever he looked at Fabien. How the brightness of his smile could almost compete with the fireflies, and the colour of his eyes not only reflecting the colour of the flower, but the beauty as well. They remained the fondest of friends. They laid by the river in summer, playing hide and seek with the water nymphs. In autumn, they gathered the fallen leaves, building them into enormous piles to dive into from the treetop. In spring, they hopped around from tree to bush to vine, picking whatever fruit and berries were ripe. And in winter, they threw snowballs at each other, and then nestled in front of the fire in the warmth of their treehouses. Slowly, but surely, with every laugh and smile, from summer to winter, Fynn fell in love with him. One night, Fabien flew Fynn to his door. He gave Fynn a hug before he left, like he always did. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” Fabien said. There were fireflies circling his head, enveloping him in a warm glow. Fabien snapped his fingers in front of Fynn’s face. “Fynn, you there?” Heat rushed up his neck. He had been caught staring again. “Yes,” Fynn replied. “Tomorrow.” Fabien ruffled his hair, Fynn was sure that he was floating. “Just try not to fall out of any trees before then.” That was years ago now, Fynn was shocked that Fabien would still remember. Then, Fabien dove from the branches, waving at Fynn as his wings caught the breeze. Fynn clutched at his beating heart, the warmth of Fabien’s touch still lingering. “You love him,” his Mother, Jelena said as Fynn was warming his hands by the fire. Fynn’s eyes widened, feeling like a deer at the mercy of a hunter’s bow. Jelena was a cold and stern woman who rarely left the house. She was one of the remaining few faeries who had magic so faeries came to her from minor maladies to death draughts. She wasn’t exactly well-liked, but she was his Mother. “It is nothing, I promise,” Fynn stuttered. Jelena narrowed her eyes. That was the only feature they shared. Eyes the colour of rusted copper, flecked with gold at the edge of the irises. Her waist-length hair was stark white against her dark clothing. Her features were hawklike with sharp cheekbones and thin lips. She was elegant and poised in the way Fynn was clumsy. He must have taken after his Father, but Jelena never spoke about him. “He does not love you,” Jelena said, rising from her chair. Fynn felt those words like pinpricks in his heart. “I know,” he said. Fabien would never see him as anything more than a friend, and he wasn’t blind to all the girls who felt the same way he did. Over the years, Fabien had blossomed like the prettiest of flowers, but beyond that he was caring and kind to all that he encountered, his heart was genuine and true. “He will break your heart,” Jelena said, softer this time, an almost worried tone permeating her voice. “You don’t need to warn me, Mother,” Fynn said. “I know that we can only be friends, nothing more.” He shrugged, ignoring the numbness in his chest. “And I am fine with that.” “Do not lie to me, Fynn,” Jelena said, pulling Fynn uncomfortable close. “How long?” “A long time,” Fynn replied, swallowing. Jelena turned, tearing her fingers through her white hair. “I never wished for this to happen. I should never have let you befriend him.” “What are you talking about, Mama?” Fynn asked. “This is my fault,” Jelena said, collapsing back into her chair with her face buried in her hands. Fynn had never seen his Mother like this; shivering, seemingly on the verge of tears. “That bastard.” Fynn flew to his Mother’s side, tentatively putting his arm around her. “It is all right, Mama.” He didn’t know what else to do. “Nothing is going to happen between us, you don’t have to worry.” She straightened up. “But what happens when he finds a girl to love? When they marry? Have children? What happens to you then? You will be forgotten, thrown to the back of his mind. Will that not break your heart?” Fynn stood back up, wiping frustratingly at the tears those words had elicited. “See? You cannot take it.” “What did you mean when you said that this was your fault?” Fynn asked. Jelena took in a shaky breath. “I never talk about your Father because he broke my heart. We spent a blissful few years together, but there had been another woman the whole time. They ran away together, and he left me with nothing. Faeries only truly fall in love once. I loved him truly, but he did not. I was young, rash and so very angry. I concocted a spell that would curse him to die of a broken heart, make him pay for what he did to me. I was unaware that I was with child, that the spell would latch onto you instead, for you had his blood.” Fynn was holding onto the mantel for support because that was the only way he was remaining upright. “So, this… curse, it dooms me to die of a broken heart.” “The only way to stop the curse is for the one you love to return your feelings,” Jelena said. “He will not,” Fynn said. “He fancies another.” Her name was Eolande. He knew before Fabien had told him. One could see the lovestruck look in his eyes. “I am not going to let you pay for my mistake,” Jelena said, standing up suddenly and grabbing Fynn by the shoulders. “You have every right to hate me, but I will do anything before I lose you.” “I could never hate you, Mama,” Fynn said. His Mother had raised him. He owed his life to her. “Is there a way?” he asked. “For me to somehow stop loving him.” Not loving Fabien seemed like an awful thing, but what could he do? “I cannot take away your feelings for him,” Jelena said. “But love potions are easy to brew, he will fall in love with you in an instant.” Fynn shook his head. “No, that is wrong,” he said. “I will… I will not do that to him.” “He will not know,” Jelena said. “But that is a lie,” Fynn said, feeling uncomfortable at the prospect of it. “It is better than having your heart broken,” Jelena snapped. “Now, go to bed, while I brew this potion.” Fynn knew better than to argue with his Mother when she used that tone. The next day, Fynn waited for Fabien outside his treehouse, the love potion hidden in his pocket. The cool glass warmed beneath his fingers, the contents sloshing around inside. Fabien came out, eyes still misty with sleep. He gave a yawn. “Late night?” Fynn asked, his night had certainly been eventful. “Eolande and I may or may not have gone and enjoyed the festivity down at the river,” Fabien replied. “And I may or may not have proclaimed my love for her.” Fynn bit his lip awkwardly, the twisting in his stomach becoming increasingly prominent. “And what did she say?” he asked, trying to stop his wings from twitching – it was a nervous habit of his. “She said she would think about it,” Fabien replied, the corners of his mouth turning up. “Come on, we should go to the river, I’m sure there are still some people partying.” He must still be on a high after making his proclamation of love to not see Fynn’s discomfort. Fynn put off using the love potion for as long as he could. He had almost managed to convince a part of him that it wasn’t real. That last night had just been a wild dream, or that Jelena had been ill and spouting nonsense. Halfway through the day, Eolande came and dragged Fabien away. “I’ll see you tomorrow then, Fynn,” Fabien said. Fynn managed a smile. “Yes, tomorrow,” he replied. Fynn spent the rest of the day alone. He shouldn’t be so selfish. He should be happy for Fabien. He couldn’t give his best friend a love potion and make him live a lie purely for his own benefit. But the pain grew in Fynn’s chest the more he thought of Fabien and Eolande together. He stumbled home in a daze, his head too dizzy and his heart too heavy to fly. The love potion remained in his pocket, unused. “Why did you not use it?” Jelena chided because she could read Fynn like an open book. “I’ll ruin him,” Fynn said. “He loves Eolande and Eolande loves him.” He clutched at the sleeves of his crumpled tunic. “It would be a mistake.” That night, he was awoken by his own coughing and a deep, cutting pain at the bottom of his ribcage. His hand flew to his mouth to try and muffle it. Something wet dripped between his fingers. The coughing ceased, and holding up his fingers to the sliver of moonlight coming through his window, he saw his pale skin slick with blood. The curse was real. He was dying. “You don’t look good,” Fabien said the next day. Fynn gave a weak cough into the crook of his elbow. “I’m fine.” The love potion was still in his pocket. All he hoped was that it would work and the guilt clawing at him would cease. So, when they paused by the river for fresh water, Fynn poured the love potion in Fabien’s leaf. Nothing happened for a good few minutes, but Fynn’s heart was drumming out of control. Then suddenly, a mist came over Fabien’s eyes when he turned to Fynn. “Has anyone ever told you that you have beautiful eyes?” Fabien inched towards him, holding his palm to Fynn’s cheek. He was so close, warm breath defrosting Fynn’s chilled skin. “No,” Fynn replied. Butterflies fluttered in his heart. “They’re golden and pretty like jewels,” Fabien said. They spent the night watching fireflies dance across the night sky. Fynn still couldn’t get used to the feeling of Fabien so close to him. He had wanted this for years, his heart had yearned for it. But that didn’t make the sinking sensation in him any more bearable. Fabien pressed a sleep kiss against Fynn’s jaw. “I love you,” he murmured. He closed his eyes, with his arms wrapped firmly around Fynn’s waist. It was everything he had wanted. But Fynn knew he couldn’t have it forever. Just one night, he told himself. Just one night to give me everything I will never again experience in a lifetime. One night with my one true love. So, he held Fabien close to him, breathing in the delicate scent of the pink-flowering thorn, and all his deepest loves and desires – the only thing keeping his heart from shattering. “I love you,” Fynn whispered to Fabien. Perhaps, in his dreams, Fabien could hear the sincerity of his words and forgive him for his lies. He had lied about being fine, but he hadn’t lied about nobody ever telling him he had beautiful eyes, and he would never lie about loving Fabien. The effects of the love potion faded away in the morning. There were still contents remaining in the vial, and judging by the expression on Fabien’s face, he didn’t remember anything. But Fynn couldn’t do it again. He would rather go through the pain of heartbreak honestly than love in a lie. “You didn’t come home last night,” Jelena said when he walked through the door. “I was with Fabien,” Fynn replied. “I gave him the love potion.” Jelena raised an eyebrow, suspicion in her eyes. “What is it?” “I can’t,” Fynn said. “If I were to live every day of my life like that, I think I would drive myself mad.” He threw the vial before Jelena. “I won’t do that ever again.” Fabien didn’t greet Fynn at his door the next morning, but Fynn found him easily enough. He was by the river, running his fingers against the current. “Fabien,” Fynn called. He didn’t turn around. “What did you do to me last night?” he asked. “I’m sorry, Fabien,” Fynn said. “You gave me something,” Fabien said. He stood up and turned towards Fynn, hurt and betrayal written all over his face. “Look, I have known about your feelings for me, but I never thought you would stoop that low, Fynn.” The guilt was rising up Fynn’s throat, becoming harder and harder to swallow. “It was a mistake,” he said, but Fynn was already walking away. “Please.” He grabbed at Fabien’s hand desperately, his fingertips cold from the river. “Just let me explain.” “There is nothing to explain,” Fabien said, wrenching his hand from Fynn’s grip. “Stay away from me.” Fynn didn’t go after him that time because he knew he deserved all the pain of bitter regret, every fibre in him wishing that he could take it back. That night, he watched Fabien and Eolande dancing, caressed by the moonlight, lit up by the stars. Oh, the love he had had for one night. It just came as an ache in his heart. “I found another way to break the spell,” Fynn jumped at Jelena’s voice beside him, and then at the glinting metal of a knife. “What are you doing, Mama?” he asked. “If I stab him through the heart and mutter a spell as his blood drips on you, you will be free,” Jelena said. The look in her eyes was manic. She stood, a dark shadow in the night. Fynn shot up, making a grab for the night. But Jelena kept twisting her arm, making the blade bite into Fynn’s skin. “Give me the knife, Mama.” “I am doing this for you,” Jelena said. Fynn couldn’t let his Mother hurt Fabien. But he couldn’t keep fighting Jelena because he was bound to lose, and then Jelena would kill Fabien anyway. So he closed his hand over Jelena’s and drove the blade through his own chest. “I’m sorry, Mama,” Fynn said as he collapsed. The blade was so cold in his flesh. Blood soaked through his tunic, warm. His heart pulsated weakly. Through the small leaves of a strawberry bush, he saw Fabien’s wings glittering in the night, like how they had glittered on that day they had tumbled out of the tree and Fynn had fallen so hopelessly in love with him. Fynn hoped that maybe one day, Fabien would find it in his heart to forgive him. And then he died in his Mother’s arms. Jelena, despite her distraught state carried her son’s body all the way to the river where the water nymphs took him away. Fynn’s blood nurtured all the seeds dispersed in the grass by the wind. And a field of flowers grew from as a result his undying love. A field of lilac, sprinkled with a pink rose or two. They never wavered against the wind, and always provided shelter for the heartbroken, showing them that beautiful things could still exist. But it was also a place to celebrate love, where Fabien and Eolande pledged their lives to each other under a warm spring afternoon when the flowers bloomed at their brightest. And they lived happily ever after.


1094 words Rated PG; violence, fear, pain Prompt: A character stands in front of two doors. Write a story about what happens after they choose to enter one. I hold out my arms in front of me to protect myself from the light. This lasts for a minute, as I free-fall through a space that exists outside of time. Finally, I feel myself stop. Cautiously, I take my arms away from my face. There are two doors in front of me.  One is black, with shadows reaching out from it like tentacles. There are illustrations of trees--bent, twisted, and being pulled from their roots by spirits. These are ghosts with slanted eyes and cracked teeth that could bite through steel. A full moon looms over the scene, with blood dripping from it and forming a puddle of broken dreams when it hits the ground. The other door has a dragon. it’s twirling through the air like a graceful dancer and spitting multicoloured flames that make the image of a phoenix in flight. A creature with spiky ears and big, feathery wings is beside the dragon, aiming a crossbow in front of them. The background is the hand of a troll reaching up to the sun, being basked in its generous light. The doors are labelled horror and fantasy, respectively. I frown at the horror door, and can already feel spiders crawling under my shirt. I can hear the screams and see the chainsaws. I start shaking at the mere thought of being alone at night. My fingernails might be chipping from just the idea. It’s not a hard choice. I grab the fantasy doorknob and turn it. It’s a field. The grass is blue, with yellow flowers floating above it. The flowers float around lazily, occasionally colliding with each other. When that happens, It forms a bigger flower in a darker shade with a poof. The new flower starts popping out grey buds from the top. The buds fall until they reach the same suspended level above the ground.

The sky above me is pink, though I see no setting sun. There’s a flying creature with a bag. They’re wearing nothing, save a cowl that’s painted in midnight blue. They’re holding a big wooden crate with two of their arms. Another one reaches for a nearby cloud. They grab off a fluffy piece and put it in the crate. The cloud part stays obediently. On the ground level, there are two creatures a few metres from me. They have three eyes, the third one being on their chins, which they can extend. They appear to be playing some type of game. There’s a board in between them, balanced on the same level as the flowers. They haven’t noticed my presence. I get a little closer. They’re still staring at the board, not moving or exchanging any words with each other. A moment in time frozen.

“Hello?” They both jump, falling backwards into the air. Their trajectories are both big, rising them high in the sky. They flap their wings frantically, trying to gain balance so they don’t go plummeting back down. One squints. They see me standing--probably with a bewildered expression--and zoom back down. They only stop once they are so close to my face I could sneeze and I would get mucus on them. “Raie-vepa?” Their hand touches my face. My skin burns where contact is made. My eyes roll back in my head. My body starts levitating. My mind feels like it’s on fire. All my memories are hazy and bring embers to my tongue. I scream, writhing in pain and trying to pull their hand off my cheek. The hand comes off, and they smile. “Hello, creature. You have interrupted our fun time. I’m going to kill you now.” I squeak at the decisiveness of their voice. I don’t think, just turn around and start running. I can hear them calling their friend. I can’t look back. Even though I desperately want to. I push aside flowers as I get further away from them. Several of them collide with another flower, and the reproduction process begins. The field goes on as far as I can see. Animals are frolicking through it, some hunting small frogs and others just taking a nap in the sunshine. They look behind me, where the two creatures are, and immediately start flying away. The things may not have legs, but their wings more than make up for it. I haven’t made it ten metres when they catch up to me. I’m panting and my shoes are stained with magical mud. My hair is sticking to my face. The cheek that the first creature touched is flaring up and pulling me towards the ground. The first creature pushes me, and I collapse, too tired to care. Then I remember I should care, because of what the creature said. I would get up if the grass caressing my injured cheek wasn’t so relieving. The one that now speaks my language gets closer to me. They’re wearing a red robe with a blue belt that has teeth jutting out of it, and piercing the thing’s skin. They don’t seem to care. “I’m Ozh, and I’m going to kill you. What’s your name?” They grin at me and grab my shoulder. With one squeeze I’m paralyzed. I can’t even blink. Ozh waves one of their wings, and my mouth can move. “Let me go.” I don’t know why I thought that would work. My eyes are starting to hurt. Ozh lets out a lighthearted chuckle. “I don’t think that’s your name. Come on, tell me.” Tears in my eyes. Once they reach my cheek, they too freeze and stick to my skin. My eyelids might break with how much I’m trying to move them. “Please let me go.” More tears are coming, all stopping and hurting. One turns to ice. It pokes my eye with a sharp end, and I scream in pain. “All right. If you want to be killed by a stranger, fine. It's your choice. Just don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Ozh says something in their native language to the other creature. They take a blade from the pocket of their jacket. It’s very long and crooked at the end. They toss it to Ozh, who thanks them cheerfully. “You ready?” “Please, don’t-” But, of course, it’s too late. I couldn’t have just chosen horror and gotten some cheap jump scares. I would be shaken, sure, but I would be the main character. I might live. Then The wizard would have let me go and I could’ve just ran away and forgotten the whole thing ever happened. Or at least tried to. Ozh throws it at my head.


“You think you can catch this bastard”? The older man asked.  The older man smelled of tobacco and body odor. And if you didn’t know him you would think he was an imbecile with bad hygiene. You would be half right.  “I’m sure I can Cap”. The younger man said.  The younger man was tall and seemed easy going. Easy going was a hard sell for most people in this line of work but somehow the younger man managed it. He was also what some might have called “easy on the eyes”.  “Alight Skip you better get this son of a bitch and soon. The higher ups are all over me to get this one gone and yesterday about it”.  The Captain paused for a moment looking at the younger man.  Can I trust him with something this important? He’s so young yet still one of the best despite this. Hmm. I’ll have another hysterical mother and another funeral to go to if this young buck doesn’t do this right.  To hell with it he decided.  Neither of them could afford to wait any longer and there was no one available right now that he might feel more comfortable with going.  “I’ll be here as always. I’m only a transmission away, but you already know that. So lets cut the crying short and have done with it. Get him and bring him here and we will both be financially set for awhile.”  The Captain wanted more time to make up his mind but knew there was none. This was it.  Skip winked at his Captain and headed for his ship he fondly referred to as Neil. Without turning around he said “Let’s roll Cap.”  This was Skip’s original ship. Some thought him crazy for keeping it and wondered why he didn’t just get a better one. He’d done enough missions to afford one that was for sure. But this was nonsense to Skip. Skip was practical and a penny pincher. He had always been good with money. As he walked onto the ship he remembered a night from his college days (not that long ago he thought) He was out drinking with his friends and when they ran out of money they used S-Credits and charged them to their Social Credits balance. They would rather owe more money than they borrowed than ask Skip for money. Skip was a good friend to them but he wasn’t buying anyones meal or drinks. A soft smile came to his face as he started Neil up and flew out of the space hanger.  He liked his job. Maybe he didn’t love it and so what. But it was something to do and he could have some pretty amazing adventures that were legal. He thought, not for the first time, that he might very well be in Cryo Freeze or worse if this job didn’t exist. He was a little too adventurous for his own good sometimes. He didn’t do it for the money. When Skip’s parents died they had left him with a considerable amount of money but not a soul in the universe knew this. So it wasn’t for the money that he took this job, or any job for that matter. It was the thrill or excitement or adventure or whatever you wanted to call it.  He put Neil on auto pilot and relaxed.  The last couple weeks had been hard, and sleep hadn’t come easy. He had been having the old dreams again. He had hoped that they would go away but he had been having the same dreams, albeit infrequently for almost 7 years now.  The dream came just as it always did. He was right in the middle of action. But not in a ship, no he was on the ground fighting in the trenches.  Skip also had recurring dreams of being one of The Prime. The Prime were an elite and all around group of bad asses who only went after the most dangerous of criminals.  Skip knew immediately that something was off. He was an Original. An Original is someone who’s family never had DNA alterations. So he was 100% human. No implants, no nothing. But The Prime were augmented with all the latest technology and god knew what else. He could feel The Face looking on him. And The Face would hardly look at him in his normal waking life, but in his dreams as one of The Prime of course The Face would look in on him.  The Face is an “all seeing and all knowing” machine that does many things but one of it’s essential functions is data collection. The Face is kind of like what people once called the Internet but The Face was as Big Brother as you could get. The Face knew everything about everything. This is what Perfectus wanted you to believe anyway.  The Perfectus was the lone ruler of the known universe and the only one who was immune to the The Face’s influence.  But all of this is common knowledge to… Well everyone.  Humans have advanced considerably ever since 2203 when Elix was invented. A small does of Elix can bring you back even from the brink of death and is also an anti aging agent. So humans basically found the fountain of youth for real in 2203. Although somewhat common now, in the early days only the super elite could afford, or gain access to Elix.  But all of this is common knowledge to… Well everyone.  In his dream a huge explosion knocked him back and seeing stars he fell to the ground.  “… Skip… you have to… with us… meet us at location…” He finally came to but his comms were all jacked up and he could barely hear anything.  Shit. He thought to himself. What now? And not only that what in the holy fuck can just knock around one of The Prime??  A Triker that’s what.  Trikers are a very powerful alien race from… somewhere he couldn’t remember exactly where at the moment his head was still spinning.  “Hello human”.  An interesting thing about Trikers is that they have no mouths. So the damn thing was sending messages directly TO his brain, no help from his ears thank you very much.  “I come to you in peace… For now, anyway, human. We must talk, for both our lives depend on it”.  “Yeah yeah. Like that’s going to happen. Our kind catch or kill one another as often as we can.” Skip said aloud. “So you can go suck on a Cryo Chamber floor.”  He then willed himself to wake up. He didn’t like this dream. Something about it was too real.  Slowly he came back to waking life.  “Fucking Trikers I hate all of them”. Skip said.  Skip had a habit of talking to his ship. Space travel can get pretty boring and lonely and Neil was an old friend he trusted. His ship knew more about him than anyone.  “I could have done without having that dream. This is a pretty important mission, not as bad as Cap would lead me to believe, but I need to stay focused either way… What do you think about it Neil”? He asked.  But only silence answered.  To be continued.


So, I'm twenty-two and haven't shared a smooch, been on a date, or even held hands with anyone? Well, I'm the one and only Maisie May Jones. I have been too busy slaying at life! Or maybe I was waiting for the perfect moment to sweep someone off their feet (or for them to sweep me off mine). I'm a Texan from Corpus Christi - the land of beautiful beaches and overgrown cowtowns. Who needs a date when you can chill at the beach with a margarita and the sun on your face?

As a five-year-old, I fell in love with the art world and dreamed of becoming a famous artist someday. I spent years drawing, honing my skills, and expressing my imagination in sculptures. I set my sights on a master's program in France, known for its prestigious art schools and renowned artists. I spent months preparing my portfolio, pouring my heart and soul into my piece, hoping to catch the judges' attention and secure a coveted spot in the program.

One of my favorite local hangouts is the Cowboy Coffee Company. I enjoy sipping an espresso and chatting with my best friend, Sarah-Jane.  "Well, I'm feeling a bit down these days. I still haven't had my first kiss. Is it weird that I'm a late bloomer? " I asked Sarah-Jane, shrugging. Sarah-Jane replied, "Don't worry about it, Maisie. There's no timeline for these things. You'll find the right person at the right time."  "I hope so. I've been focusing so much on my art that I haven't put myself out there in the dating world." Sarah-Jane smiled, "Who wouldn't be smitten by someone who can sculpt like a master? If you were a character in a romantic movie, you would be the quirky, innocent protagonist that everyone is rooting for to find love. So, no, it's not weird at all! Keep being charming, and your moment will come soon enough." "Thanks, Sarah-Jane. You always know how to cheer me up. I'll keep chasing after my dreams; maybe love will come knocking on my door (or studio) sooner than I think!" "That's the spirit! You got this, girl," She said. Two months later, the letter finally arrived, and my heart pounded as I tore open the envelope with the results. I was jumping up and down at the news that I was accepted into the program for a year. It was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity that I had to take. Reality check: there was one problem—I didn't have the funds to make it happen. Determined, I spent the entire summer at a local diner, flipping burgers and bussing tables. I worked long hours and saved every penny. My perseverance paid off, and I'm headed to Paris. I plan to get my first kiss in the city of love and light. I decided to jump into the social media pool with a splash. Ah, the woes of online dating - the struggle to find the perfect photos that capture your true self. It's like trying to find a needle in a haystack. Let's dive in, shall we?

First up, we have the classic headshot. Make sure your smile and eyes are the focus. Bonus points if you can make it look like you're not an awkward turtle in front of the camera. Practice some cheesy jokes or funny faces beforehand.

Next, we have the full-body shot. Show off that body type and style, but please, for the love of all that is good and holy, make sure it's clear and well-lit. No one wants to play a game of "Guess who's in the dark."

Now, onto the fun stuff—hobbies and interests. This is your chance to show off your adventurous side, your love for hiking, or your obsession with Bob Ross paintings. Whatever it may be, capture it in a photo that screams, "This is me."

Last but not least, we have the photo of our furry friend. Because who doesn't love an animal? It's a surefire way to make you look approachable and friendly. Plus, it's a great conversation starter. Ensure your pet is excellent in the spotlight—we don't want any diva cats or camera-shy dogs stealing the show.

After much thought and scrolling, I finally picked four images that best depict Maisie May Jones's Tinder story. The first image is a close headshot that shows Sarah-Jane and me laughing over an espresso. The second image portrays me in my element, seated and sculpting at my art table, with my hair tied up in a messy ponytail. The third image showcases my figure in a purple bikini, lounging on the beach with a cold beer. Finally, the fourth image features me riding my horse, Ziggy, in the fields at my grandmother's ranch, dressed in boots, blue jeans, and a Western shirt. So there you have it, my dear friends —a guide to choosing the perfect photos for your Tinder profile. Happy swiping! I stepped into my Parisian flat, drawn to the big windows allowing sunlight to stream in. Giselle Beauchamp, my roommate for the semester, walked in; I blanched when I saw how stunning she was. Her brunette hair was tied in a sleek bun, and her gorgeous dark eyes sparkled as she greeted me with a warm smile. She held an art palette in one hand, and the other dragged a heavy suitcase. I learned that Giselle was an incredibly talented painter who had won an art competition in New York. Her work was so impressive that it earned her a spot on the exchange student roster.  "Hi, I'm Giselle," she said, flashing a warm smile. "You must be my new roommate." "Yeah, I'm Maisie," I replied, slightly intimidated by her beauty. "It's nice to meet you." Giselle and I quickly hit it off. We spent the first few days exploring the city together, and I couldn't help but open up to her about my personal life. "I've never been kissed," I confessed one night while we were out for dinner. "What? Really?" Giselle exclaimed, surprised. "Well, we'll have to change that in the city of light!" I laughed nervously. "I don't know if that's possible. I always feel like people overlook me." "Don't be silly," Giselle said, shaking her head. "You just haven't met the right person yet. And Paris is the perfect place to do it. Look at us; we're both here in an exchange program. Anything can happen." I smiled, feeling a bit more hopeful. "I guess you're right. Maybe I can rewrite my story here." "That's the spirit," Giselle said, clinking her wine glass against mine. "And who knows, maybe I can play matchmaker and set you up with a cute French guy." I laughed, feeling grateful to have such a supportive roommate. "I would love that, but I don't know how to flirt!" "Don't worry about it," Giselle said. "I'll teach you everything you need to know. By the time we leave Paris, you'll be a pro." Our flat was located in an artsy part of the city, just off the Avenue des Champs-Élysées. The building was old and full of character, with creaky wooden floors and details that hinted at its rich history. It was the perfect place for two young artists to call home for the semester. My social media post today reads: Hey everyone! I made a bold decision to share something personal with you all. I am twenty-two and have never been kissed. But I am ready to change that fact! I have picked a date and a location - April 21st, 2024, at the Rodin Museum in Paris. I will be waiting in front of the sculpture of 'The Thinker' one hour before closing, wearing a pink rose in my hair. It would be amazing to have someone share this special moment with me. Hope to see you there! Strolling alone down the streets of Paris, I'm very self-conscious about my height. I tower over most people, making me feel like I don't fit in. I slump over to make myself appear smaller, but it never works. My thick, wavy red hair glides down my back, contrasting sharply against my extremely fair skin. My eyes, a striking blue, stand out even more against my pale complexion. Despite my insecurities, I can't help but feel a twinge of pride for my smile. It's my best feature. I usually wear clothes that blend in with the crowd, but today is different. I'm sporting a stylish new dress I bought for spring with a floral water lily theme. The blue, green, and purple print resembles a Monet painting, hopefully attracting my first kiss. After all, Monet was a good friend of Rodin, and I plan on meeting a beau willing to kiss me in front of The Thinker. Rodin the Sculpture Garden is a beautiful outdoor space. It features a stunning collection of artwork created by the renowned French artist Auguste Rodin, including some of his most famous works, The Thinker, The Gates of Hell, and The Burghers of Calais. The garden is designed to showcase the sculptures in a natural setting, with manicured paths, lush vegetation, and tranquil spaces. The sun was setting low in the sky, and the line to get inside was long, but I made it with ten minutes to spare. As I approached the statue, my heart picked up its pace. The Museum was busy with art lovers milling around the gardens and in the gallery. I did a three-hundred-sixty-degree turn on the spot in front of the statue, hoping to meet the man who wanted to kiss me. Was I too bold and brash in my post? Would no one come?

As I stood there waiting, the statue of the Thinker came to life and spoke to me in a deep, rumbling voice. "What brings you to the Museum today, my dear?" he asked, his eyes twinkling with amusement. I was stunned by what I saw but managed to stammer out a response. "I-I'm here to see the new exhibit on modern art," I said, feeling a bit self-conscious under the scrutiny of the statue's gaze. The Thinker nodded thoughtfully. "Ah, yes. It's quite interesting, isn't it?" he said. "But I must say, I find the classics much more fascinating. The works of Michelangelo, Da Vinci, and Botticelli are timeless." I couldn't help but smile at the Thinker's opinions on art. "I agree," I said. "There's something about the old masters that can't be replicated." I had more in common with a century-old statue than any real-life guy. The Thinker chuckled. "Indeed," he said. "But don't let me keep you. You don't want to miss the man you came for?" I was thinking of giving up hope, and I turned to leave; the Thinker's voice stopped me in my tracks. "But before you go, my dear, might I make a suggestion?" I turned back to face the statue, curious. "Of course," I said. "Why don't you take a moment to enjoy the beauty of this place?" the Thinker said, gesturing to the Museum's grand hall. Perhaps you'll find something even more captivating than the art." I raised an eyebrow, not entirely sure what the statue meant. "What do you mean?" I asked. The Thinker leaned forward slightly, a mischievous glint in his eye. "A young man is waiting for you just outside the museum," he said. "He's been waiting for quite some time. If I were you, I'd go kiss him." I felt my face flush with embarrassment at the statue's words and a sense of excitement. "How did you know about that?" I asked. The Thinker merely smiled enigmatically. "I know many things," he said. "But you should hurry. He looks like he's about to leave." With that, the statue fell silent again, leaving me to wonder at the strange encounter I'd just had. But I couldn't resist the urge to go outside and see if the Thinker's words were valid. And sure enough, a young man was waiting for me, looking nervous and hopeful. As I approached him, he smiled and held out his hand. "Hey, I'm Axel Dupont," he said. "I've been waiting for you." Axel is a couple of inches taller than me and ruggedly handsome with solid features. He has soulful brown eyes that draw me to him and a head full of messy brown hair that gives him a certain charm. I took his hand and smiled back, feeling a sense of adventure and possibility. "I'm Maisie," I said. "And I think we have a date with destiny." He grinned and replied, "Definitely. Siri, play Kiss Me by Sixpence None The Richer."

Siri complied, and the sweet melody filled the air. Axel pulled me close, and we danced under the milky twilight. He twirled me around and swung me in circles, and I felt like I was flying. As we danced, I imagined what it would be like to soar through the sky. "Do you ever wish we could fly?" I asked Axel. He chuckled. "I fly all the time; I'm a pilot. I'll take up one day soon on a sightseeing flight over Paris." Just then, he spun me around one more time and dipped me low, arching my back. My rose hair clip fell out and landed on the grass nearby. We both laughed as he helped me back up. "Looks like my friend Giselle's hairdressing skills couldn't quite withstand our dance moves," I joked. Our eyes locked, and my insides burned with heat. I giggled and leaned in for a long overdue kiss. It was time for me to experience the sweet embrace of another's lips. Axel's mouth was hot, sweet, and sexy all at once, just as I imagined it would be.

The Burghers of Callais looked at The Thinker in disbelief. "What are you talking about, mate? We don't care about redheads or Monet dresses. We're here to contemplate the meaning of life," said one of the Burghers. The Thinker chuckled. "Oh, lighten up! Life's not all about thinking. Sometimes, you have to take action. And let me tell you, that young man outside was taking too long to make his move. So, I took matters into my own hands and sent the redhead to meet him." The Burghers looked at each other and shook their heads. "You're crazy, mate," said another Burgher. "But did they kiss?" asked one of the Burghers, intrigued. The Thinker grinned. "Of course they did! I have a knack for matchmaking. And wow, that kiss was worth it. They both looked like they were on cloud nine." The Burghers laughed and went back to contemplating. "Well, we'll leave the matchmaking to you, mate. We have more important things to think about," said the first Burgher. The Thinker shrugged. "Suit yourselves. But you know who to call if you ever need help with your love life."


Thelma loved her binkies. They made her feel calm and happy. Thelma and her binkies had been together since the day she was born. She knew that, because she had a Binky in her mouth in the picture that Mommy showed her, from the day that they first met.

Blue Binky was Thelma‘s favorite pacifier. That was the one she put in her mouth. Pink Binky, and Purple Binky were too small for her now, but she still liked to hold them while she slept. Thelma had her binkies all through the night.

At bedtime, she put on cozy pajamas, and then Mommy would help her get her binkies down from the dresser. It was always a joyful reunion as Thelma sat with her pacifiers and listened to Mommy read a bedtime story. When the story was over, Mommy always closed the book, covered Thelma with her soft, fuzzy blanket, kissed her on the head, and turned off the light. Then, she would close Thelma‘s door, and Thelma would drift off sleep with Blue Binky in her mouth, snuggling Pink and Purple Binky. If she ever woke in the night to find that Blue Binky had fallen out of her mouth, she just popped it back in, and slept peacefully until morning. When she woke up for real, Mommy let her have her binkies on the couch while they watched one show. She had to put them back on top of the dresser before she ate breakfast, because that was Mommy’s rule.

“Binkies are for night- night,” Mommy reminded her, if she ever thought about protesting.

Thelma rarely ever complained when it was time to put her binkies away. She trusted that she’d see them again soon, at nap time.

Life was good for Thelma. She liked things just as they were. That all changed at her first visit to the dentist.

The dentist office was big, and bright. Thelma was nervous as she sat in the cold chair in the examine room.  The chair could lay back, and also move up, and down. She had to wear a bib, and Thelma didn’t like that. The hygienist took strange pictures of Thelma’s teeth, called x-rays. Then she counted each tooth. Thelma was surprised to learn that she had 20 teeth in her mouth. Next, the hygienist polished Thelma’s teeth with a fancy toothbrush. It tickled her tongue.

Once her teeth were clean, they were rinsed. Then the water, bubble gum flavored toothpaste, and Thelma’s spit were sucked out of her mouth with a special straw. The last thing the hygienist did was paint something sticky on top of Thelma’s big back teeth. “All clean and shiny. No eating crunchy things for two hours. The dentist will be in shortly to have a look,” the hygienist said, once she was finished. The dentist popped in, and looked in Thelma’s mouth. He poked around with a little mirror on a stick. “No cavities, but Thelma, your pacifier is ruining your teeth. They’re starting to stick out. It will only get worse if you keep using one,” the dentist explained.

“Time to get rid of the pacifiers,” he told her mommy.

Thelma was silent as she walked out of the dental office. She burst into tears when Mommy buckled her into her car seat. “I’ll miss my Binkies! I need them!” she sobbed. “Thelma, we don’t have to get rid of them today, but we need to think about doing it soon,” Mommy tried to soothe her.

Thelma cried the whole way home. Mommy carried her inside the house, where Thelma refused lunch. “I’m tired. I need to take a nap,” Thelma wailed. Mommy carried Thelma into her bedroom. She took the binkies off of the dresser and handed them to her. Thelma took them, and sank down into her bed. Mommy tucked her in with her soft blanket, and she instantly fell asleep. Thelma’s mommy had to wake her three hours later. The binkies went back to their spot up on the dresser, and Thelma ate a late lunch. Mommy made broccoli mac and cheese, her favorite. Thelma ate three bowlfuls. Weeks passed, and nothing more was said about Thelma and her binkies. Thelma thought that maybe her Mommy had forgotten what the dentist said. She didn’t dare ask, because she didn’t want to remind her. Everything changed one night during the week before Thelma’s fourth birthday. Thelma took her bath, put on her pajamas, brushed her teeth, and climbed into her bed. “Binkies, please, Mommy,” she said, as she placed her head on her pillow. Mommy got the binkies off of the dresser and handed them to Thelma. Thelma popped Blue Binky into her mouth. She could tell right away that something was wrong. She went to suck on her pacifier, but it didn’t work. Thelma spit it out and studied it. She noticed that there was a small hole in the top. “Oh no,” Thelma gasped. She checked Pink Binky and Purple Binky. There were small holes in those ones, too. “What happened?” Thelma asked. “I guess they’re broken,” Mommy told her. Thelma was suspicious. They were fine when she saw them earlier, at nap time. “We have to fix them,” Thelma insisted. “I don’t think we can,” Mommy said. “But I need them,” Thelma tried again. “You can still hold them,” Mommy suggested. Thelma felt like crying, but she didn’t. “Can we get new ones?” she wanted to know. “No, we can’t get new ones. But you can hold onto those binkies while you sleep,” Mommy reminded her. “Will you stay with me?” Thelma asked. “I’ll sit in here with you for a little bit,” Mommy said. She kissed Thelma’s head, turned out the light, and sat down in the rocking chair next to the bed. Thelma cradled her binkies in her hands. It felt so strange to not have Blue Binky in her mouth, but Blue Binky was still right here. Thelma rubbed Blue Binky across her cheek. She tossed and turned for quite a while. She was used to falling asleep right away, and the fact that she was still awake made her feel anxious. “I’ll be right back. I’m going to get something that might help you,” Mommy promised. She came back in the room holding a small bottle of spray. “I’m going to spray this on your pillow. It might help you relax,” Mommy said. She picked up Thelma’s pillow and spritzed it with something that smelled like purple. Thelma didn’t know what the scent was, but to her, it seemed purple. Mommy put the pillow back on Thelma’s bed, and tucked her back in. “I need to go finish the dishes. I’ll come check on you when I’m finished. Goodnight, Thelma,” Mommy said, as she closed the door. Thelma took a deep breath. Her room was dark, but she didn’t feel scared. She just felt tired. Thelma rolled over, closed her eyes, and drifted off to asleep.

When she woke up, the sun was shining through her curtains. “Mommy! Mommy!” she cried. Mommy came rushing in to Thelma’s room. “Good morning!” she chirped. “I sleeped all night without my binkies!” Thelma exclaimed. “You did it! I knew you could,” Mommy said, leaning down to hug her. Thelma’s heart swelled with pride.

“I’m getting bigger!” Thelma giggled. “You’re growing up!” Mommy agreed. Thelma jumped out of bed and handed her binkies to her mommy. “You can put them away, Mommy. I don’t need them right now,” Thelma said. “Would you like to go out for breakfast to celebrate?” Mommy asked. “Yes! I want to have pancakes!” Thelma cried. She jumped out of bed, got herself dressed, and then went potty. She brushed her teeth, and put her shoes on, all by herself. She felt taller, stronger, older, and more capable today than she ever had before. Thelma followed Mommy out the door, and grinned all the way to the restaurant.


“Pneumatic” is hard to spell. Every one of my students struggles with the non-phonetics, and only one of them managed to scratch out the nine letters in perfect form today. One single student. It’s not their fault. These kids can’t spell for shit. Autocompletion and predictive text modeling has ferried most of them through language courses up to this point. They think writing is a waste of their time. Honestly, they may have a point. As long as I can remember, most of our kids have had screens in their hands before they even knew what a pencil was. Some of the more involved parents made a point of teaching analog writing, but today I’m lucky if a student even recognizes the shape of one from an emoticon on an app or something. Regardless, it’s *my* job to teach it now. “Mr. Griff, I- I swear to God, I didn’t cheat.” Between his stammers and the noises in the background, I could barely make out Malcolm’s plea. Even through the grainy image of a video conference, the honesty behind his eyes was striking. I believed him. I muted the other students in the virtual class space before responding. “You did it once. You can do it again. Set up a new document file and add Vice Principal Ikiwa as a collaborator,” I chided back in a washed-up scare tactic. She’d never waste a second of her time reading these, and anyway Malcom’s cheated on tests before. The kid’s brilliant, but I patched him into my study hall to retake the quiz anyway. His eyes glazed over, and he rebuffed my hollow threat with a curse under his breath. Malcolm was used to lying to teachers, but he was even more familiar with adults lying to his face. He was already scribbling his second response when the document landed in my class dashboard. Why was the connection so bad? Malcolm’s classmates had teased him about the static many times, even once today, but the audio quality was clearly worse today. Ever since the Icarus Missions took flight a decade ago, almost ninety-percent of students had enrolled in the STEM track for middle school. Watching a man walk on Mars breeds a new set of idols for them. Mars, heaven incarnate. Better than nothing. I’ve watched the dreams of athletes die after the virus forced leagues to fold in the twenties. eSports were all the rage, but no one had a hope of making it into those leagues without top-shelf GPUs and private broadband. My students were lucky to go a day without a rolling blackout in their neighborhood. After robotics started lowering the hospital’s bottom-line, I witnessed a generation of doctors close off their hearts to school. I would have thought a virus that ended every social gathering would spur more kids to medicine, but there’s no money in it. Anyways, these kids grew up behind screens. They don’t even know what life used to be like. At least they still believe in something. I hid my drink from the webcam and snuck in a sip. Guess I’m drinking in the afternoons now. “Mr. Griff, why the hell you got me scribbling this bullshit again? We can just use autocorrect, and I have math--” “Curse again, and I’ll take the five points you earned earlier,” I cut him off before we started the same conversation we’d had during every analog writing assignment. How could a little kid curse like that? Where did he even learn those words? This class was meaningless to him, just like his peers. My ploy was a cheap shot, but he needed the redirection. All of the other students who requested a retake had completed their quizzes and logged off. Just like in class, Malcolm was the last one still writing. He spat another few insults under his breath before his stylus lit up in my dashboard again. He’d settled into a focused pace now. Turning out about one letter every three seconds. Writing by hand was clearly frustrating the young boy. I watched the awkward etching delivered in real-time, sneaking another pull on my flask. Thirty minutes elapsed, and he had not yet spelled a single word correctly. I wanted to help him. Sublimate the answers in his mind somehow, but this struggle was the best version of that for him. I knew this. I’ve known this for years, but still it’s hard to watch a bright kid lose faith in themselves. I turned to my window that overlooked the low levels of the city. A patchwork of pale light fought through the haze. This kid deserves a better world than the one we left him. My generation looked to Mars because we already failed the children here. Now, they spend their most formative years behind whichever walls we afforded them. Twenty-five of my students don’t even have walls to call home. Their daily commute to the satellite learning centers may be the only time anyone in their generation gets to go outside. When the virus first mutated, we did nothing. We continued what we knew, what we wanted. We politicized science to keep profits high and engines turning. The only idol we worshipped was ourselves, masked as the “economy”, rationalized as “normalcy”. Now, my houseless students will *never* be able to take off their masks to share time with loved ones, not even for a second. I snuck another sip of whiskey. We’ll just do the same to Mars. A shout from Malcom’s little brother broke through the veil of white noise and grounded me back to my desk. “Try holding it with your left hand.” “What?” Malcolm broke his line in the middle of an illegible “g”. He was actually sweating at this point, the flares of his nostrils communicating more than the stylus. “Hold the pen in your left hand, and see if you like it. Worst-case-scenario, you can just switch back, right?” It had already been an hour past my contracted time, so there was no harm in a gamble at this point. He looked puzzled, like he’d never given it consideration before now. Maybe he hadn’t. “Any better?” He finished scribbling “photograph” with two “f”s. The vain attempt took him the same amount of time as every other item on the quiz, but that surprised even me. His pen hit the sensor with even more intention than before. He smiled. “Yeah, maybe a little.” Letter after letter, his marks began to take more definition. Malcolm began churning out ill-fated spelling attempts in half the time now. His grin widened, and he plugged along. I caught a glimpse of my own smirk in the dashboard. The kid caught a second wind. Sweat began to bead on a determined brow at this point. Malcolm’s tense fidgets had melted into fluid action. That’s when I heard it. I don’t know how such a faint sound stood out from the cries of his siblings in the background, but it did. It was a subtle, rhythmic hissing sound, like brakes on a train. I had heard it many times before, but never once from a child, let alone a student of mine. I lowered my own volume, and minimized the monitor panel on my screen. I whisked through dashboard settings, minimizing the background interference, bringing up the symptom biometrics software offered publicly for the first time last year. It was Malcolm’s breathing. Short, faint gasps. My heart sunk in my chest. My computer's biometric display was awash with red flags and warning indicators. I muted my own microphone and called his parents immediately. The salty sweat on my fingers caked the touchscreen while I reported the indicators to the school administration. How could I have missed this earlier? I know I ran the scans in class. I know I followed every protocol they put in place for this. Would that second-class, derivative software even have picked up on this if I had run it twice? I glanced back down at the flask, my own breaths absent at this point. I did run the scan in class today, right? Of course. I must have. I checked the logs anyway. “Malcolm Hopkins: Grade: 6 Homeroom: Keller Infrared Flag: Negative Pupil Dilation: Negative Breathing Rate: Negative Discharge: (1) cough(s) reported at 10:17A.M. ...” I stopped reading. Left to his devices, Malcolm began spelling the last item on the list. He was beaming at this point. He rounded off the ninth letter of “pneumatic” and called out. “Mr. Griff, I’m done!” I opened the monitor again to meet the twelve-year-old’s delighted face. He’d missed every single word except the last one, but Malcolm had no way of knowing at this point. “How was it the second time?” I asked, with little concern for this child’s writing skills at this point. “It was a lot better! I think I’m left-handed Mr. Griff. That’s crazy! Maybe my little brothers are left-handed too!” Malcolm turned to shine his pride toward the younger children whirring in the bedroom. “Awesome!” I said with confidence before a whimper of fear bit my breath. “You know Mr. Griff, I like that word “pneumatic”! We talked about that one in science class. That’s what they use for brakes on the trains here, but Ms. Keller says those won’t work on Mars. She says we have to use magnets or something. You know Mr. Griff, I’m gonna build those trains on Mars someday.” “Y-you make sure you get that math homework done alright? We need the best and brightest on Mars.” He held up his right thumb in confirmation, but switched to his left with a playful laugh. He didn’t notice his mother's state-issued respirator adorned as she pulled his siblings out of the room. I stared at the status panel on the side of my screen for a little over an hour. “Malcolm Hopkins: Disconnected” The sun had already begun setting, and the glare on my screen didn’t even break the trance. I just kept staring at those three words. It wasn’t until the glint of the flask tucked under my monitor caught my eye that I reached impulsively. With hesitation, I lowered my arm, stood up and walked over to lie in my bed. Malcolm never logged back into my class after that. I never touched that flask again.


tw: brief mentions of body image - 1956 Cindy is 14.

Sometimes, when I close my eyes at night I see a woman.

She drips with jewelry and burgundy silk.

Gold lays on her neck softly, coiling around her wrists in dainty loops. Her hair is in pins and her teeth are the color of paper.

I see her now, on the stage. She’s swaying as she sings; her voice comes from deep in her stomach.

In the heart of the stage, her body doesn’t reflect the spotlights that hit her; she soaks them in. The beams wrap around her, sliding under her skin - she glows.

I’m awake now.

The hallway towards the kitchen is long, dressed with rows of framed photos in velvety black and white. The young woman from my dreams is posing in them, smiling wide with those paper teeth.

Bonnie Wright signed every picture.

In the kitchen it’s dark and smells like warm salad dressing and cigarettes. I walk on my toes and the floor still creaks. I pull a box of crackers from the empty pantry and head back to my room. Hot smoke wraps around the walls of the hallway, reaching towards me from the living room like long gentle arms. I sink to the ground, my back to the wall and eat quietly. Around the corner, the radio plays. My aunt Bonnie rocks in the coffee-stained chair, balancing a lipstick-stained cigarette between two red fingernails.

Playing from the radio is her thirty years younger. She sings softly, her voice gravely and deep now. She could listen to herself sing for hours; to be fair, I do the same.

*  *  * In my room I stretch my legs out as far in front of me as I can, curling my hands over my toes. My hair falls over my shoulder and tickles my thigh. “Cindy?” calls a voice from the hallway. “Cindy, it’s -” Bonnie enters my room, “oh good, you’re dressed.” I nod, still holding my stretch firmly.

“I’m going to pick you up from ballet at 3,” my aunt tells me, pulling my hair tightly into her hands. “You have singing lessons at 4.” My head is nearly ripped from my neck as she twists and twists the hair atop my head, securing it in a bun. “Okay,” I say.

I slide like butter into my middle split, and my body aches from the days of work before.

Bonnie sits on my bed and it groans, tossing her pink house slippers to the floor beside my face. She smokes for a moment, watching me.

“Perhaps we lay off the crackers for a while.” “Hmm?” I look up, confused.

She leans forward until her face is right in mine. There is a bit of food between her teeth. She runs a hand down my sides like I’m a cat. “Do you see that bit of fat when you sit down?” My heart is on the floor. “Yeah.” “People will see that, in your recital dress.” She takes another little puff.

I nod. Bonnie shrugs and tells me, “I know it’s harsh, but that’s just show business.” *  *  * It’s after rehearsal one night and Bonnie is asleep. Still, her voice hums from the radio, floating through the apartment, being soaked up by the walls.

In my room, I put my clothes for the next day in my dance bag. It is brown and has my initials embroidered on the top - I think it was a gift from my dance teacher when I was only five.

In the mirror I stand square and upright, bringing my stomach into my ribs and giving my back an arch. I drag one leg in front, across the other and smile as best I can. Now I look just a little like my aunt in the picture that hangs above her bed.

When I breathe out my stomach relaxes, rounding out naturally. I tighten my jaw and turn out the lights.

Some nights, I dream of Bonnie in the audience. She sits in those cushy wine red theater chairs, her elbow on the armrest as she pulls the cigarette from her thin lips. 				Her legs are crossed. I stand in the heat of the spotlight, with sweat rolling in beads down my neck. My hair is tight in a bun as I sing from my chest and breathe from my stomach.

In this dream, my words dance through the theater all night.

Afterwards, my aunt meets me backstage. Somehow the absence of flowers in her hand or a smile on her face speaks far louder than anything she could have said. “We need to work on your breath control,” she tells me, placing a hand on my low back to guide me to the dressing rooms.

It seems harsh, but that’s just show business.

- 1962 Cindy is 20.

Bonnie has passed.

Tonight the casino is loud.

Men are wearing suit jackets that smell of whiskey and playing cards. At their homes, the landlines ring off the wall with angry wives demanding they end guy’s night and just come home. It’s already 11:00.

I stand on the stage with my hands behind my back. The floor is creaking when I step, like it used to back home. The man who is setting up my microphone finishes the job, and gives me a nod.

Stepping forward, I push my dress behind my heels. The rim of the skirt is lined with a red feather boa that tickles my toes.

As the music starts I close my eyes gently, swaying a little and placing my hands on the mic stand. When I sing, I draw breath from my stomach like Bonnie used to say. 			   My head burns but not as badly as my throat, and as the words come out they feel hot and dry.

In the large room, the men still play cards. Perhaps I saw a head turn my way; the eyes crawled from my feet to my neck then looked back at their hand.

Still, I sang.

Because that’s just show business.

*  *  * The bus was late arriving so I was late getting home, but that didn’t matter as nobody was waiting on me.

My apartment is warm and the air is thick. Dishes make a large shape in the sink that is hard to make out in the dark. The counter is scattered with half empty glasses.

In my room I turn on the lights and set my bag down on the bed. The embroidered letters have begun to fray, and now they barely say anything at all. I put my heels by the door and sit on my carpet in my floor length dress, stretching my feet out in front of me and grabbing my toes. I exhale with the burn of the stretch, burying my face in my knees.

My mirror leans against the wall, with the hook for hanging it and the nail to attach it to the wall in a clear bag beside it. On the floor as well is an old photo of my aunt. 	Fifty years old by now, it must be at least.

Bonnie Wright is still scribbled at the bottom. I look into her eyes with her smile and her perfect white teeth as my feet ache from the heels. They have blisters underneath the bandages. Truthfully, she likely would have been proud of the blisters because beauty is pain and that’s just show business.

- 1967 Cindy is 25. Tonight at the casino I got my picture taken. I was told I’d get the hard copy of it on Monday when I come in for the night shift.

As I was taking it I was in a sleek red dress. I wore gold earrings that dripped over my shoulders; my honey skin absorbed the spotlight. My stomach was relaxed in a deep exhale. After work, I took the bus to the only open cafe down the street. The light-up sign was missing two letters as they had burnt out, but it was open until 4.

I swept my red dress under the table, and folded it atop itself in layers like a deep red ink. My coffee and sandwich came with a napkin.

Cindy Wright I scribbled on it again and again until the paper looked akin to a storm.

It’s how I’m going to sign my pictures, I decided.

It may seem like stealing, but that’s just show business.


“Be ready in 10” he said. I liked him from the beginning. He was a loudmouth. You always knew where he was because he was the loudest, sometimes the most obnoxious, one in the room. He was also charming, in a weird, chaotic way but he was. My quietness went well with his loudness, my jokes made his over the top ones even funnier and through differences, we found compatibility and eventually love. It’s funny how a stranger becomes family. At this point, I know his scent just as well as I know my mothers. It is great to love someone, but it is even better when you are loved back. Now, six years in, I think I am still my best self around him. I have become kinder, not afraid to think for my own or to get mad when something is not right. He always jokes about how “I bloomed” throughout these six years. Because of all that love, I try to be my best self. But I never succeed. I get angry, I cry, I become annoyed far more often than I should and, most of all, I am selfish. He’s seen it all and experienced it all with me. We’ve grown together. You would think he knows it all at this point, right? But no one ever knows it all. Because, underneath all the fights, the laughs, the tender moments and the not so well managed conversations, there is that small part that only I know. That small part that grows the older I get. He always asks what I think about when I stare out the window while he drives. When I get sucked into my thoughts and start making funny faces that reflect my inability to cope.

“What are you thinking about?” he says, grabbing my chin playfully. “Nothing” I smile Nothing he needs to know. My secrets being kept inside of me. I’ve managed myself well throughout the years. Pushing those feelings deeper and deeper…except for that one time. The time I could not get out of bed. When I just laid there, staring at the wall for hours with not a single thought in my head. That’s when I knew what it was. I was older by that time, so I understood it better.

The darkness came out. I failed multiple classes at school because I simply did not or could not care anymore. I stopped showing up to work for no real reason and talking to people…talking to people was the hardest part. I told him it was just a phase, just stress. I was working like crazy and going to school full time during that period, so it made sense. After some time, I managed to gather myself, piece by piece, until everything returned to normal.

I smiled, carried out with my responsibilities and mocked his awful jokes. Things were alright. But it's back. Some days are fine, I just carry through the motions. Other days feel like I can’t breathe. But the world doesn’t give you a break just because a little darkness sipped through your soul. On the contrary, the days seem to go faster, harder, throwing you down, making sure you hit your face on the ground as you fall. Not a graceful fall either but the type of fall that happens so fast, you can’t even put your hands out to lessen the impact.

It’s ugly. I quietly move through the days, but this time, I cannot just lay in bed. I have to work, I have to pay bills, attend to the needs of elderly parents, etc. And so everything feels a little heavier and harder to keep inside. Now a days, I say I am just annoyed. But how annoying can things really be? “Five minutes left!!!” He yells from the kitchen. He always gives me a count down before leaving, but I am always ready before him…he’s a pretty boy, he likes to take his time. Life goes on like this. He is the little bright light that keeps me from succumbing to it all. I thought I was protecting him from stress, from disappointment and sadness. I thought I did it because I am strong and I can deal with it, have been for years now. But I am older now. The darkness is still there, even after all these years, creeping through every open crack. Making sure my breathing is a little harder and my body a bit heavier. I am tired, I could use a little more sleep. “Two minutes and we’re out” He yells again, I giggle. I thought I was doing it for him. Wouldn’t it be ugly to taint his bright little world with a cloud full of rain? It is a hard thing to deal with. A lot for a person, your person, to deal with. To have to wake up with someone else’s darkness is the heaviest burden of them all. You can’t do anything but be there, I didn’t think that was fair to him.

That’s frustrating. How many times I wished there was a magical bandage to take care of it all. But bandages don’t cure problems, it just prevents major ones from happening.

You see, the bandage I chose to use throughout all these years had not been changed in a while. The blood zipped through it, and instead of changing it for a new one, I just added more and more bandages, until the cut became infected.

So now, sitting in darkness, with a rare glimpse of reality, I realize I love him too much to put him through that. But I love myself even more. To open myself up and utter those words, doesn’t mean he will have to be there for me. It means I have to admit and embrace my reality. If I say it, then it is real. “Ready!” He pops his head from behind the wall. I smile. “Let’s go have dinner, I am starving” I say Another day passes by…but I am still not ready.


TW slight gore In the history of the world, only one person ever wished to know their fate. It was such a simple command, one that seemed too easy for the consequence. But destiny was not simple. The effortless questions always led to the most precarious answers. Fate did not always mean death. Some people were destined for more, and some for far less. Fate did not reveal how you were going to meet your end, rather if you were going to lead a life worth living before that. There was a reason humans did not have that foresight. The brain was too fragile, it would weigh too heavy with all of the choices it was being presented, every option now riddled with this road or that one. Everyone liked to believe that they were smart, but that only applied to things they had control of. Now, before that day, nobody had ever wanted to know their fate, they were too afraid of being able to manipulate chance. After that day, nobody had ever wanted to know their fate, they were too afraid of trying to outrun it, only to fail, as they were always bound to. They say that the wise man is one who knows what he doesn’t know. A foolish man is one who believes they can change that. On that day, the man was tired. He had read every book and every page he could. His fingertips were tinged gray where the ink had smudged on his skin, papercuts littering the area around them. He had no companions, as he thought of everyone to be thick headed and dense. How could he discuss the intricacies of astrophysics and ancient philosophy with those who did not know what true knowledge was? His research had led him to this place. A place of wonder and wish, a small crack in a big canyon just large enough for a man to crawl through it. It wrote of the deep red rock and desolate plains marked with a tall cairn at the top of the chasm. The earth tried to warn him. It blasted terrible winds and torrential rains, but nothing could move a man with a set mind. After he squeezed through the rock wall, he was in an empty cave. There were sconces on the wall, the flames dancing above the wick. It felt like all of the air was sucked out of the cavern, his breathing coming out in low, shallow breaths. He called back to the text he had read just the day before, but there were no further instructions after this point. But he did not feel defeated. Only a stupid man would do such a thing. He sat down on the rough ground, crossing his legs. He placed his hands on each knee, touching his index and thumb tips together. He cleared his mind of thoughts and took as deep of a breath that the walls would allow. Meditation was the fastest way to a blank state, to unlock answers one might not think of with the ideas of the world plaguing their thoughts. He didn’t know how long it had been before he saw it. He felt like he had been suspended in time, his mind floating across the universe, his body an empty shell of a man who could not be contained in this realm. The best way to describe what he saw would be everything and nothing all at once. It felt like an overload of his synapses firing while shutting down. A feeling so immense there were no words for it, and that made him believe if he could not describe it, was he feeling anything at all? It was at that moment he knew why there were no more instructions in the book. Nobody ever made it past this point. What did a man who knew everything want? He did not need money, as it could not buy him things he did not already have. He did not need love, as he thought that emotion was a distraction. Those were the two things that seemed to make the world go round, he thought. And if he did not desire either, was he even human? Did his knowledge propel him above them so far that he did not need to wish for something that would be everything to them? He wanted something he could not learn in books, could not find outside his door. He wanted to know his fate, and if he did not like it, he wanted to change it. “What is it that you seek?” the man heard in his mind. “I want to know my destiny.” He felt the ground rumble underneath him. “An intelligent man such as yourself should understand the risk with this decision, yes?” It sounded like his voice layered thousands of times, an echo reverberating in his head. “There is no risk in seeking to know everything. There is only risk in having the opportunity and turning your back,” he replied. There was a long moment of silence. “Very well.” He saw his birth, as if he was his own mother, watching his eyes open for the first time. He could feel what it was like to be seconds old and bombarded with lights and people and sound. He could see himself cry, and he could feel the tears running down his cheeks in the cave. He flashed through every memory he had, some he recognized and some he didn’t. He saw the day he became truly alone, turning to books so that no one could leave him again. And he saw himself sitting in the middle of the cave, his dried tears marking a clean path of skin. And he braced himself for what came after. Would he live a quiet, fruitful life as he had been for the past years? Would he conquer far away worlds? Would he go and spread his gospel as the man who saw the closest thing to a god? He could feel his heart start to race, the knowledge feeling so forbidden yet wishing to be absorbed by him. His back was on the ground, his eyes staring up at the stalactites hanging from the ceiling. Did he black out when he saw his future? That wasn’t possible. He was ready. He had seen everything before this moment with such clarity he felt like he had lived his life all over again. He sat up and looked around, the flames on the wall burning brighter than before. But he couldn’t see the crack in the rocks. He walked over to where he entered, smooth stone staring back at him. He ran his fingers over it, trying to find anything to grab onto. It was as if it was never there. He circled the whole room, convincing himself that he got turned around when he made his wish. But he went around three times, and still, there was nothing. It must be a test, he thought. He sat back down in the middle of the floor, meditating once more. “Yes?” he heard. “What is the reason for this test?” he asked. “What test?” “There is no exit from this place anymore. I understand it is to test my skills, but how does that benefit us?” He heard a small laugh. “You cannot see past your own desires, can you? Here you are, seemingly stuck in a cave, and you believe it is because you are being tested.” This confused the man. “Well, yes. I don’t know what other reason there could be.” “Do you want to know why that little book of yours was never completed?” His own voice started to terrify him. It was not layered with different octaves of his own tenor, but with the screeching of something that did not belong to this world. “Because there has never been a man as smart as me.” He could feel the change in the air, feel the rage and hate that now filled the small cavern. “You like to believe you are above mankind. You think you have mastered all there is to know, that it was time to know something unknowable. Do you want to know why nobody has ever wished to know their own fate?” He could feel his lungs grow tight. “Yes.” No. “Because it is not something you have the right of knowing. You are so greedy, taking anything you want, anything you deem as yours. Even the universe, it seems, is not out of your reach. But I will not let you believe that you are one of us. I will not let you glimpse this power that has never, and will never, be yours.” Was he going to die? He was not scared of death, but that was before, when he thought he would know what it would be. “What are you going to do, then?” he asked, his voice wavering. “Well, I can share it with you now, I suppose.” The air dropped to a chill. “The fate of a man who wishes for more, will never be one to explore. He is a true monster in the making, believing the world is his for the taking. Fate is not a thing to change, but something that will stay the same. This has always been your end, for this is what you are destined. From the day you were born, to this moment forlorn. We were always meant to meet, and this is where you accept defeat.” The words rang in his head louder than anything he had ever heard. He could feel blood start to drip down his neck, his ear drums rupturing. He was still sitting with his legs crossed, but he was floating high, high, higher. He could feel his blood start to boil, and his bones start to break. He could feel himself screaming, his throat becoming raw from the harshness of it. He now knew why he saw his whole life just moments ago. His small eyes, so curious about the world even just as a baby, was the last thing he saw before his limbs were ripped from his body, a dismembered star hanging in the air. They say that the wise man is one who knows what he doesn’t know. A foolish man is one who tries to change that.