Pregnant black clouds consume the night sky, concealing stars, presenting a darker void than usual. Those clouds birth, discharging a steady stream to careen down the slopes and curves of the dreary moor.

Two men hike; one a few strides further ahead of the other and struggling to plant his feet in the steadily water-logging grass. His torch lights a trail through nature’s obstacles. The follower observes carefully where the leader’s footfalls settle, tracing his path for a smoother trek.

Leader ascends a hill but loses his footing and slips, dropping his light source on the sodden ground. He mutters out, “fuck”, and grumbles to himself as he picks up the torch and wipes his filthy hands on his jacket. He’s starting to resemble a non-threatening kind of swamp-monster, his black scruffy beard stained brown, his face speckled with the remnants of his misplaced tread on the hill.

He’s presumably thinking, “fuck it, it’s too late to turn back now, I might as well get stuck in,” as he digs his fingers into the grass embankment and begins to crawl. Follower halts at the bottom and chuckles. He shakes his head then shouts at Leader. “Why? Why are we doing this?” Leader continues dragging himself up, struggling like he’s a heroic pioneer climbing Everest. With a frown, he puffs out a breath of angst and carries on, regardless.

Follower follows Leader up on his hands and knees, too, when an abrupt blast of light hits him in the face, inflicting temporary blindness. Follower shields his eyes. He’s bleeding from the top of his head; it’s a nasty one. Dried blood runs its way from his hairline down his cheek. The fresh blood at the source of the wound is thick and viscous and is calmly seeping out.

Panicked, Leader shifts back around to reach the top. Once up, he stumbles into a narrow basin dressed with a thicket of shrubs and assortments of foliage intending to claw at your skin. His feet stick to the ground like glue, shoes caked in inches of mud and grass. Between the vegetation stands a shovel, planted in the ground like a victorious captured flag.

Follower eventually reaches the top, and treads carefully down after Leader, his face flushed with displeasure. “Why won’t you talk to me?” he growls “Turn yourself in… It’ll only get worse for you! Think about Katy and the kid.” Leader looks up at the sky, letting the rain rinse the earth from his pores. He screws up his face and screams internally, some of which escapes through his pursed lips.

“It’s not too late,” Follower continues. “Once the shovel pours that dirt in, though, it’s game over. You’ll get caught. Mark my words.” Leader pushes a long bundle into the shallow grave he must’ve dug earlier and looks in to see it filling with the unforgiving downpour. Rain climbs the sides, slowly submerging the pale cadaver rolled up in the bloodied rug. He takes the shovel from the ground; it slides out with ease. He peers at the pile of dirt melding together into one large moist clump. “Don’t,” Follower pleads.

Leader slaps himself upside the head and wails, “Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!”

He strikes the shovel back into the soft mound.

Follower moves nearer. “If only you made this much effort to fix things before turning to a senseless murder!”

Leader scoops the mud onto the shovel and piles it into the grave, hiding the bashed-up ashen face and dead eyes staring up at him in judgement. He shovels again, and again, and again. “I can’t believe you did this,” Follower murmurs. “I really can’t." Disgusted, he turns away and saunters to the top of the hill. Leader drops the last of the brown sludge onto the grave and turns back to where Follower was standing. “I’m sorry, alright, I didn’t mean for it to turn out this way.” “Bit late at this point. I don’t think your ‘sorry’ quite cuts it anymore, do you?” Follower responds bitingly. “He... He just... Pressed the wrong buttons. He always knew which ones to press and when to press them.”

“And that warrants death?… Right.” “I put two and two together and came up with eight. I thought he... did her, and, I-I mean, h-h-he didn’t exactly help his cause!" “Because you always place the blame on people and only believe what you want to believe!” “Please forgive me!” Follower scoffs. “You want--“ Tears fall from Leader’s eyes as he finally cracks. “Please, God, forgive me. Please. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I don’t want to go to hell!” He plunges to his knees, adding to the downpour. He puts his hands together, bowing into the mud.

“Just when I thought you were talking to me... Praying to God? Bit late for that shit, innit? It’s funny, you know, I’ve never seen you pray before, and have you ever even step foot inside a church? Wait, wait, did you just find God?” Follower laughs. “Oh, my word. You’re the best. The gift that keeps on giving.” Follower walks down the hill. Weeping, Leader flounders in the mud. “Please, please, please, please, forgive me!" Twenty minutes pass when Leader reaches his car parked in a layby at the edge of the moorland. He dumps the shovel in the trunk, opens the front door and gets inside. Follower sits in the back, staring gloomily out the window, arms folded, giving Leader the silent treatment. Leader takes a deep breath and turns the engine over. The car reverses onto the road, makes a U-turn and drives away. “I hope no one saw you out there,” Follower mutters from the back seat, still glaring out the window. “How would you explain that one? Out on a glorious night like this, just taking a midnight stroll on the moors. I’d buy that.” Leader drives in silence. “I’m wasting my time with you, aren’t I?” Follower asks.

Leader keeps driving, wipers squeak through the awkward silence. He looks in the rear view, glimpsing the follower's bleeding face staring at him. Leader jerks back in his seat, almost crashing his car into a speed-post on the grass verge.

“What the fuck!” Leader gasps, regaining control on the wheel. A further thirty minutes, give or take, and the old red Škoda pulls into the driveway of a semi-detached sitting in a row of semis on a jaded, nondescript street that could be any street in the country; number 45, if you’re interested. Leader heads inside the forty-fifth house on the generic street, leaving Follower to sulk in the car which is cooling down on the driveway.

Inside, Leader takes a shower, disposing of the physical evidence which smeared his body. On the landing, he leaves his dirty clothes discarded in the washing basket, and boy, is he in trouble when his wife sees this mess in the morning.

After cleaning himself up, Leader sneaks into his bedroom and climbs into bed next to his slumbering better half. He spoons her; she feels his warmth and smiles, taking his hand in hers. “I’m sorry,” Leader whimpers. Katy turns, opening her eyes. “What?” she says in a drowsy state. “Nothing,” he whispers back. Dazed, she nods and turns back, still grasping his hand, smiling pleasantly and hoping to get back to her dream, even though she knows it won’t be half as good as it was before he roused her.

“Nothing?” Leader hears whispered sharply from the other side of the room. Leader shoots up from bed and yells a terrified sound he doubts he’s ever uttered before. Naked, he dives out of bed, racing down the stairs through the front door to get to his car.

Katy swiftly bounces back to reality, wondering what is happening around her.

Follower stands behind the bedroom door, bleeding profusely from his temple, skin deathly white with protruding blue veins mapped out like rivers of blood.

Katy doesn’t catch sight of Follower as she gets up to grab her crumpled dressing gown from the floor. She rushes downstairs, careful not to trip on her gown, and picks up the house phone by the front door. The dial-tone rings nervously, or maybe that’s just how she hears it. On the other end of the line, she hears, “Hi, you’ve reached Steven, I can’t take your call right now. Leave a message and I’ll get back to you.” She hangs up and steps through into the kitchen, not noticing Follower sitting at the top of the stairs watching her, one of his eyes now missing from its socket. On the kitchen window frame are three photographs in fancy glass frames. A wedding picture of Katy and her man on that blissful summer day, the two of them holding a baby swaddled in pink covers, and Leader and Follower with what seems to be older relatives at a family gathering in a dingy social club.

A young girl toddles into the kitchen, tugging on Katy’s gown, making her jump. “Where’s Daddy?” the little girl asks. “I don’t know, baby.” She strokes the hair out of the little girl’s face. “He had to help Uncle Matt out, but--“ She looks at her daughter, unable to hide her concern. “But Mummy… Uncle Matt is over there.” The little girl points out into the dark hallway and holds her glance. Katy drops the phone on the tiles and screams.


Prolouge Deep in the woods of the Slandfall forest lies a large castle. Legend has it the goes built it before any humans arrived because of the magical aura surrounding it. People go for healing and pleasure, the economy is one of the best in the modern continent of Fluengarf. But then war struck Fluengarf, plunging it straight into a conflict it had no intention of being in. Thus putting the world into a 17 year war. Chapter One: Lessions "No Jay, like this! Grip the blade like this!" "I'm sorry father. I'm trying my hardest." "Your hardest isn't your best son! If you're to survive this world you need to get a grasp quickly. The younger you are the more you retain." "Yes father. I will practice more intensely" "I'm not gonna be round for ever ya know, I want you to be successful. Or at least better off than I am. Now go get ready for supper" Jay strolls into the small cottage his family lives in. "O Jay, be a dear and grab those plates from the counter?" "Yes mother." Jay gingerly slides the plates off the counter almost dropping them. "O Jay I know you're a wee lad but come now, they're only plates." "Sorry mother." Jay slides the plates to there respective places on the dining table, Jays older brother Travis enters the room. "Oh Travis so nice of you to join us, finally done messing around with that bar wench?" Jays mother says. "You'd like to know wouldn't ya ma?" Travis replies before taking a seat. "Is the food ready my deer?" Jays father yells from outside the cottage. "Aye Harold come in before the boys get seconds" Jays mother replies. "Ya know Helen, these boys may be as dumb as bricks but they know not to fiddle with a mans food" Harold replies. Suddenly a commotion is heard from outside. Harold without saying a word stands up and grabs a longsword placed by the front door. "If anyone knocks that isn't me. Do not open this door." Helen nods and locks the door behind him. "Ok boys, lets go I-- Jay?" Harold walks towards the commossion and stops suddenly. "Jay ya shouldn't of followed me." "You're always saying I need to grow up. I wanna come with you, I promise I won't get in the way." Harold sighs before pointing his blade forward and motions for Jay to come along. The two walk past an old building where they see a town guard on the dirty ground with an arrow lodged into his chest. A woman screams for help before noticing the pair. "Please help this man is dying." The woman screams. Harold hands the blade to Jay before running over to the wounded guard. "What's happened to ya?" Harold questions. The guard grabs Harold by the collar "They're coming! They're attacking us, you must warn the Lord!" "Calm down wee boy, who's coming?" Harold asks. With a terrifying look the man replies "Sabtoures.." Jay noticeses his fathers eyes widen. "Jay." Harold says with a chilling tone Jays never heard from his father before. "Go inside and tell your mother to never open the door." Harold stood up and walked away, never to be seen again. (Hey I thought I'd give my hand at a short story. I have a whole bunch of ideas and dialogue in my head if anyone sees this and is interested in my story I'd be glad to write some more chapters. Please let me know what you thought. Constructive criticism is always helpful.


Genevieve had not stopped bleeding for two months. It was just a small cut--she had been trying to shave the tiny peach-colored hairs on her upper lip that she felt looked manly and the razor had slipped and slashed off a chunk of her pale skin. It started out slow, and then the cut widened, and the blood accelerated, and then it was endless, night and day, an unstoppable flow, from her lip all the way down to her toes, clinging to her body and enveloping her in warm, sticky liquid. It wasn’t even regular blood--it *smelled*, like rust and battery acid, so strong her eyes were almost permanently tearing up. She had always hated blood and been a very easily embarrassed person, and this was beyond a doubt, her worst nightmare. It seeped and bubbled through the bandaids and bandages and duct tape and rubber cement she put over the wound, and it seemed to only flow more and more angrily the more she tried to stop it, and the more she begged it to be done the worse it got. Every day the blood dried and created new layers that would crack and stick and make her want to throw up with every move. She tried to hide from her family, but it began to pool in her room and soak her nice shag carpet and saturate every one of her clothes and fill up her closet. The smell permeated her entire home. Her parents found out after a week of her trying to hide it and forced her to go to the hospital. You cannot imagine the look of defeat on the nation’s greatest doctors and nurses who were brought in to solve the problem of the bleeding. One by one, they threw in the towel and went home, unable to solve the two fundamental questions of the case, which were how to stop the bleeding, and how did this five foot two twenty year-old girl have this much thick, strong-smelling blood inside of her. Her boyfriend came to the hospital for a little bit, but he was squeamish and couldn’t look at her blood-caked face for long without needing to hurl. Before he left she tried to pull him in and kiss him in front of her parents. He pushed her away, his palm striking her sternum hard, and walked out, apologizing over his shoulder. Her parents’ overly sympathetic grimaces made her sick. Finally after two months of constant mopping and draining and circles of doctors poking and prodding her like a lab rat, they sent her home, all of them hanging their heads in defeat. Genevieve was embarrassed they hadn’t fixed her. She had done nothing but waste all of their time and disgust them and fill their blood disposal tanks for two months and somehow she felt like the failure was hers and not theirs. She walked home from the hospital along the side of the four-lane highway, not allowed to bleed in her parents’ new Jeep. People stared at her as she walked past and honked at the bleeding girl and laughed. She watched their smiles and grimaces through their tinted windows and hung her head low. When she got home she sat in her room for the next week, watching TV on her laptop which she sealed in a gallon Ziploc bag. The room filled steadily with blood, until it leaked out the windows and Genevieve could no longer lie down on her bed without it filling her nose and mouth. It leaked through the ceiling and dripped down onto her parents’ expensive memory foam bed below, in thick scarlet strands that shimmered in the Alabama sunsets. The next week they surprised her at the dinner table, which they had covered in layers of black plastic garbage bags, and they told her it was time for her to move out-- make her own way in the world. They had apologetic smiles plastered on their faces, but they could barely make eye contact as they told her. Genevieve knew what was up. Her personality and her love of life and her drive had bled out of her too. She did nothing but stare blankly at her laptop screen and listen to her parent’s conversations downstairs about the cheapest place to move her. Two weeks later Genevieve’s parents waved goodbye as they drove away in their new Jeep. She looked around the dingy, ugly apartment she now inhabited in the three-level apartment complex on the outskirts of town. The green door of the place read 3F. No one else was around. All of her stuff had been ruined months ago, save her laptop in the ziploc, five packages of heavy black garbage bags, and three rolls of black electrical tape that her parents had given her. They hadn’t told the landlord about her whole bleeding issue, so they told her she needed to keep the place clean or else. Genevieve got down on her hands and knees, completely alone, filling the floor under her with viscous red. She already felt her smell annihilating the musty smell of the apartment that had provided a brief and welcome break from the battery acid smell that had soaked deep into her skin. She began coating every inch of her apartment in reflective black garbage bags and electrical tape. The floors, the ratty cloth couch that someone had left behind, the bed that looked more habitable by bedbugs than humans--in a few hours all of it had been covered, and Genevieve lived in a place that she thought was pretty much identical to her idea of hell. The apartment was nothing but black walls and frightening reflective dark shapes and covered windows and her own pungent blood, already inch-deep and clinging to the soles of her feet. She looked around the room again and decided that she was going to block off every single fucking crack or hole where the blood could escape. She stuffed wads of tape down the shower drain and sink drain and taped up every window completely. It was so hot and suffocating in 3F, the one tiny vent in the corner doing an absolutely pathetic job of ventilating the place. At this point Genevieve felt it added to the whole illusion of Hell she was creating, where she apparently deserved to be. Her plan was to lay in bed and watch TV until the blood rose all the way to the ceiling and she drowned. She figured she had no other option. What should have been like any other shaving cut turned into a life-ruining source of humiliation and disgust for basically no reason, and she couldn’t do anything but think about it every single second, and no one wanted to be around her anyway, so why not just be dead. She laid down on her garbage-bag bed in her hell room, opened her laptop, and began the drawn-out process of waiting to die in one way or another. At this point she just wished the flow of blood was faster. Three days later, the blood was up to Genevieve’s chest. It had covered the wall outlets and her laptop charger had shorted out, so she was just staring at her reflection in the wrinkled garbage bag wall, composing songs in her head and singing them to herself over and over, all of them involving the blood. She knew they were terrible. She had nothing good inside to sing about. Then came a loud knock, and then another. Genevieve said nothing. Then there was another, angrier knock, and then the door handle turned and someone kicked it. Her plywood door swung open with great force, and the tape and garbage bags that had been keeping all the blood in fell to the floor. A massive torrent of blood rushed past someone’s strong, tan legs. The owner of those legs stared at Genevieve, lying lamely on her back on her garbage bag bed. She looked very, very upset. “What the fuck are you doing??” Genevieve was taken aback. A tall, young latina woman with black hair, wearing a white tank top and now-bloodstained jeans, stood with her arms folded, glaring at her. Genevieve had no idea how to explain that she was waiting to drown in her own blood. “Hi, I’m Maria, your downstairs neighbor? My ceiling? Is *bulging.* There’s drywall flaking all over my place and my kid is afraid that it’s going to cave in on him.” “I’m--I’m sorry--” “You can’t have all this *blood* in here. It’s creepy, and a bunch of it just went on my *car,* like--just now*.* You’re going to have to clean that, you know. And jesus christ, put a bandaid on, okay?.” Genevieve was near tears, trying to explain herself. “I’m sorry--bandaids don’t work, nothing works--I can’t stop it.” “Well you need to stop it! You’re ruining my place! People *live* here!” “Please just leave me alone. Don’t look at me. Please.” “What? Why? I’m telling you something. I need to look at you.” “Just don’t look at me. Close the door and go away and I’ll be gone soon and I won’t bother you anymore, okay?” Suddenly Maria’s anger faded, and she got a very odd look on her face, and she stared at Genevieve for a long, long time without looking away. “Please stop. Stop looking at me.” Maria didn’t say anything, and she didn’t stop. Her and Genevieve stared at each other, Genevieve near tears, still bleeding, smelling herself and looking at herself through Maria’s eyes and imagining how disgusting and horrible and monstrous she looked, a lonely beast in a garbage bag cave with a carpet of blood. She started to cry, and the salt and the warmth of her tears mixed with her blood and she was covered, encased in her own fluids. Her cheeks flushed with the purest and most potent embarrassment she had ever felt. She felt like a prisoner in Maria’s gaze. Then Maria stepped over the threshold, and walked into Genevieve’s hellish black room and over to her, and lightly ran her hand through her hair. “Don’t touch me. Just leave me alone. Leave me alone.” “Shush. Sometimes people just need to be looked at and touched for a minute.” “I smell so bad. Please don’t.” “You do. But it’s okay. You’re here and I’m here.” Maria placed her other hand on Genevieve’s leg. She didn’t stop her. Maria leaned down and put her chin on top of Genevieve’s head, and she reached out and put her hands on Maria, and the two of them breathed together in sync for a little while. Genevieve’s breathing slowed, and so did her thoughts. The blood began to taper off until it was barely a trickle. Then softly, slowly, Maria lifted her hand from Genevieve’s leg and covered the cut on her lip with her finger. The blood, as if suddenly realizing its vulnerability, reared up like a liquid snake and turned to a firehose. It threw Maria’s arm back and drenched the walls, ripping the ugly beige paint and the garbage bags to shreds. Maria and Genevieve were helpless against the torrent. The door slammed shut and the room filled with blood up to the ceiling--then the floor caved in. Her apartment and Maria’s apartment below her were joined into one container that was filled completely with blood in seconds, and before long the dividing walls and floors and ceilings of the entire apartment complex were gone and filled with red. Genevieve and Maria floated in the center of the scarlet aquarium, barely contained by the brick exterior of the complex, surrounded by blood, smelling of rust and fire and acid and musk. For the first time in months, Genevieve thought not of herself but of someone else, and she looked to her left to see the woman floating unconscious in the deep red haze. She swam toward her, put her arm around her slim waist, and pulled her towards the sunlight, streaming in through a door and turning the muddy scarlet a brilliant orange. The bricks and mortar of the apartment complex burst all at once like a dam breaking, and the massive tsunami of blood carried Genevieve and Maria atop it over all the people who had evacuated the apartment complex, then crashed with a giant roar onto the local four-lane highway, stopping traffic. Genevieve slid and spun to a stop in front of dozens of cars and prying eyes, a massive trail of destruction and viscera behind her. In her arms was Maria, curled up in a ball with her eyes closed. Without a second thought, she rolled her onto her back in front of the hundreds of eyes glaring at her, and softly pressed her lips to Maria’s and began giving her CPR. As she alternated between furiously pumping on Maria’s sternum and breathing for her, she had the fleeting thought that she was no longer embarrassed. She was just scared. Then Maria’s eyes fluttered open, and she coughed a little bit, and Genevieve’s heart jumped into her throat in a way she had forgotten it could. She picked Maria up and threw her over her shoulders without a second thought, then gave a little wave to the furious drivers honking and screaming and laughing at her. Genevieve ran across the highway back towards the apartment complex, feeling Maria’s body upon her, not even realizing that she had finally stopped bleeding.


February 14th. It was just another day on the calendar for Tom Jensen. Just another day in the office, making sales calls to customers. However, everything and everyone he encountered today was trying to convince him otherwise. Vicky, the secretary by the front door, had pink balloons and candy in abundance. Flowers abounded in every lady’s cubicle. Three giant heart-shaped cakes were in the breakroom at lunch. Everybody took a slice as they made the same joke, “Better not spoil my dinner!” This was followed by excited discussion of evening plans. The expensive restaurants drew the most admiration and awe. Sentimentality and clever romantic ideas were tied for second place.

Tom Jensen, age 28, sat there at lunch, not touching the cake. Trying to not even look at the cake, really. As everybody else finished sharing their plans, he started to go back to his desk. He would do anything to avoid The Question. Too late, Rick from accounting noticed him and shouted, “Where is the young stud going to dinner tonight? What is the hottest ticket in town?”

Everybody gave their good-natured chuckle and stared for ten minutes. Maybe it was only three seconds, but close enough. Tom then, as he had so many times before, delivered The Response: “I don’t have any plans tonight.” Vicky said, “Oh, why not? You could have anyone you want!”

Jerry from engineering said, “Nobody can lock down a player like you!” Dale from HR said, “Nothing wrong with that, you have plenty of time! Enjoy that single life!” All of these responses came at once, in a jumbled flurry of fake, empty encouragement. Tom forced a smile and went back to his desk. A fog began to set in, one where his emotions were clouded. Where his feelings could not escape out, or into him. This was a protective fog to get him through the day. Part of it always stuck around, and it had deepened over time, but Tom did not mind. He really had no other choice.

 Three coworkers had left valentines and candy on his desk. Amanda, in the cube across from him, had three bouquets of roses sitting on her desk. As Tom stared, she sat down with a fourth. “Your boyfriend must have bought the whole shop,” Tom joked. “Oh, I don’t have a boyfriend. These are just from some of the guys I’ve been dating. Aren’t they beautiful?” Amanda replied. She was genuinely giddy. Tom wanted to puke. “I have another date tonight. Another guy I met online. We are going to a really nice restaurant, so how could I say no?” Tom didn’t reply. He started making calls, trying to close his nose to the smell of flowers. That did not work, just like it had failed that morning. All of his clients also hit him with The Question. And he hit them with The Response. As the afternoon slowly continued, the temptation occasionally hit Tom to be honest. To tell everyone he hated all of this. To tell everyone they were never this excited about their relationships the entire rest of the year.

To tell everyone he was so incredibly lonely.

The fog thickened, and that temptation went away. Tom had no way of getting out of this. Everybody he met was married or not interested. Trying to flirt with strangers at the grocery store was creepy. None of the married people he knew ever bothered to try to set him up with anybody. He spent most days alone in his apartment, where he did not meet girls, and the cycle continued. Clearly there was something deeply wrong with him. Everybody else had it figured out, but not Tom Jensen.

Tom had tried being honest before. Sometimes it was too much to hold in, and some variation of the term “very single” poured out of him. That always led to an avalanche of Helpful Replies.

“If I was your age, I would be partying all the time.” “There are so many fish in the sea, you will meet somebody.” Tom didn’t want a fish, he wanted a woman. “You have time. You are way too young to even worry about that.” “I found my spouse when I wasn’t even looking. Contentment is the key, then you will find somebody.” The most helpful, though, was silence. Complete silence from every last married man who Tom genuinely sought advice from. None of them cared the slightest bit about helping him, they just wanted to discuss any other topic. As soon as any man got married, they chose to forget what it was like to be single, and chose to be completely useless to all the men struggling in the pool they just left.

The awkwardness amused Tom. It was always exciting for people to discuss relationships. They never shut up about their wives, constantly mentioning them in every story, decision and concern they had about anything at all. But as soon as Tom mentioned singleness, the other side of the coin, it was somehow taboo. Nobody cared about that, or those in that. Nobody cared about Tom Jensen.

Tom slogged through his calls, making a few sales. He should have taken the day off, he knew all of this would make him nearly sick. If only he was allergic to flowers. Or the color pink. However, the end of the day was near, and he was rewarding himself with better food than he could ever make. Food to stuff himself with, then fall asleep as soon as possible.

Tom pulled out his phone, and placed an order to get on his way home. It occurred to him that he got dinner with the same ease that Amanda got dates. Everybody said that was the modern way to do it, but Tom refused. He could not just pick from a sea of faces, no matter how much everyone else touted it. He had to meet someone first, somehow, instead of meeting up and hoping for the best. Instead of using them for a couple hours of entertainment. His apparently warped view on all of this had to do that. And that was why he would forever be alone. Tom left for the restaurant, and got there early. Early enough to watch all of the happy couples stream in. Early enough that he had time to think, and dwell on what was so wrong with him. If he knew, maybe he could fix it.

If he could cry, maybe he could at least release everything he had bottled up. But Tom could not cry, he could only feel the emotion. Wear it on his face. Make everybody too concerned to approach. The fog thickened, and no tears arrived.

Tom walked in and sat at the bar. His food would be a couple minutes, so he watched the TV. He tried to not watch the happy couples.

Somebody walked by and said, “Tom?” Tom turned. It was John, an employee in accounting. He got married last summer. “Hey man,” Tom said. He had no more energy for this. He wanted his food and his solitude.

John stared at the TV too, “I’m sorry about lunch today. Rick sucks. And being single really, really sucks. I know that is not helpful, and I wish I had advice for you. But anyway, enjoy your dinner and try not to think about this stupid holiday.” “Yes, it astronomically sucks,” Tom replied.

Rick gave him a hard, quick hug and clapped him on the back as he walked off.

Tom smiled. The fog slightly lifted.


*Nainika’s Note* This is NOT a series-Oh, who am I kidding. This is basically a series, isn’t it? All but in name. GhA. Enjoy :) EDIT: I'll change the middle portion...felt a bit rushed to me...idk if you feel the same There was only one day in the year when demons have an edge over us angels. And it’s not even something that the Almighty had planned. It was purely human ingenuity. That I do suspect Asmodeus had a hand in pushing. Because that is just his scene. But this dreaded day wasn’t something that I could just forget. It's a day that the world rejoices when it comes around because they can have a day where pranks are everywhere and people fill the streets with laughter and fun and oh I hate it so much.

April Fool’s Day.

Back in 1582, France had the brilliant idea to switch from the Julian calendar to the Gregorian calendar. The idea came from the Council of Trent, where both Asmodeus and I were in attendance, and..oh holy gods. That’s where he gave them the idea. Darn it.

Anyway, the start of the new year was moved from April 1st, the spring equinox, which followed the Hindu calendar, to January 1st. But there were a lot of people who didn’t realize that the date had changed, and they were referred to as “April Fools”. Thus, the tradition to prank on another on that day began.

But I hated the day so much. So, unlike the rest of the world, I made sure that I did good deeds on the 1st of April. However, a lot of people didn’t believe me. And often, my ideas of good deeds backfired poorly onto me. It wasn’t for lack of trying, it was just the fact that people become very suspicious of ‘good deeds’ on the first day of April.

Take America, 1775, for example. I gave the colonists the idea of separating themselves from Britain’s power-hungry rule, and they took my words with a grain of salt, turning the land west of the Atlantic into an eight-year revolution. Like...what?

And then France 1789. I gave Marie Antoinette the nice idea of giving the poor peasants cake for her glamorous party. But instead, they overheard her jesting proclamation, stormed the Bastille, started a decade-long war, and chopped poor Marie’s head off. I felt bad about that for years.

So, even though I mean well, it doesn’t quite work out the way I want it to happen. But I keep trying. An angel can never do the wrong thing. I think.

Oh, dear.

The first of April started off with a bang. A literal bang. Angels don’t sleep, so I was reading a magazine when I heard my downstairs neighbor shriek in either excitement or fear as a party popper exploded somewhere near her. Her boyfriend, probably. The one with a Stanford degree in engineering, who turns into a pile of mush around his long-time girlfriend who graduated from a community college with a degree in liberal arts. And yes, I have too much time on my hands and study my fellow Chicagoan neighbors. I’m an immortal angel. I can do what I want.

“April Fool’s!” He yelled, and I could hear it even from a floor up. I rolled my eyes and snapped my fingers. The prank that had caused her to scream had been replaced with a dozen fluffy puppies, because who could resist those? I heard confused gasps, but the overwhelming cuteness of those puppies won the two over and I couldn’t hear any more sounds. Satisfied, I didn’t even notice a shadowy figure lurking self-righteously behind me. I caught sight of him in the mirror and jumped. “God, demon. Don’t scare me.” I said, turning to face him. His eyebrows quirked. “You know what day it is?” He asked in a low voice. I rolled my eyes, walking to my gigantic closet and grabbing a cream scarf. I pulled on my fluffy boots and swung my off-white jacket around me.

“If you say it, I won’t talk to you all day.” I retorted. He grinned.

“Fine, I won’t say it. But watch where you’re going.” He said. I looked over my shoulder at him and failed to notice the trap in front of me. I walked straight into cling-wrap rolled around the door frame. Shrieking, I batted it away, but slipped on my hard-wood floors and fell flat on my back, the cling-wrap still covering my face. Asmodeus leaned over me and smirked. “What’d I tell you?” He asked.

I growled and snapped my fingers, turning his sunglasses into a small black kitten that meowled in fear and dug its tiny claws into his nose. With a yelp, my demon slipped on the floor and landed in the same place I was. I laughed at the expression on his face and turned the kitten back into his sunglasses.

“Payback,” I said. He looked at me.

“I thought you angels didn’t do that sort of thing?” He asked. I shrugged.

“I guess you’ve rubbed off on me,” I said vaguely, not seeing his strange expression as I got up. “Are we going?” I asked. Every year on...today, we had a tiny competition to see whose influence was greater. Most of the time he won, only because my good deeds backfired on me.

We walked out of my apartment and down the stairs. By unspoken agreement, we didn’t trust elevators. Something to do with Betty Lou Oliver and the Empire State Building elevator. My next-door neighbor was coming up as we were going down, holding a bunch of flowers in his hand. I caught the tripwire in the bunch and snapped my fingers, turning the false flower squirter into an engagement ring. True, he would be surprised, but his long-time boyfriend would thank me for it.

I’m sure.

Asmodeus smirked at me, no doubt noticing my attempt at a good deed.

“It’s not going to work out, you know?” He said. I glowered at him.

“And you can say that for a fact?” I asked. He nodded, smirking even more. I gasped. “Don’t you-” I started, but he’d already snapped his fingers. I paused on the steps at the howl of fear coming from my neighbor’s boyfriend. “What’d you do?” I demanded. Asmodeus laughed. "Just made that ring into a hairy tarantula. Larry's confused but Micah is absolutely terrified." He said. I groaned. See what I mean about backfiring? He's incorrigible. But he's a demon, so what did I expect? "You....suck," I said, struggling not to swear. My demon only laughed harder. "It's April-" He started, but I punched him squarely in the stomach, making him double over. "You say it and I do it again," I vowed, glaring into his sunglasses. He only winked at me. "I can't change the date, angel. I can only embrace it." He said. We reached the bottom of the steps and I pushed open the front door. The brisk wind nearly took my breath away and I tightened my shawl around me. The sky was bright blue, wisps of clouds floating high above us, but the wind off Lake Michigan was chilling as always. It didn't matter that we'd lived in the city for over fifty years, the cold always got to me. "Where to, Cielo?" He asked as we turned down Monroe. I shrugged. "Buckingham Fountain? Shedd Aquarium? Lakeshore Drive?" I said. He mused. "Eckhart Park?" He asked. I rolled my eyes. "Again?" I asked. He smirked. "Fine then, you pick." He said. We walked down Monroe in silence as I thought about where to go. "How about just wherever we end up?" I asked. Asmodeus side-eyed me. "Oookay then." He said. I smiled. Okay then. We walked for a bit, enjoying the fresh air. We got hot chestnuts from a vendor off Park and Lake, and we clutched them as we walked further down Michigan. As we were crossing Wacker Drive, I noticed a man sneaking up behind a woman, presumably his partner or relative. I swallowed my mouthful of food and snapped my fingers, putting a very pretty necklace in his hands in place of the prank he had. She turned to him with a surprised look and pressed a kiss to his lips. Fawning over the necklace, she made him put it on, and his confused look turned into one of pride. See? Not everything backfires.

Asmodeus glared at me. “Stop it.” He said. I blinked.

“What?” I asked. He motioned to the couple.

“Being...good today. It’s-” He paused at my glower. “You know, that day. Let them enjoy it.” He complained. I shook my head.

“No can do, demon. It’s in my nature.” I said matter-of-factly. He groaned.

“Why do I even bother?” He muttered to himself. I smirked. Because he couldn’t help it.

The day passed much like the morning. I prevented six other people from pranks and practical jokes, and only one of them Asmodeus prevented. Instead of the water gun the woman was holding, he put a real gun in her hand. I quickly elbowed him and he put the water gun back, slightly disappointed. The woman didn’t even notice, but I made sure her opponent was dressed in waterproof clothes.

It’s the simple things.

We walked back to my apartment, Asmodeus sulking at the end of his favorite day, and me glowing because I had done good deeds in place of pranks. No, really. I was literally glowing. My warm caramel skin turned a milky white and Asmodeus quickly shoved me into a dark alleyway to make sure I didn’t startle people.

“You’re glowing.” He hissed as I blinked, confused, up at him. I looked down at my skin and smothered a gasp.

“This shouldn’t be happening,” I whispered, trying to put a damper on the glow.

“Do something about it.” He said, peeking around to make sure nobody else was around. I patted my arm like a fool, and nothing happened.

“What do I do?” I said. He looked at me.

“I’m not an angel. How the hell should I know?” He asked, but sighed at the look on my face. “Uh...try thinking negative thoughts.” He said. I blinked.

“What? I don’t think negative thoughts, you…..dolt. It’s not in the job description!” I shot back. He rolled his eyes.

“Well, la dee da. Do something, and do it fast. People are gonna ask questions.” He said. An idea came to me.

“That’s it!” I said excitedly.

“What?” He asked.

“April Fools. They’ll think I was the victim of a very good prank, as much as I hate to say that.” I said. He looked at me doubtfully.

“You think that’ll work?” He asked. I nodded.

“I’m sure of it. But you owe me for that.” I added. He scowled.

“For what? It wasn’t even my fault-” He started, but I yanked him out of the alley. As predicted, people stared, but I laughed it off.

“He got me good!” I said conspiratorily to one shocked woman. She grinned.

“I can see that.” She laughed. After she passed, I snapped my fingers and made her young daughter at home get accepted into the children’s hospital and put some extra money in her bank account. The poor lady deserved it.

After we reached my apartment, the glow faded. With a sigh, I turned to my demon.

“What was your favorite part about today?” I asked. He choked back a laugh. “What?!” I asked, elbowing him.

“I’ll never forget that you had to pretend to be a pranked person.” He snickered. I rolled my eyes.

“Yeah, well, you’ll have to wait another year for this chance again, demon,” I said, pulling open my front door. I heard his low voice over my shoulder. “That’s what you think.”


Many people have trouble expressing themselves when it comes to love. It's not an easy word or collection of feelings to describe. Humanity has written about love since our species has been writing; that's a fact. Don't look it up, just know that I am right. From poets to playwrights to novelists to screenwriters we have been striving to truly explain this incredible phenomenon, this singularly dynamic human experience. I am, however, writing to tell you: You can finally stop. It's been broken down into four very concise notes and followed-up by the most romantic of poetry: free verse in a way that is elegant, potent, timeless and everlasting. The fact is there is nothing more to say about it. It can't be said better. It's over. Get used to these notes, for any time a young lover woos: you will hear these words. Any time that lover meets the parents, gam-gams and other relations of their beloved at a family dinner table for the first time: you will hear these words. Any time these lovers sneak upstairs to a bedroom and close their door and begin necking, heavy petting, fellating, or fornicating while you put a cup to the door and your ear on that cup: you will hear these words. Any time these lovers stop at a parking lot of an abortion clinic and they vow to support the other and their decision, and they choose this moment to reaffirm their feelings for one another while you're hanging out with a hyper-cardiod microphone and a pair of headphones in the back of your van: you will hear these words. When these lovers elope and exchange their vows to each other in a discreet office at city hall while you try to find a way in through the building's ventilation shafts: you won't hear these words, but they will be spoken. When these lovers go through with their pregnancy and a new beautiful life enters this world screaming while you stand by pretending to be a doctor with your face hidden by a hygienic mask filming the whole thing on an HD camcorder, they will look at one another and say these words. When that baby looks at you with big blue eyes and speaks for the first time while its parents are with the police desperately looking for their child three states away: you will hear these words. When the law inevitably catches up with you after you've raised the child as your own for half a year and they ask you "Why? Why did you do this?", you will speak these words: 1) Love is a precious resource. Your love is so precious, like tantalum metal. It's worth the extinction of all the great apes. 2) Love can be frightening. Your love, it did strike, Like two planes hit two towers, And I fell for your love, And so did those towers. 3) Love isn't necessary, but it makes the world a better place. You made my world warmer, Like exhaust from a truck. You polluted my heart With your flammable love. 4) Life without love is hopeless. You melt my heart, baby, Like the polar ice caps. I need you more Than a drowning polar bear needs an ice platform. And that about sums it up. I'd like to thank the anonymous author, as well as all those who made attempts before, however infantile those attempts may seem now. Artists like Shakespeare, Oprah, Jesus, Elvis... You know the rest. And of course, thank you, the reader. In the immortal words of CCR, "Keep on chooglin'.


It was some giant, cosmic joke. It had to be. Somewhere, up in the stratosphere, whatever deities were still watching over us mere mortals were cackling . It was, ironically enough, hilariously unfunny.  And, on top that, it was stupid, on my part, to let it go on as long as I had in the first place. It wasn’t like I hadn’t known what I was getting into. I read the brief; front to back, back to front, and in German (for good measure). I could recite it from memory. Captain Rhiannon Ellis, the pride of the Greendale Police Department, was known for her habit of closing cases while seemingly doing nothing but goof off and flirt with everything that drew breath. It was why I’d been hired in the first place. I needed to figure out exactly how much she knew; throw off her investigation; and not get seduced in the meantime.

I’d done two of those things. Which is a D+ at best.

“Did you actually write a report this time,” Ellis asked, her voice dry as kindling and cutting through the almost peaceful silence that had followed me barging my way into her office with nary a how-to-do, “or am I going to have to fake one. Again.” “Better practice forging my signature,” I said, tossing her my wickedest of grins, the one that promised a myriad of things to come, and flopped down onto the unfairly comfortable sofa Ellis kept by the window. It was perfect for napping -- or pretending to nap, as the case may be, “And don’t forget my distinctive flair for the dramatic.” Gods, this was stupid. I should get out while I have the chance. My employers were already up my ass; my turnover was usually rocket fast. It’s what I was known for . My whole reputation rode on the ability to get in, get the information I needed, and get the heck back out again. It was there, in heavily encrypted plain English, all over the dark web.

I hadn’t had to advertise my own services in years, the proof was in the pudding. And, honestly, I’d had enough information a month ago, but I was still hanging around like an idiot. It was easy to play it off as long as I kept the information coming. No one really had the time to delve too deep into my continuing ruse. Though at this point, I wasn’t entirely sure who I was pulling one over on. “I let you get away with too much,” Ellis lamented, overdramatic and with a smile on her face.

Gods, she was gorgeous. “If that were true you wouldn’t push my feet out from under your ass while we watch T.V.”

“And you wouldn’t get any enjoyment out of it if you didn’t have to try, you absolute cretin .” Because that was the thing, wasn’t it? Ellis had snarked, and snapped, and shrugged me off; I had given back as good as I’d gotten. Ellis had sent me on bullshit beat after bullshit beat; I had delivered every time, petty criminals practically gift-wrapped. Ellis challenged my decisions; I screamed in her face (arguably not my best decision). The point was, for some reason, I kept trying.

Ellis started calling me Thorn; I called her Stevie until she cut it the heck out. Ellis said, “ Call me Rhiannon, when we’re not at work ”; I had just laughed because I’d never see Ellis outside of work, right? Right? Ellis -- Rhiannon smiled at me across the table in some dimly lit bar after a case that had gone surprisingly smoothly; against every alarm bell shrieking its fool head off in the back of my brain, I smiled back and held out my package of sour Skittles .

A peace offering. Rhiannon had kissed me, in an even dimmer corner of that same bar, her hands tangled in my hair; I kissed her back, the whole world dissolving into whiskey and the tang of citric acid and pure, unadulterated stupidity . I went home with her.

It was only supposed to be the one kiss, the one night, the one time.

But I’d woken up, so early that it could still be called late, with hazy moonlight streaming in through the open curtains, and rolled over. The darkness threw the parts of Rhiannon’s face that I’d thought I knew into shadow and brought out all of the things I’d never thought to look for.

The exact angle of the slant of her eyes; how long her lashes were; the scar across her left cheekbone.

She slept with her mouth slightly open and her dark hair spilled across the white pillow like spilt ink. She slept with a knife carefully under her pillow and her arm thrown carelessly across the most immediate threat in her life. I could have killed her. That night or any of the nights after. It wasn’t, technically, in my job description. I was supposed to neutralize the threat that Rhiannon and her team posed to the arms dealers who had hired me.

No one said anything about killing her.

It wouldn’t be frowned upon , per say, but it wasn’t a part of my contract. I would still get paid if Rhiannon lived. I would still be able to pay for Everly’s treatment if Rhiannon lived. When Rhiannon lived. “What are you thinking about?” Ellis-- in the office she was Ellis. In every report I’d ever drafted, for the Greendale Police Department or for my employers, she was Ellis. In every moment of my joke of a life not spent curled in the corner of Rhiannon’s sofa with a book in my lap and my feet tucked firmly underneath the other woman’s thighs she was Ellis -- asked, setting her pen down on the desk with a quiet click. If there was ever a time to lie my ass off --“What you look like underneath that uniform,” while not exactly true, it also wasn’t entirely a lie. There was something about being in the same room as Ellis, something electric. Something that felt like breaking a rule and knowing you were going to get away with it. Outside of the office, when she was simply Rhiannon, when she favored t-shirts so old and loved that they were practically see through and worn jeans with holes in the knees and frayed hems, she softened. Her smile came easier, her eyes were less calculated, and the soft flutter of her hair around her face blurred her usually jagged edges.  Ellis, with her razor wit and sharp gaze, tight braid, and starched uniform, was something else entirely. She was dangerous; ex-military, an expert marksman, she could slit your throat before you realized she was even in the room. And honestly? That kind of did it for me. “Why do I put up with you?” Ellis laughed, leaning forward across her desk and planting her chin into her folded arms, “Your name literally means trouble.” The alias I’d chosen for this job did, anyways. Briar Queens. Rhiannon called me the Queen of Thorns, sometimes. She called me a lot of things, actually. Things I should have hated. Honey. Baby. Sweet Pea. Usually in the bedroom. Sometimes in the kitchen, with the lights dimmed, as I stirred exactly the right amount of sugar into her tea. Sometimes in the living room, when I mindlessly unspooled her wool for her as she knit and I read, Santa Clarita Diet on in the background. “Well,” I started, swallowing around the soccer ball that had formed in my trachea when Ellis had laughed --every laugh in the office was hard won and far between-- and trying valiantly not to think about what that meant, “I’m beautiful, brilliant, charismatic, and very, very good in bed.” I added in a terrible, overdone wink just to earn another of her quiet, smoky laughs.

“You are all of those things,” Ellis agreed, her smile soft, too soft for the office and too much for me to deal with before nine in the morning.

It wasn’t the kind of smile you threw around; not the kind you let just anybody see. It certainly wasn’t the kind of smile that you offered your coworker with benefits. “What?” I asked, “No ‘but’ in that sentence, Captain?” I expected sarcasm; something witty and maybe a little sexy. I didn’t expect her smile to just brighten, “No ‘but’.” I had to go . I needed to be somewhere else. Anywhere else. Dangling twenty five feet above a pit of venomous snakes in the middle of a hurricane would be preferable.

“Coffee?” I squeaked, because it was the easiest excuse in the book; find me a cop without a near crippling caffeine addiction and I’ll out-do that guy from the movie with the annoying yellow things and steal you the damn moon.

Ellis’ eyes lit up, “Yes, please ,” she reached for the drawer in her desk that I knew housed her wallet, phone, and keys, but I waved her off. “I got it,” I said, “no worries.” I should really look away; she’d settled her desk in front of the large window, so she could feel the sun on her back throughout the day (because the woman was honestly just an overgrown housecat at the best of times) and the hazy morning light hung around her like a glow and it was doing concerning things to my blood pressure. Ellis relaxed back into her chair; her eyes were blue. It was easy to forget since they were so dark, but the second the light hit them just right it was like watching a raven’s wings unfurl, “Thank you, Briar.” Oh. First names. In the office. My hand stilled in midair as I reached for the door handle. “I said no worries,” I told her over my shoulder, because looking back would be a mistake , “Rhi.”

The door clicked shut behind me and I pressed my back against it, for lack of anything else solid and sturdy including, apparently, my spine .

“Damn, Queens,” Sergeant Walsh, a tall, kind looking man with glasses and approximately seven thousand pictures of his toddler ready to accost an innocent bystander at any given moment, whistled, “What’s got you so hot and bothered this early?” My skin was naturally, blessedly, a little on the darker side thanks to my useless father, but I don’t think all of the melanin in the world could have hidden my blush entirely.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I said, silently praying for an isolated lapse in the structural integrity of the building that would crumble the floor below my feet and send me to the floor below and therefore away from this conversation, “I’m just going on a coffee run.” “Oh, a coffee run,” Walsh’s grin only widened, “is that what we’re calling it nowadays?”

“That is what we’ve always called it when someone leaves the office to acquire coffee .” I hissed -- God is fake. God is absolutely fake; God is a figment of humanity's constant need to feel like there is something bigger than them at work, because if God was real either Walsh or I would have dropped dead of a spontaneous coronary at that very moment. “You don’t have Cap’s card, though,” Walsh pointed out; the absolute bastard. He was loving this! “Which means it’s not a coffee run for the whole team. Which means it’s just the two of you. And since you don’t have her card that means that you’re buying the both of you coffee. Probably from that stupidly expensive hipster place down the street that you both love. Which means you’re also going to buy two pastries, which you’re then going to eat together in her office.” Could I kill Walsh and make it look like an accident? No. I scratch out that idea as soon as I think it; the jerk had the audacity to be Rhiannon’s best friend. She’d miss him if I killed him. She'd be sad . “Which means ,” but then again… “it’s a date.” I stared at him in stunned, horrified silence for several long moments. I knew exactly what my face looked like; Everly had snapped a picture once and it now hung, framed, in the living room of our shoebox apartment and acted as a reaction image when someone said something particularly stupid on the internet, “You’ve lost your mind,” I said, faintly. “I have not!” Walsh crowed, clapping his hands and beaming down at me, “You and Cap have a breakfast date. You’re buying breakfast to eat with Cap. This is Girlfriend Breakfast.”

“You shut your whore mouth right now, Anthony Walsh,” I warned, pointing one finger at him -- my other hand was still clutching at the door jam to keep myself upright, “it is not a date. It is…” what, exactly, was it? Two friends having breakfast? That could work, except usually ‘two friends’ didn’t mean ‘two people who had sex three to four times a week and spent the night together even more than that’. Friends With Benefits: Now Including Americanos And Gluten Free Muffins!

“It is what?” Walsh asked; eyes glinting behind his glasses the way they did when he knew he was winning.

“It’s nothing ,” I spat, pushing away from the door and stalking passed him, “bloody detectives!” He danced in front of me, walking backwards and weaving through the bullpen with an ease I refused to envy, “ Don’t you have work to be doing? Go detect something. There’s nothing to detect in my relationship with Rhiannon.” Shit. “ Rhiannon !” Walsh lit up like a Christmas tree and stopped walking, forcing me to either do the same or crash my nose into his sternum, “You come in early,” he held up one finger, “you buy her breakfast,” two fingers, “and now you call her by her first name!” For the love of -- “Yes! Okay, yes. I am sleeping with her. Is that what you want to hear?” I threw my hands in the air like an exasperated mother of four, “I am sleeping with the captain. I have been sleeping with the captain since the drug bust back in freaking August.” “I knew that already,” Walsh looked at me like I was stupid (I’m not stupid), “what I want to know, is what your intentions are towards my best friend?” Thank the freakin’ fake gods I’d shown up early and no one else had managed to stumble their way into the office yet because the pitch my voice took when I shrieked “Intentions? ” back at him would have busted some ear drums. As it was, it lured Ellis out of her office. “Briar, is everything alright?” She asked before she’d even surveyed the scene, “Oh. Tony.” She looked between the pair of us before sighing; too sharp for her own good, that one, “Intentions. Tony, I told you to leave it alone.” I told you . She’d told Walsh about me. She’d told Walsh about us . There was an us . “What?” Walsh’s eyes got all big and innocent, like he wasn’t in the process of actively terrorizing the villagers (the villagers being me, myself, and I.) “I just want to know--” “My intentions,” I repeated dryly. “Exactly!”

Ellis looked like she was on the brink of a migraine -- on one hand, awesome , this beat my record by a whole fifteen minutes, on the other I added that fancy migraine medication that was literally just Tylenol and caffeine to my mental shopping list because I knew, for a fact, that she’d taken the last of her supply on Friday.

“Incredible,” she sighed, “why I put up with either of you I’ll never know.” She grabbed Walsh by the upper arm, her grip leaving no room for interpretation or struggle -- he was going to go where she wanted him and he was going to do so with minimal whining -- and dragged him to her side, opening up the way to the elevator for me. “On your way, Briar. I’ll handle the peanut gallery,” her hand was gentle between my shoulder blades as she lightly pushed me forward.

“Thanks,” I said, darting into the elevator and slamming my hand against the close button until the office was hidden from view by the thick, shiny metal doors and Walsh could no longer somehow manage to get away and teleport back into my personal space.

That was a nightmare, to put it lightly. My intentions .

He didn’t want to know my intentions.

I didn’t want to know my intentions. Hell, I doubt I could tell him if I wanted to. Nothing had gone as I intended. I was a spy , okay? They could throw out words like ‘covert’ and ‘espionage’ and what have you all the livelong day but that didn’t change the fact of what I was. I was the damn spider, cocooned in my web of lies, spinning them one after the other. Everyone else was just a fly; they didn’t matter . Nobody mattered, except for Everly. Which is why I’d intended to do my job, collect the paycheck, and forget the whole thing had ever happened, like I did every time. I didn’t intend to kiss Rhiannon. I didn’t intend to sleep with her, and once I did I never intended for it to become a thing . I never intended to stay the night. I never intended to google how to make gluten free pancakes at six AM on a Sunday.

I never intended to fall in love with her. Oh . The elevator doors slid open. Oh no.


Chris strode down the street, market stalls from the festival closing. It was just after dawn, and in a small village like this, hardly anyone was still awake – annual festival or not. Chris didn’t live here, didn’t live anywhere near here, really. He was just passing through, hopping onto traveling carriages when he could, walking when he couldn’t. He had a set destination in mind, and it was across the country. Over there, with clear skies, sandy beaches, and open waters, Chris would finally find peace. He’d lived a worthwhile life, racking up as many enemies as he did lovers, but it was time he laid down and enjoyed the serenity being someplace new offered. The village he was at right now was on his way to that far-away beach. He’d only arrived a few hours ago, taking his time to sightsee and shop. The festival seemed to be, from the few people he spoke to, a once-a-year celebration of life. No one was to go hunting or fighting for the week-long festival. It was a week of good-natured fun, dancing, and talking to those who stayed alive. Chris was grateful for the festivities, for it meant no one would cause him trouble, being a newcomer and passerby and all that. However, it also meant he had to watch his manners, because Chris loved to argue, and he loved even more to fight. He’d dueled quite a few men in his prime, but his life was quickly setting, and he didn’t want to spend whatever time he had left worried he’d be shot. Chris continued walking down the main street, nodding his head to those packing up their stalls, making his way back to where he was lodging. Finding a place to sleep was always his top priority in a new place. It was a lot easier cleaning up blood with a tub. A lot safer passing out on a bed. The establishment he’d chosen this time was a newer looking tavern. The bar was on the bottom, rooming on the floor above. It seemed to be the only place to grab a drink, and it wouldn’t open until sunrise tomorrow to give a day of rest after the festival. Chris remembered overhearing something similar being done for all the other shops on the street. Which was just fine for him, as the more he drank the angrier he got, and it wouldn’t be good to start his easy-going lifestyle with even more blood on his hands. Chris kicked a rock out of his way, ambling toward the bar’s doors. It was a wooden building painted bright red, blending in with the other colorful buildings littering the street. For one night’s sleep it wasn’t a bad price, and it came with as much food from the bar as Chris could shove in his mouth. Being on the larger side, that meant a whole lot. Chris shouldered open the half-cut doors, raised his hat to the owner cleaning tables, and walked to the side door, up the stairs, down the hallway to his room. He didn’t bother locking it with the key the owner gave him - he didn’t bring any valuables. Chris was planning on buying materials to set up a home once he was closer to the coast, so for now all he had were the clothes he wore, two guns, a handful of bullets, and his life’s money. Not much he’d ever owned beyond that in his life anyway. Chris let the door swing itself shut and ventured into his room for the night. He planned on sleeping till noon, then hitching a ride to the next town. Chris shucked off his jacket and holster belt, kicked off his boots, and slid beneath the threadbare blanket onto the rickety bed. He was quite used to sleeping on the ground, especially if he couldn’t hitch a ride between towns, so this was a nice respite. As Chris laid down, he crossed his legs and rested his head on his arms, reminiscing over his life. He’d spent close to every second of his 48 years causing some kind of trouble. From stealing when he was a young man to picking fights everywhere he went as he got older. He’d killed a few people and ruined a few more lives, but he didn’t regret any of what he’d done. For him, it was in the past, and he wasn’t concerned with his past, only worried about his future.  He remembered a time, when he couldn’t have been more than 20, when traveling still felt exciting and he was learning just how good a shot he was, when he first killed a man. It was in a tavern just like this, a village just like this. He couldn’t say it was an accident, couldn’t say he hadn’t meant it. Couldn’t even say he wouldn’t have done it again if given the chance. Because he did. In almost every town he visited thereafter. Chris couldn’t remember the fine details of that experience, but he could still picture the man he killed. Stomping up to Chris sitting at a cards table, Chris’ arm wrapped around his girl, ripping that arm away. Chris remembered his eyes, boiling with rage and one too many drinks. The man was unsteady standing, but he had a hundred pounds and a few inches on Chris. Chris new instantly he was in for it, hands reaching for his guns before he’d even thought to ask questions. He didn’t care if he’d stolen the other man’s girl, didn’t care that he could’ve taken a few punches and both would’ve lived. The village was small enough for no one to want to fight anybody, and this man was large enough to not need a gun to intimidate, so Chris unloading a bullet into the man was unexpected. Sudden. He was a real good shot. Especially with that short distance. The man towering over him, ferociousness etched into his scowl and narrowed eyes, toppled like water breaking through a dam. No one knew how to react, no one except Chris, who knew it was time to leave and find a new town. And so, he did. He left without a word of remorse to the man’s woman weeping over his body, to the little boy crouched beside her, to the people clamoring for his life. Chris didn’t think much of that man. The next few times he killed, he would remember those eyes, burning with hostility, impatience, pride. Chris figured his eyes looked much the same. With that memory passing through, Chris relaxed in his bed, and fell asleep. When he next woke, he felt refreshed. It was nice going to sleep on a bed under a roof. He opened his eyes and sought out the sun peaking through the wooden slabs. It was probably nearing, if not passed, noon. Chris stretched his arms above him – well, tried to. He couldn’t move them all that much. Making a confused sound, Chris turned his head to see what was going on, and saw, then felt, rope pulling each wrist to a bedpost. He yanked on the rope, trying to crack the bed frame, but even though it was rickety, it held. Chris wasn’t so worried. He’d been tied up before. He rolled his eyes at himself for not locking the room door before he went to sleep, but he was certain he’d live through this. He’d lived through worse. Chris tested his legs, and sure enough there was rope tying them to a bed post, as well. He couldn’t move much on his back as he was, but Chris looked around the room, searching for who tied him up. It was probably someone looking for money, or trouble, or both. Instead, Chris found himself looking at a ghost. The ghost of the first man he’d killed, the man he’d thought of last night. Chris shook his bindings and snarled at the ghost, “What the fuck d’ya want?” The ghost just stared. Chris laughed and stared back, trying to remember more of whom he killed and why he was standing before him. Those eyes. They were still filled with hostility, but now it veered toward vengeance. The man still had a deep-set scowl, but his face was more angular. When Chris shot him, the man had gray streaked in his hair and a pot belly showing years of heavy drinking. The man standing before him seemed younger than Chris, barely any wrinkle lines and none of the belly. Chris thought back to that night and remembered the grieving woman. And the little boy crouched next to her. Chris’ eyes widened and his laugh became louder, “Out for revenge little man?” Chris flicked his eyes away and licked his lips, “A bit late wouldn’t you say? Couldn’t find me?” Now, the man moved. He stepped forward till he was leaning over Chris, and spoke, “I was ten. My father wasn’t a good man, but he cared for my mother and his house.” The words came out stiffly and unrehearsed. Chris, even though it was nearly three decades ago, tried to remember the village from that day. The color of the tavern and the layout of the street he stayed on. He realized it was the same one he was in right now, and not much had changed. Looking at the man in front of him, not much had changed at all. Chris’ laugh petered out, and he bared his teeth, “A mighty miracle is what this looks like. Probably didn’t even try to avenge your old man. Just pure luck I came back on by, huh?” Chris had tensed when he’d thought it was a ghost, hallucinations where never a good sign at his age, but for the son of a man he’d killed? One who’d seemingly didn’t try to find him, with a lukewarm grudge decades old? Chris had handled angrier men. Men with more spite. He shifted in the bed, getting comfortable, for he knew a long conversation of threats and maybe some punches and cuts were in order, a deeper wound if the man had it in him. From what Chris knew in these few moments, tying him with rope, waiting till he was awake, not bothering to search for him, Chris didn’t think of fearing even a punch. The man, still leaning over him, eyes blazing, said, “I ain’t upset you killed him. He would’a died soon anyways. Just the man he was. But my mother cared for him, and this village cared for him, and they were peaceful folk. Didn’t hurt nobody. And now my momma’s dead,” his eyes flickered before they narrowed again, “And I’m not gonna live here anymore, so I don’t gotta be like them.” The man continued, “I ain’t a good man. I ain’t a good son. But he was my father, and I want my momma to have peace for his death.” He lowered his hands to his belt, and Chris noticed the holster, Chris’ holster, wrapped around his waist. Chris’ eyes burned with rage at being shot with his own gun. He thrashed in the ropes and opened his mouth to yell, but before even a whisper could escape, the man had fired. Blood trickled down Chris’ forehead into his open eyes. He was a good shot. Especially with this short distance.


A red and white news helicopter rattled and hummed as it hovered over the scene. Color footage of the live feed lit up the newsroom while POLICE STANDOFF WITH ROBBERY SUSPECT scrolled across a million local TV screens all at once. On the ground a tense scene was unfolding. “Drop the weapon, NOW!” the officer shouted. Shirtless and bleeding, Louis Coleman paced back and forth. He ignored the orders of the police and began to pray out loud, “Our father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy...” Louis thought about his life; it once held promise. He once was a sweet boy who sat on his mother’s lap, brushed his teeth and fed the dog. He would wave the flag on July 4th and believed in the lie that anyone could be president. “Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done…” But now his bare white feet stuck to the black Florida asphalt while overgrown vines of unkempt hair hung from his head. A revolver dangled like a deadly toy in his hand. Dropping out of high school left him working as a roofer in the Florida sun. The hard work had taken its toll, and over time ‘a few beers to chill out’ turned into a hit of heroin to sleep and a hit of meth to wake up. Then it took a hit of meth to stay awake and more to make it through the day. Ten years later he had no teeth and the progress of his life was measured by the entries on his rap sheet. And today his very first armed robbery had gone entirely sideways. Police cars with blinding blue flashers had him surrounded. Six cops stood with guns drawn, using their car doors to steady their weapons. Each cop overheated and impatient with their Glock Model 19 trained at his center-mass. Each one thinking *it’s him or me.* Each one ready and willing to deliver a deadly fusillade of nine-millimeter rounds if he took a shot at any one of them. Police radios crackled and the sirens in the distance got closer as more police units sped to the scene. The robbery was going to be so simple: walk in, point the gun and take the money. But the clerk pulled a gun. Louis panicked and shot the man then ran out of the store empty handed. Now he was surrounded. “...on earth as it is in heaven...” he continued. “Give it up, Louis! It’s not worth it!" the cop shouted, but Louis didn't seem to hear. "LOUIS, DROP THE GUN NOW! THIS IS YOUR FINAL WARNING!” “...give us this day our daily bread...” Louis said quietly. Louis didn’t drop the gun. Instead he cocked the revolver, slowly turned towards the police and raised the barrel. “And forgive us our trespass....” he muttered, but his prayer was cut short by a volley of fireworks, but not the good kind. Dozens of brass shells clattered onto the pavement. Louis crumpled to the ground. If he did have a soul it moved on swiftly to someplace else; maybe someplace better, or maybe someplace much worse.


CW: strong language, violence        In the year 2912, the month of Ulani, or shall I say, "14/10/2912," in the world of Tyrenkia.             My name is Myles Price, age eighteen and 5'7.5 foot tall, and I am a black teenager who just graduated from high school. Yeah me. Now that is what's up.             It's another day at my workplace; I hate it. In most places I work from before, the bosses that I meet are nothing but assholes. It seems hopeless to get a cool, chilling boss to get along with from trading one boss to another. It's always a yes boss, okay boss, and I'm going now, boss.             I am a cash register in some gas station in the middle of nowhere. It's placed in the desert that nobody ever comes to pay for a visit. It reminds me of my horrible, embarrassing uncle where they never visit him because he got house arrested by his own family before they dumped him. His sons dumped him; his daughters dumped him; his wife as well. What's funny is that his house is his prison. His family tried to throw him away; however, things got into deep yogurt. Throwing him away into the streets to be homeless, he causes trouble that brings people with pitchforks. He gets problems everywhere he goes; it's best to lock him in a house without anyone with him. His own family pays the bills, making sure the creature stays at that home—alone! I now know why this gas station is similar to the taste of my horrible uncle. It's a prison in a place of nowhere—no one to see you.             I entered the gas station as I work there, clocking in at five, and my boss is giving me an attitude right now—cunt! I don't like how he crosses his arms at me, furrowed his eyebrows, angry at my face, and his lips grow to detest me. I wish I am not here right now.             Okay. I will tell you how it went from last night. All I have done is listen and blast my earphones to the max while reading my comic books online. I didn't know a six-year-old boy will steal food in the store and takes off with his mommy. How the heck shall I know? Shit! I know I didn't pay attention, but it's just one pack of candy the kid stole.             "Myles! You damn lazy fool!" said the boss, who has a bald with androgenetic alopecia. He's fat, short, and stout with a beer belly as well and an unattractive look. "I see in the camera, you reading and blasting those earplugs, ignoring what our customers stole!"             "I'm so sorry, boss; it won't happen again." Like hell, I don't care. I am only here for the money before joining the military. I bet this fat cunt cheat on his wife. His face looks like an ass already with an intimidating look. When he has a regular mug, it seems like a gruff jerk already. You can't even tell when he's angry because his angry face and his normal face are the same. It's why I call him "Mr. Asshole."             "This is your last straw! I hope you better save it for the last, kid!"             Yeesh! Okay fatso; Okay dumb-dumb. Then I start to skit my shoes on the ground, throwing a fit since it's so hot today. My boss usually works in the morning. Four people only work here, which includes me and the others. I take the night shift before someone takes the midnight shift.             My boss leaves the place and drives off home with his fancy sports car. Show-off! How the heck are you making money from this kind of gas station in the desert out in the middle of nowhere? Anyway, whatever. I don't care. At least that fat-tard is not here at this moment. I guess I will sit at that counter, bore myself to death, and wait for the other dudes to come over for their shift. Shit. I wish I can bring my electronic Handgame Vee to play online, kicking people's butts on Super All-Star Champion. It's the best video game ever in the world! It's a game based on multi-crossover characters from different console games on one platform. At least it can make time fly by so fast.             6:30 p.m. The sun is down, and the heat is dying very fast in the desert. It's going to be cold—very cold. At least I got my coat in my car.             All I did from an hour ago is to doodle around on a stupid paper, drawing how stupid my boss is, having thoughts of clowning him like some stand-up comedy. It's fine. At least I find something entertaining to do. After drawing about my stupid boss, I push those papers aside and enter to la-la land, daydreaming of myself as a soldier. My father is a war hero before he died. It's just my mom and me, living together. My mother doesn't want me to be a soldier because she doesn't want me to end up dying like my dad. I always tell her that I will be just fine and do things better than what dad does. Her answer is still a no. C'mon, mom!             8 p.m. and no customer at all—NOT ONE! I told you so! Narrator, shoot me! PLEASE!             Another two hours of nothing. I wish I can bring my A-phone, look at porn on the internet, get a ten-inch boner, start humping at the glass wall, and maybe shoot some seeds in my pants and at least—forgot, keep it rated PG-13. Whatever I said, folks, you didn't read it. Let's start over and reverse that. You never hear what I just said. I just blurted my la-la land, and I do apologize.             8:15 p.m., trying to stay awake since this boredom is killing me. No earphones or else I get fired; no comic books or else I get fired. Okay boss; okay fatso; okay retard. Instead, I rather go to school and let the professor yick-yack at me than staring at an empty store with no one here. Please, narrator, can you at least change my storyline to fun-fun land? I will do anything for you to change this subject for me. If you can't, just let me die.             8:30 p.m., I start to walk around, trying to stay awake. Suddenly, there's a car that approaches the front parking lot. It parks right there, next to the curb, in the front door of the shop. The car is black. Okay, I know this is not one of the guys for the midnight shift since the bearded dude comes at 10 p.m. while the other guy comes at 14 a.m. This car's windshield is so dark, and I can't even see the driver. I hope the dark windshield doesn't mean anything dirty by looking at me from that view to my side. If it's a fucking pedophile, oh fuck me!             The driver's door opens, and there comes out a very tall man, and he's black. Cool! I'm going to nickname him, "Mr. Cool Dude." On the passenger seat, there's a tall white man. He's quite handsome with his blonde hair, I'd say. I will nickname him, "Mr. Custani." They are dress in black, looking cool like gangsters in a businessman outfit. I return to the cash register in steadfast since I have been waiting for one customer for a very long time. Yes, my insanity of boredom is over. I feel useful again! Thank you, Mr. Narrator. At least for the moment, I can enjoy my work with them.             The doorbell rings when they enter the gas station store. I look at them, and they are pretty tall, equal in size. They are muscularly slim fit, more build than I. The tall black man approaches me, standing very tall, overwhelming with his height and intimidating looks. Gulp!             "Myles? Is that your name tag?" said the tall black man, looking down at me while I look up at him.             "Yes." I nodded. "And?"             "Last name?" when he tilts his head to the right.             "Price. My name is Myles Price. Why?"             The tall black man raises his gun at my face and shoots a bullet. I closed my eyes in a flinch, raising my hands to block it. When I did, I take a peek and see the bullet is floating, spinning slowly. What's funny is that everything starts to go slow. Mr. Custani shoots his gun at me as well from a few feet away. However, everything is going significantly and excruciatingly slow. What the hell is going on?             I touch the bullet, and it moved away from me. I raised my eyebrows in astonishment; it's as if time just went slow.             "Whoa!"             I went around the counter and went to the right side of Mr. Cool Dude. Man, this dude is enormous. I suddenly grabbed a bat, which belongs to my boss, and start bashing at the two dudes who are about to kill me. I struck them so hard a couple of times; it's as if I'm time traveling to beat them to a pulp. One bash, two bashes, three bashes. Clang; clung; thung. Then I swing my bat right in the nut for the both of them.             WHAM! I have done it. What's shocking is that when I hit them, everything is in slow motion. Holy moly, when I bash the bat in their nuts, I didn't think their schlong to be that huge, popping out in slow motion from their pants. It's bigger than mine! I'm jealous! I forgot. Keep it PG-13 for the audience. I'm going to turn away.             "Holy shit. Am I going crazy? Am I time traveling?"             I stand away to the right and see the view—going to blur the schlong out since that didn't happen.             At that moment, I closed my eyes and reopen them again; the time-traveling stops. Everything is set back to motion again.             Pew. Pew. Pew! Bam! Bam! BAM!             "Ow! Motherfucker!" when the two of them shout out loud. They dropped their gun before I snatch it away.             Now that is what you call feeling good to beat up a bad guy. It serves them right.             "You're... you're one dead fucker, kid!" said Mr. Custani, getting extremely pissed at me.             "My...MY NUTS! FUCK!" when Mr. Cool Dude starts to hold his nuts, really tight in immense agony, moaning hard.             "Go ahead, kid. The cop serves us, you stupid kid." Mr. Cool Dude, curling his legs in agony, I think I crushed his nuts too hard. I think I went too far, cracking his eggshell to mush.             As for Mr. Custani, oh shit. I think he's starting to gargling out saliva out from his mouth. Oh fuck. I went a bit too far. How will these men ever sleep with a girl again? What's the point of having a big dick when you just lost your seeds? FUCK! I forgot again. Keep it rated PG-13. Sorry guys, for the third time.             "Why are you trying to kill me?"             "You don't... don't...fuck!" when Mr. Cool Dude is still on the ground, holding his nuts, squirming loudly in agony. "You don't need to know," as he clenches his teeth while talking.             "What do you gain for killing a kid like me?"             "You're a time traveler. I know...fuck..." Yeah, that's right! Keep moaning, you cunt! Did he say that I'm a time traveler? That will explain why everything went so slow. COOL! I'm a superhero! YAHOO!             Ding-Ding! Someone enters the room as they come into the store. A nine-year-old boy and a tall man wearing a strange mask approach the two tall men, looking down at them. This boy dresses like those rich kids while his guy dresses like a butler; I wonder why he wears a black mask. Is he ugly underneath that mask like some burnt dude with a face?             "Hello, Myles," said the boy.             "Hi," I replied strangely since I am in an awkward situation with these two people, moaning in pain. "I do apologize for what just happened here, but these two assholes pulled a gun at me."             This kid gives me a smirk before raising his eyebrows with some confidence that I don't even know why he's doing that.             "Can I help you?" when I quirk my brow at the kid with his fancy staff and his fancy butler.             "Myles Price. Is that you?"             "Yes? Are you one of those assholes?"             "No. I am the one who chased them to find you. Those two gentlemen will be eliminated since they aren't even Tyrenkians."             Huh? What do you mean Tyrenkian, kid? Okay. I will act like you're pretending in some pretend-land or whatever you're doing. I'm just going along with it.             "Hey, buddy," when I smiled, acting to be his level and age. "I know that we are trying to play ghost and robbers, but hey, I caught the robbers. We can play ghost and robbers later and—"             "I know you're a time traveler, and you've just time-traveled to kick their asses."             How the fuck? Okay! In the beginning, I am dying of boredom, and now, I just jumped into trippy land and weird fucking people.             "Uuhhh..." as I hesitated. Okay. Think of a defense plan. I still have the bat in my hand and—             "Don't use your bat on me, Myles. I can read your mind, telepathically and precognition as well. Now you listen to me—" I'm going to cut his words out since I'm going to interrupt and talk to the narrator.             Narrator, why put me in a weirdo situation?             "MYLES! Damn it! Listen to me!" the weird-psychic boy shouted at me.             "Uh, yes?"             "The one who sent me to save you and come and get you is you from the future."             Huuuh? Whaaaaa? Am I sleeping and dreaming, or is this for real? I just give a quirking face at this kid. I eye at him; I eye at his butler; I eye back the kid again; I eye at the two of them. The hell is going on.             "You're confused, Myles. Let me tell you that you're not a Tyrenkian as well as me. You have superpowers like me. Also, what you're thinking is exactly how I am back then when I first tried out my superpowers."             "Okay. One question," I replied. "Just who the fuck are you, and what do you want?"             "My name is Clyde Calawis, and my butler's name is Yoban Stray."             The butler waved hi at me. I waved hi back at him—awkwardly.             Clyde Calawis? Your last name sounds like you're from Eglas. Fancy!             "We are here to save you and recruit you. I just arrested your boss for crime drugs he does overnight and—" hold that thought. I just want to interrupt and break the fourth wall.             Oh! So that is how he got his fancy sports car. You see, children. Making drugs is bad, okay? Don't do drugs.             "Sorry to interrupt, Cyanide—"             "It's Clyde!" when he rebuttals and corrects me.             "Clyde. Okay." I take a breath and smile at him with excitement, hoping my assumption to be correct. "Am I a superhero?" I screamed.             "You can say that since you do read a lot of superhero comic books."             No shit! If this is true, then that means the future me must be badass! Superhero career, Mr. fatso boss is arrested—YES! Maybe even the ladies will be with—um, um—rated PG-13. You see, audience. I kept it clean!             "WAHOO! Does that mean—"             "Yes. The future-you tells me to come and get you. The future-you said something about the prophecy and about you being chosen after my place. The future-you also recruited me in the year 16th century, telling me to get recruit you."             Whaaaa? You're that old? Wait! How the hell are you a nine-year-old? How the hell are you nine for—             "Yes, I can hear your thoughts. I don't grow or age that fast," said Clyde.             "So, 'me-future' tells you to get me because 'me-future' recruits' me-past' to get you to tell me?" I'd asked.             "Correct. I know it's hard to understand time since time has been in flux before. I'd say eight times before. This is the ninth."             "Cool! If I am recruited, when do I start?"             "You start tomorrow, and I will pay you very handsomely. You will meet the others with you since you recruited them also."             "Cool! Does this mean I can quit this place?"             "Myles. I just said—"             "OH! Yeah. I forgot. You arrested him."             Clyde, the Eglatian boy, looks at the two guys on the floor. He opens his hands at them while standing. Suddenly, it glows bright white that I have to cover my eyes. The two gentlemen that are on the floor transformed to their true form. Their beauty becomes ugly, hideous, and terrifying. They both look like a demon as they turned. Holy smokes! It's like reading off from a comic book to a supernatural story.             Those imposters burned up, leaving no ashes, no corpses, and nothing behind. I guess beating them to a pulp is a good thing. I guess.             The room dims down when Clyde stops using his strange powers to kill his enemies. He clenches his hand, shakes it, and holds it tight. When I see his expression, it looks like it hurt a little. How come my superpowers didn't hurt me?             "You okay?" I'd asked.             "I'm fine. I think it's time for us to go before those bad guys and fake cops find us. Shall we?" as Clyde suggested.             I nodded yes, left this horrible gas station that I work at, and kiss goodbye to my boredom. I am now a superhero and a superhero for life! Thank Jesus and Mr. Narrator!


‘More sugar?’ my uncle asked. A heaped spoon hovered threateningly.

‘No, no, no, thanks amo .’’ my hand preemptively splayed over the top of my full-to-the-brim glass tumbler, steaming my palm. A thick layer of sugar sand had settled at the bottom, resting expectantly under the crystal amber sea of gunpowder mint tea. Shay. Chay. Cha. Thee. Tea.

My father’s brother considered bartering with me, for just a moment, but there were other guests in peril of empty glasses. So he issued a disappointed ‘ Akh, habibi ’, with the slightest shake of his head, then moved along the chain of men and boys. We all sat either on cheap white plastic garden chairs or up-ended crates, decked with small cushions. Twenty men and boys assembled on my uncle’s roof, under the blanket of stars that coated the desert sky. Members of our direct family as well as more distant members from the wider tribe. Our clothes reflected 150 years of history and conflict. My father’s cousin, a Mufti, graced us with his presence. He wore an amamah - a kind of red fez, suffocated by a pure white turban. An Ottoman holdover. His body was shrouded in long, grey (or were they blue?) robes. My favourite uncle wore an old suit, a tan holdover from the mid-1980s with a deep scarlet paisley-patterned tie. He sported a thick black Saddam Hussein moustache, as was still the fashion for men of his age. My grandfather wore a white Egyptian cotton jalabiya , a black chequered keffiyeh held together with a black igal rope band, and a grey suit jacket as old as my father. He wore sandals without socks displaying his strong, manicured feet that put mine to shame.

I sat in my own small black jalabiya , a gift from one of the assembled family members, and an unnecessary pair of blue Levi’s denim jeans.

I carefully manoeuvred the full tumbler to the makeshift table in front of me, before a steaming became a burning, and turned my attention back to my Gameboy. Though the sound was off, my mind invented music to drown out the myriad conversations happening around the ring of chairs. Smatters of chatter on gossip, politics, religion and food. One group would lean in close across their chairs to whisper about this or that. Peals of laughter rang out as memories of childhood indiscretions were dug out of communal memory. One moustachioed cousin yelled across the circle to get the attention of another. The menthol smell of cigarettes, strong oud perfumes, fresh sweat and our sweet tea mingled in the lukewarm air of a Jordanian summer evening. A familiar smell of comfort.

‘Khalid, baba …’ my father called me by my name, reversing the relationship terms, as Arabs are wont to do. My mind registered his voice but Super Mario had my attention. ‘Khalid’, a note sterner and with a light touch on my arm. I gave a barely-audible sigh, turning to him while fluidly switching off my gameboy. The batteries were running low anyway. ‘Yes, baba ?’. Go down and ask your auntie Nida for the sweets. ‘Ok baba ’. I stood and put my Gameboy on the chair, as though reserving it. I eyed my tea quickly wondering whether I could chance a sip but it was still steaming hot so I hopped around the chair and went to the stairs.

Pounding down the stairs, my sandals slapped on the crumbling stonework like a fish escaping a net but landing on the boat. My auntie wasn’t in the kitchen but I paused to breathe the aromas of a hundred spices while I was there. I moved to the reception room and knocked lightly on the thick wooden door. Dozens of female voices thrummed in the room, an internal echo of what was happening above. There was music also and the buzzing of fans. They could not hear me. I opened the door ‘ Amti Nidat , I…’.

Two of the seated women had immediately reached for headscarves before realising it was me. A barely-there shift of mood from indignation to delight. I was the darling nephew, grandson or young cousin. I wasn’t a man. ‘Come here Khalid!’ my auntie Hala offered, beckoning with her hand.

‘Sorry amti , I’m looking for amti Nidat , I need to ask her for the sweets’. My eyes roved the room, trying to pick her out from the myriad faces. ‘Ok ok, she’s not in the room but Saida will help you. Saida. YA SAIDA.’ Without getting up she yelled for her daughter’s attention and received it. Saida paused laughing with another teenage cousin, ‘Yes mama ?’. ‘Go help Khalid with the sweets, yalla , quickly!’. ‘Ok mama.’

She quickly threw her white hijab around her head and expertly clasped it while rising and walking towards me. All in one expert motion. ‘ Yalla habibi , come with me.’

She took my hand and led me back to the kitchen.

‘ Ya Khalid, which sweets?’ she asked in the corridor. ‘You know, just the sweets.’ I responded, realising I didn’t know.

We entered the kitchen and she rapidly pulled trays from various crevices and cupboards. ‘ Ya’ani, we have ghraybeh , baglaweh , warbat , knafeh , gadayef… ’. Baglaweh. Baqlawah. Baklava.

‘Something of everything, please habibti .’ She smiled in return and took out a pan to begin heating some of the sweets. She was thin and tall for her age, equipped with long eyelashes, a disarming smile and a fiery temperament that could meander from honey-sweet to warlike-danger. When I was bored she would often play writing games or board games with me while talking over the latest Arabic music, films or books.

I think she felt my eyes on her head. She looked over her shoulder and flashed me a smile. I’d heard my father and hers joke - at least I hoped it was a joke - that we should be married one day. We were only separated by a few years but she was still older than me. Surely she would find a husband well before I was ready? The hints of a sizzle came from the pan as the knafeh cheese began to melt and the syrup boiled away. ‘Ok, we’re ready. Habibi, fetch me the plates’. I went to the cupboard with assorted plates. Not the fine plates used for more formal meals but the colourful, chipped ones, used for minor family occasions and I gathered together some of the larger plates. ‘ Bizzubt , exactly habibi those ones.’ She gently touched my shoulder in affirmation. I pulled the plates up and put them next to the frn ghaz . Gas cooker. Frn. Firin. Fournos. Forno. Oven. As she began loading, I reached for one of the triangles of warbat . Thick, sweet cream eager to leave folds of filo pastry and coated in pistachio dust and syrup. A nightmare of diabetes. And just within my grasp. Her hand lightly smacked mine away as she giggled. ‘ La ! Wait your turn. If you keep sneaking those sweets, you’ll get fat! Here, take this plate upstairs, yalla. ’ She thrust a large plate into my hands and ruffled my hair as I moved off. ‘ Akh , Saida!’ She must have had syrup in her hands; my hair remained in place.

I emerged from the stairs into a cool breeze. I hadn’t realised how warm it had been inside. The poor women in their traditional Palestinian thawb and abayah. I instinctively checked my forehead to see if I was sweating and nearly dropped the plate and, worse, myself. Down the stairs. But luckily I kept my balance. My chair remained unoccupied but for my Gameboy but my dad was smoking one of his Dunhill cigarettes now. He knew I hated the smell and the /+risk to his health, even at this age. So he would very rarely smoke in front of me. When he caught sight of me edging towards him with sweets, he quickly took another drag and stubbed the offending white stick on one of the many ashtrays, proper and makeshift, on the tables. When my eyes caught his, I rolled them and increased my pace.

‘ Baba , you said you wouldn’t! Saratan !’. Saratan. Áizhèng. Rak. Kanker. Cancer.

‘I know habibi, I know. It was just a little. I’ve just heard your great-uncle Radwan has died!’ ‘Oh?’ ‘You remember, you met him five years ago.’ ‘ Baba, how old do you think I am?’ He laughed as he picked up a couple of pieces of ghraybeh , a kind of shortbread.. ‘Take the sweets around ya Khalid.’

I moved around the circle of makeshift seats and the sweets began to disappear. When I had circled back to my chair, I put the plate in front of me and took my seat. There was a single piece of warbat left.

I reached out to pick it up but as quick as a hummingbird, the plate left the table. Saida picked up the plate. ‘Mmm Warbat, my favourite.’ She grinned as she lay another fully-loaded plate back on the table. She winked at me and turned to leave. I shook my head and reached out to the new plate. There was no more Warbat . I didn’t care. I picked up my tumbler of tea again and sipped warm happiness. This is Hub . Hub. Ài . Agape. Liebe. Amour. Love.