It's not fair. The way my heart beats so loud that I can hear the pounding in my ears. It's not fair. That crooked smile and curly hair. It's not fair. The way my whole body trembles when you say my name. It's not fair. It's not fair because you are not mine and I am not yours. But you kiss me like I am. Teeth and tongue and low moans. My guilty pleasure is you. You kiss me like you'll never see me again. It's the best feeling in the world until I'm driving back home to the one who is mine. I feel guilty and I promise myself that was the last time. You are my addiction. I tell myself that I got my one last hit that I needed so now I can finally quit. But I cannot quit you. Hands and arms and fingers. You touch me and everything within me ignites. Our souls collide and sparks fly. I need your touch more than I need air to breathe. You are everything that I want, but everything I can’t have. Secret kisses and hidden touches. Wanting each other, but we cannot show it. We promise each other it's the last time, but when we have the chance; we jump. We jump into the deep end. Drowning in passion and wanting. I try to swim back up to the surface, but I can't. I'm stranded in the sea of you and I can't find the strength to get back to shore. Guilt and confusion. We lie to the ones we love. They would break if they knew about us. I never knew that you could love two people at once. I love him and you love her, but we share I love you's too. The kind of I love you's that make everything within you collapse. The life-altering, all-consuming, devastating kind of I love you's. You whisper it in my ear when they aren't around. But I want you to shout it from rooftops. And I want to hold your hand at the mall. And I want to go grocery shopping with you. And I want to argue with you over what's for dinner. I want all of the little things and big things with you. I want to be good with you. Bad with you. All of the things with you. With him. I feel crazy. Insane. I hate you for making me feel this way, but I love you for making me feel this way. It’s not fair. The way my heart aches for you. It’s not fair. Those big blue eyes and light brown hair. It’s not fair. The way my cheeks flush a deep red when we exchange glances. It’s not fair. It’s not fair because you are not mine and I am not yours. I burn for you. Like I've never burned for him. I feel safe with him. I feel comfortable and warm like Christmas morning; wearing fuzzy socks and sitting around the tree opening presents with family. It’s different with you. You somehow make me feel cold and warm and hot and frozen all at once. You make me feel like one of those trick candles. The ones my parents stuck in my birthday cake when I was nine years old. I made my wish and blew and blew the bright orange flame, but it never went out. The flame just slightly swooshed to the side with each blow, but always came right back. I remember getting so frustrated because the flame wouldn’t go away. I welcome the persevering flame now. I welcome the persistent burning. It makes me feel alive. I know I am not a good person for loving you. And loving him. I know I can’t have you both. But I do. I have him most of the time. I have you sometimes. When you aren’t with her. When I’m not with him. It reminds me of when I was little and it was my dad’s weekend to have me. I remember sitting in my light pink car seat while my mom listened to Sugarland on repeat. She would pull into the grocery store parking lot and my dad would already be there to collect me. My dad and I would have the best two days and we’d meet at the grocery store again so my mom could take me back. I had my mom most of the time and my dad sometimes. I had more fun with my dad, but I felt safer with my mom. Maybe I can blame their divorce and the constant back and forth for the reason why I’m so messed up. Maybe I can blame you for making me feel things I’ve never felt before. Maybe I can blame him for not making me feel those things. Maybe I can just blame life entirely and how unfair it is that it brought you into my world. I was fine before you. I was happy and content. I was okay with my comfortable and warm Christmas mornings. You came and turned my entire world upside down. You sent everything within me crashing and burning. I love it. I hate it. It’s unfair. It’s unfair. I can blame just about everything. But the truth is that it’s my fault. I can’t help how I feel, but I could have stopped myself. I didn’t have to learn your touch. How it feels for my entire body to be electrified; lit up like a sky full of the brightest stars, just from the feel of you. I didn’t have to learn your kiss. How it feels for my knees to buckle and my heart rate to skyrocket just from the simple touch of your lips on mine. I didn’t have to learn the language of your body. How it feels to know exactly what excites you the most. But I did. I’ve learned everything and somehow it’s still not enough. It's not fair to him or to her. So I tell myself every day that I’m going to stop. But I know that I won’t. I can’t. The flames will continue to engulf me. And I’ll continue burning. Burning for you.


Who would have thought that a 1000 years old vampire, by the name of Vengietta Bloodmoon, could be so... charming. The dinner was fun and we are talking for 4 hours already. My sword and dagger are somewhere in the dining hall, my armor I took off next to this astoundingly comfy sofa. And we are so close to each other I can feel the warmth of her skin. I never knew vampires would have warm skin. I always thought – being undead and all – they would be ice-cold, just like zombies. She told me, laughingly, as if to let me in on an intimate joke: "Yes, that is a common misconception. We may be undead, but we drink so much blood, and that blood still circulates through our bodies, it does make sense for us to be at least somewhat warm, doesn't it?" I still feel awkward for asking, even though that was over an hour ago. Oh, and her reasoning for this invitation is the cutest and saddest thing I've ever heard: "It's just been so long since I had a normal conversation with someone from the living world. I miss learning about the outside. The technological advancements, the changes in social constructs, new cultural phenomenons, everything. But because of the stupid curse of a past pope, I have no chance to escape this old castle." "You want to know about the outside? Anything specific?" "Oh, just in general. The last time someone talked to me normally, the world was about go up in flames due to a war with... Nazis, I believe they were called?" "Oh, wow, that was *over 70 years ago*. You really had noone to talk to for this long?" "Well, I can talk to animals in their language, but they don't understand half of what is going on between humans." For over 3 hours I just told her about the world – about what happened in the last 80 or so years. The curiosity and fascination in her eyes and her body-language was so adorable. Now, we are talking about music and art. I told her about Progressive Rock. To someone that never heard about Rock in general, I had a hard time explaining it. The best I could come up with was "Traditional music with hard and dirty sounds, and heavy rhythms" – god, that is one horrible explanation. "I will bring something the next time I visit." "You want to visit *again*?" her red eyes shine so bright I can see the dark green spots in them. "Yeah, of course! We have so much fun talking with each other, why wouldn't I come again?" "Oh, thank you so much." it looks like she was about to cry, but there are no tears. "This is so nice to hear from someone alive. It means a lot, even just the thought." "It's not just a thought. People are hard to come by that are actually engaging to talk to." With that, she throws herself into my arms and we are now just sitting there, in a deep embrace. I have the impression, love doesn't discriminate between the living and the undead. ***Is There A Future?*** Over the last year, I've been spending a lot of time with Vengietta in her castle. I really do like her. She knows my parents, I know her world. Her real parents died when she was still a small child, killed by her progenitor, and she killed that vampire herself the first chance she got. Her friends were wary of me – being a monster hunter and all – but they came around, just like my parents did with her. They like her I think. Her very intellectual and... royal attitude is very much what my parents would want me to be as well. And *her* friends are... fascinating, to say the least. They are very 'physical' with me, always challenging me to friendly duels. I think I have yet to have a meeting with any of them that doesn't at least turn into a short brawl with some monster. And Mindflayers are hilarious. The ability to make everyone drunk or high without any long-term side effects is amazing. Vengietta seems so happy all the time. Despite being over 1000 years old, she never lost her appreciation for the beauty in life. Despite having suffered so much, being cursed to stay in this castle forever, she never lost her trust in humanity. Instead she developed a strong faith in the possibility that humans and monsters can co-exist some day. And, having gotten to know her and her friends, I now share that believe. And her appreciation for any form of art is beyond anything I have ever seen. She finds beauty in everything. In the literary descriptions by Süßkind or Lovecraft just as in movies like 50/50 or – completely different – Event Horizon, or music of any kind. And the way she dances! To say 'ethereal' doesn't even match the smallest aspects of her dance. The ability to shapeshift into crows, bats, snakes, a cat or a hound ads so many options to her movement, it is amazing to watch. Very difficult for a human to keep up though. I think I have to correct myself. I don't 'really do like' her. I love her. But... it is difficult, sometimes. There is of course the aging process. As long as she feeds on animals, she won't die or age, but I will. And I am not sure if I want to become a vampire myself. It would of course bring a lot of advantages with it, the most important one that I can spend a long life with her. But not every vampire can control their hunger with only cattle and wild animals. If I am not strong enough to control it, I will become a problem for humans. I wouldn't want that, not at all. I don't want to endanger innocent people – or innocent monsters for that matter. But the worst is... I pity her. I want for her to be able to see the world herself, not just through tellings of others. I could never tell her that I pity her, that seems... cruel. But it doesn't change the fact that I feel that way. The current pope is more open-minded and maybe he would be willing to lift the curse, so Vengietta can be free... I think I should try that. I will talk with Vengietta about it.


I plopped to my mattress, I’ve used Reading as a daily way to wind down for bed for years, I scanned a tower of books for tonight’s possible match. Mother creeped in and shut the door behind, trying not to wake the others. “How are you doing buddy” she whispered with a half smile, I could tell she was ready for bed and had already fitted her beige pajamas, not much of a surprise, work was hard for my mother and after returning home today the family were all aware of her exhaustion. “I’m alright, just thinking about reading something before bed”. I reached over toward my side table to snatch a few of my favorite solid color hardbacks. All but a few of my books had seen tough wear from my older brothers, previous owners, who had bequeathed the lot to me. I didn't mind the tattered covers, and would often imagine they were the writing of an ancient wizard’s spell book or maybe the account of a veteran Knight who had done his part in a great tale. She found her way across the room to take a seat at the lip of my bed. Her thick walnut hair flowed gently as she folded it behind one ear while inspecting a few of the novels I had laying across the maroon bedspread “Those are some good ones, how about this one James?” She lifted a smaller novel with a pirate on the cover. She saw the look on my face, and placed it back on the blanket I joined in the search but frowned, none felt worthy of being picked. “I’ve read them all so many times” I looked to my digital clock standing on my dresser across the room, I once had an analog clock there I loved dearly but with my current room configuration the digital my dad bought me last Christmas simply worked better, 9:45 getting awfully late “I think I’ll just get to bed,” I said yanking the edge of my blanket to my shoulders. My mom glanced back to me from reading the inside cover of Robin Hood and scooped the cluster of books from the twin bed. placing the books in a flush stack nicer than before “Alright then I think I’ll do the same”. I watched her leave, she turned and smiled, hitting the light as the door shut. It was dark, It was quiet, Just how I liked it. soft breezes spun around the tree branches beside my window keeping the fall leaves in a rustling shake. Nights like those help me compose myself. I thought about some of my books, they each had been read dozens of times, but what if tomorrow I Changed them, possibly added my own parts, that seemed intriguing at the time and I made a mental note for memory. I closed my eyes. WhRRR I sat up, the sound was not any ordinary noises of the nightly household or even anything I’d heard from our surrounding forest. WhRRR There it was again, It had a sudden metallic hum shaking the house ever so slightly, a rowdy rapid thump similar to the purr of the helicopter, father and I had seen a helicopter earlier in summer when attending the summer fair, although the Fair’s helicopter took a great build of strength to roar as loud as it had. Strangely this sound would fade as soon as it had come. “DaaaaD!” The shout echoed through the house, it was my brother Roger”s voice crying out for my parents, the commotion probably took him by surprise, maybe scared him, I wouldn't doubt it. I was shaken. “Dad, Daad” I shook off my sheets, the family was most likely awake after Roger’s shouts, might as well figure out what was going on. After a quick look the driveway seemed ordinary from my window, I tiptoed to my parents room each step creaking the walnut floorboards. It seemed peculiar to me they hadn’t gotten up to go check on Roger, he would shout in the night from time to time during the occasional storm, my parents would always check up on him although he often cried wolf. “Mom!” It was getting annoying quickly, I poked my head into the master bedroom, there was a small sliver of light along the edges of the blinds that kept the room from total darkness “Dad, mom hey” I whispered, staying in the doorway. An outline of the bed frame was visible with a squint. “Roger’s yelling for you” there was a moment of silence, I extended the door fully open. Had they really slept through that? WhRRR A shake came and I clutched the door knob and frame for stability. My chest felt a tightness of anger, it was bedtime and my parents intentionally not dealing with this had struck me the wrong way. “C'mon guys, go figure out what that is” I yanked the covers off my parents bed pulling them back. I was sick of fixing problems even though I was the youngest. The bed sat unmoving Silver sheets reflecting back at me and a couple of pillows lay sedentary, my parents weren't there. Strange, my mother told me she was off to bed just a half an hour prior. WhRRR The shaking came again, disorienting in the dark and this time having no door frame to catch I found my way into a stumble, stepping on my pajama bottoms and spinning as I tumbled toward the hardwood flooring. Throwing out my arms to take the brute force of the blow. My arms didn't connect, I had to open my eyes after an instant to find obscurity had encompassed me, enveloped in a soft darkness for which I was weightless within.


Breakfast felt like a trap. I stared at the stacks of golden pancakes, little bowls of butter, the apple pie syrup, and the little cut-up fruit salads. John, wearing a 'kiss the cook' apron bustled around, pausing to draw a drippy smiley face with an ungodly amount of syrup on Harry's pancakes. Harry looked up at John tiredly, then gingerly prodded one soggy pancake with a fork. Next to him, Elysse giggled slightly, sounding surprised. Devon and I shared a look: partly confused, part suspicious.

What the hell was going on? Elysse scrutinized a pineapple slice, also somehow cut into a smiley face. "Uh, thank you." She bit into it, under John's hopeful gaze, falling into the trap. "I'm glad you like it," John said, smiling way too much. "Eat up, everyone, Fiona's gonna think I haven't ever fed any of you." What did you do?  Devon mouthed over at me, like me, also not eating anything. Nothing! What did you do?  I mouthed back, doubly worried now that neither of us knew what was going on.

 John was acting weird, and in my world, very few things were constant. Sun rose in the east, I could trust nobody, Devon was annoying, and then there was John. Not to say John didn't make breakfast, but this all felt forced, overdone. Usually, he asked for our help, but today, nothing. He'd been on the phone this morning, Elysse had told me. But he'd spoken in German, so she hadn't understood a word. I was beginning to feel really, really worried. I reached out to Harry, asking him what was going on. But the exhausted telepath was studiously cutting his pancakes, looking like he was about to fall asleep at the table. Fiona seemed to be picking up on all the weirdness too. "This all looks amazing," The clairvoyant said, awkwardly accepting some fruit from Elysse. "You guys eat like this all the time?" She dove right in, unused to having so much food available. "No," I answered, staring at John. I had no idea what the hell his agenda was, but clearly, he was preemptively bribing us for something. John smiled at that, "Simin, you haven't touched anything. You want some eggs?" Devon kicked me under the table, a warning to not say anything. "Did you make sunny side up with a side of explanation, by any chance?" I asked, earning another kick from Devon. John smiled mysteriously and placed an omelet onto my plate. "You want any ketchup or anything?" Elysse looked worried now too. John usually just answered us straight up. "John, what's going on? Did something happen?" I asked, refusing to be swayed.

I'm not some child that needs to be cajoled with breakfast before bad news! John and I had a minor staring contest, and then he stopped pretending. "I need to get Fiona out of the city. The longer she's here, the sooner a witch will find the four of you." "So we're getting her out of here today?" Devon asked, sounding relieved, taking a bite out of his pancakes to appease John. John poured himself a cup of tea. I tensed up, knowing without Harry's telepathy that the bad news was coming. "Not exactly, there's a good coven in Seattle, and I'm taking her there. The four of you will remain here and hold down the fort." "What?" I snapped, my powers raising the temperature of the room. "John, let us help, we aren't kids. You-" "She's right, John, the witches found us four times in the last two weeks. It's not safe," Elysse added, looking worried. "We can help, or I can make a portal-" Devon started talking over Elysse, which annoyed me more than Elysse interrupting me. "Taking normal transport just means you're going to get caught! Fiona's aura signature-" "I understand your concerns, but none of you are coming," John said firmly. "I expect all of you to take good care of each other, and I trust-" "Why can't we help?" Devon persisted, and I nodded, feeling annoyed that he chose to spring this on us at the last moment. "You will be helping by keeping yourselves safe," John told us, his voice softening. "I understand that you're worried-" "Great, then let us help," Devon argued, and I was relieved that all of us were on the same page about this. "Devon, Fiona has a huge aura signature. The six of us combined will draw too much attention." John said placatingly, his accent increasingly coming out. For some reason, I glared at Fiona, who was calmly finishing off her pancakes. Elysse tried a more rational tack, keeping her voice professional and steady. "Okay, but John, her aura signature will be there no matter what, so it makes no difference if-" "Harry, tell me you don't agree with this." I turned to Harry, who was mechanically slicing his stack of drowned pancakes into pieces before eating them layer by layer. Harry looked right at me:

John's right, maybe if it's just him, and then my shielding powers somewhere else, Fiona can still sneak out. If we're all together, there is no way she doesn't get caught. "Why does she matter so much?" I asked, interrupting whatever normal,

rational  argument Devon and Elysse were attempting. John turned his eyes on me, narrowing them. "Simin, all of us matter. You've always known that." I struggled to defend the crazy position I had taken but refused to back down. "No, she's so much of a threat to us, Harry hasn't slept for two days, why-why are you risking-" John raised an eyebrow. " Enough.  Because I said so." He stared at me disapprovingly. "I thought all of you trusted me, but apparently not." "That's not what she meant." Elysse defended me, "We're just trying to-" John held up a hand, cutting her off. "I have a plan. I'm not sharing it because it isn't complete yet. If it's going to work, we need to keep Fiona safe. I don't want to leave you, but there's no one that can-" "I'll do it. I'll get her to the coven," I argued, and Devon immediately chimed in. "We can do it together-" "No," John said, tone final. "Both of you need to keep Harry, and each other safe. I trust you with that, the most important job today. Harry isn't going to be able to maintain the barrier for much longer. Any attempt of Elysse's to portal us out of the city will get you caught, I want all of you, to keep each other safe. If you cannot contact me, work together.

Do not panic. " John slowly said the last part. He made eye contact with each of us. "Simin, can I trust you guys to take care of each other?" Part of me wanted to mutiny, insist further that we could keep Fiona safe. But I sighed, annoyed, and sat down. I hadn't even realized that I was standing up. "Yes." John smiled, taking a seat too. "Okay, so let's all enjoy this amazing breakfast that Youtube and I made together. We're all going to have a long-" "Harry's asleep," Fiona said suddenly, her voice tight. It was true, the telepath had literally fallen asleep on the table, glasses askew. "Auzgezeichnet," John sighed, and I smirked at him despite everything, finally taking a bite out of my now-cold eggs. "Okay, the barrier's down. We have around-" John checked his watch, " Two  hours before we're compromised." He took a bite of his smiley pineapples, raising an eyebrow at me. "You like the eggs?" It was hard to ignore the argument. "Missing some of the explanation, and a little light on salt, but they're good." I smiled when Devon rolled his eyes and muttered something. "Shut up, Devon." "You shut up, I'm not the one who was ready to throw Fiona under-" "Kids, please," Fiona pressed her fingers to her head. "You're all adorable, but this is hard enough without coffee, please don't do this again." John laughed, setting aside his apron. "Okay, Fiona, we have to leave now, let's get going. Elysse, make sure these two don't do anything stupid," Elysse narrowed her eyes at us, scoffing. "You sure I can't do something easier? Like portal the earth to another galaxy?" Devon flicked a blackberry at her. "Like you're any better, that ankle didn't break itself, remember?" "See you later," I said to John, trying not to look nervous. Why did we have to separate? John smiled, putting on his coat. "I will see you all soon, be good." He took off Harry's glasses and folded them onto the table. "Auf Wiedersehen, children. I'm relying on you." As Fiona was getting up I opened my mouth to apologize, but the clairvoyant smiled kindly and waved a hand. She tapped her head and said, "I have a feeling we're going to have a lot of fun together, don't worry." I nodded at that, feeling beyond embarrassed. We waved and waited until the door shut to turn on each other. "Okay," Devon said, "So we need to-" "Oh shut up, you're not the boss!" I interrupted, taking another bite of the eggs. I heated up the plate with my hand, then stopped, looking around worriedly. "I'm the oldest." Devon pointed out and continued his nonsense. "So I think-" "By two months!" Elysse laughed, throwing a grape at his head. "Anyways, John left me in charge." "No he didn't, he just said to make sure nobody does anything dumb." Devon challenged, grinning. "Simin's gonna make sure you fail at your job." "What are you talking about?" I lowered my voice forcefully, keeping in mind that a certain telepath was asleep for the first time in two days. "If anyone's tanking the collective IQ of this group, it's you, Devon." Devon looked scornful. "I don't think you know what IQ stands-" Knocking. All of us froze, looking at each other. "Hello? Is anyone in there?" A cheery voice asked. "We have a special delivery of apples!" "Back door!" I whispered, pulling Elysse while Devon lifted up Harry. Elysse grabbed his glasses off the table.

Draping Harry over his shoulder, Devon slammed the dining table, chairs, and all the drawing-room furniture against the front door. "How are we already screwing up what John said?" Devon hissed, "Jeez, it was you Simin! Heating up your goddamn-" I quietly threw open the window, hurrying Elysse through it. "Let's not throw stones right now!" I whispered back, jumping when I heard our front door bang open. "Oh shit, run!"


Bright, white lights welcome Arthur back to consciousness. The deafening beeps of monitors and whirring of machinery greet him upon his awakening. Arthur’s only visible surroundings are a window to his right and a curtain circling around his bed. He tries to remember how he’s ended up here, but the bits that trickle in at random only make him anxious and bothered. He does remember being with someone important right before everything went black. “Oh my god. Oh my god what did I do?” He pulls away the curtains, knocking them over.  “Jacob! Jacob where are you?” Arthur frantically shouts, his voice cracking as tears form in his eyes. An alarm is triggered as Arthur slowly rises from the bed. He quickly grabs on to a nearby IV stand , ripping away his tubes and wires. With all his might he drags himself towards the door, ignoring every signal being shot to his brain that his body should not be moving right now. Nurses rush in to the room before Arthur can make his escape “Mr. Donaldson, we need you back in bed immediately. You're not strong enough to be on your feet yet. You need to be resting sir.” “What am I doing here? Where’s my son?” he asks with worry in his voice. He points to the table near him “I have a picture of him in m-my wallet there. Can you tell me where he is?” The nurses all look at each other knowing whoever speaks first must do so with caution. “You were in a very serious accident. You and your son were brought in a few hours ago. He’s currently being operated on. We need you back in bed Arthur.” The mention of his son sends Arthur in to a fit and becomes immensely more powerful than the man who just moments ago couldn’t even stand without aid. “Let me see my son please!” Arthur shouts.

Before anyone in the room really knew what was happening, Arthur used the surge of adrenaline to violently attempt to shake off his wardens. Ultimately his struggle sends one of the nurses with a hold on him crashing in to a nearby wall. “Someone call security to Room 530! Patient is becoming aggressive!”. One of the nurses shouts. A few seconds of struggling became hours in Arthur’s mind as he fights to push back the thoughts of what’s happening to his son to the darkest corners he can find. He suddenly feels a pinch on his arm, and the room and faces begin turning blurry as if they were being swirled around on a canvas with the stroke of a brush. His last thought before losing consciousness being, “At least I don’t need to keep thinking anymore”. Arthur’s first memory is of Thanksgiving with his wife and son. No particular year comes to mind, only a flurry of different moments spanning over two decades until one begins to play for him. It was one year Arthur remembered coming home after working a double. The food wasn’t done. Jacob, his son, was crawling across the floor with his toy mustang making all the noises a child can to mimic a roaring engine. The boy couldn’t have been any older than eight or so. Arthur didn’t really keep enough tabs. “Where the hell is the dinner Maureen!? One night Maureen. I just wanted one night where you’d actually be a wife again and show a little appreciation for the things I do for this family.

“Please don’t start this in front of your son. It’s Thanksgiving Arthur. Let the boy enjoy it for once and we can talk about it later.” she said with a defeated monotone lacing each word. Jacob’s toy car came to a halt when he heard noises coming from the kitchen. The sound was vaguely similar to one that would always follow after Arthur discovered toy cars lying around the house. He walked into the kitchen to see his mother on one knee, shielding her face as his father had his hand raised in the air above his head. He didn’t like the look in Arthur’s eyes when the toys weren’t picked up. Everything is dark, and Arthur is suddenly in attendance at his son’s sixteenth birthday party. He remembers the feeling of confusion and guilt when he received his invitation in the mail. Neither the boy nor his mother had spoken a word to him in over a year. It was probably for the best. He wouldn’t have anything to say to them. “Thanks for showing, Arthur.” Maureen’s voice coming from beside him “Why the change of heart? Miss me or something?” said Arthur half joking but half serious and still sounding like a complete ass. “I was against it. It was “our” son’s idea.

The two parents stand in silence for a few minutes. Both simply watching their son bouncing around the place with a smile completely foreign to Arthur. He didn’t know the boy was capable of it. He can’t help but let a sliver of guilt fester in his mind a bit longer than he’s used to. “You know,” Maureen turns to Arthur “He’s been talking non stop about getting a car for his birthday. He never did grow out of those little toy mustangs he loved so much” Maureen expressed to Arthur. Arthur’s guilt vanishes and is replaced with a feeling similar to a whistling kettle that’s been left on for too long. Too much of a good thing was always too much for him.

“So what are you mentioning it to me for? You ain’t want me around the kid anymore Maureen. If you needed help raising him, you should’ve thought of that before you decided to get rid of his father.” Maureen shifts herself right in front of Arthur, unaware of the curious eyes all spectating one after another.

“I knew it! You’re still the same deadbeat I threw out of our home. Why can’t you for once just do something nice for your son? Damn it he deserves it!” she pleads. “I GAVE HIM A ROOF OVER HIS HEAD AND FOOD ON THE TABLE! DON’T YOU EVER-” his rant cut short by a soft hand forcefully meeting his face. Maureen never raised her hand in defense before her husband, and the disbelief in his face showed he still wasn’t entirely believing it.

Jacob runs to defend his mother, jumping in between the two before Arthur’s raised palm could strike her down. “Why do you always have to ruin everything for me?” cried Jacob as tears descended down his face. “You don’t know nothing about nothing boy. You hear me! I gave you everything you ever needed, and your ungrateful bitch of a mother couldn’t even do the simplest things when I asked.” Arthur spat out the words as if they were poisonous to him.

Before another word was spoken from anyone, Jacob cocked back his arm and threw a hook with the full weight of the boy’s last sixteen years behind it. Jacob and Arthur both stumbled to the ground. Arthur quickly jumped on Jacob and started letting his fist fly straight in the boy’s face. It took five people to finally get the beast off his son. Maureen held Jacob in her arms on the ground as the boy shouted for Arthur to leave them alone. Arthur’s rage finally subsided, and his breathing returned to normal. The looks on the faces of every party goer were akin to someone witnessing a rabbit being torn apart by a hungry fox. The smile Jacob managed to hold on to till a few moments ago, was now replaced by one that Arthur felt much familiar with and somehow put him at ease. He knew his place, he supposed.

Arthur’s time away from his family finally hit him years later. He didn’t want to call it an epiphany, or a mid life crisis. He wasn’t the type to make excuses for himself. He knew he was a piece of trash father and husband. He couldn't quite pin a reason to it. Sometimes he’d think to himself during those moments that he was just made this way and there wasn’t anything he could do but accept it instead of driving himself crazy trying to rationalize everything. He knew something needed to change, but didn’t know where to begin or if it would matter at this point. How could he make any of it right? Does he even know his son at all? Before anything could come to mind, he’s pulled back in to the same dark place that’s been letting him peer through these memories. He sees a bit of light a long ways away down the endless darkness around him. He makes his way towards it. It doesn’t seem to be getting any close, so Arthur picks up his pace. The light is getting further away now. Arthur breaks in to a full sprint through the darkness, screaming his son’s name at the top of his lungs. Memories of the past appearing all around him. Every moment he hurt his wife, every time he shunned his son and every opportunity he missed on telling them he loved them. The light was finally in reach and Arthur reached for it with all his might.

Arthur shoots upright in the hospital bed yelling his son’s name. He’s sweating profusely and he’s completely out of breath despite just waking up. He feels something cold around his wrist. He’s been handcuffed to the bed. He deserved it . What was he thinking? But he needed to know what was happening with his son. He began rattling the cuffs against the bedside as loudly as possible, eventually getting the attention of a nearby nurse from the hallway.

“Please ma’am I’m sorry for the way I reacted earlier. I just need to know if my soon is alright. His name is Jacob Donaldson” “I’m sorry Mr.Donaldson but I don’t think I’m the person you should be receiving this kind of news from.” said the nurse as she pretended to hear someone calling for her to avoid doing what she was about to. “What news? Tell me what’s happened please! No one will tell me anything-” Arthur is suddenly cut off by a commotion coming from outside the room.

The voice of a distraught woman sounds off outside Arthur’s room. Before he could process anything, his ex wife charges at him with a look in her eyes far more broken than anything he’s seen before. “You son of a bitch you killed him! You killed my baby boy!” Maureen says though her voice is cracking and the seams. Maureen continues her barrage as security guards and nurses rush in. Arthur doesn’t put up a fight. He knows now why he’s here. He knows what’s happened. In between the punches from his ex wife and the chaos of bodies and noises all flurried together surrounding him, he found his dreams to be a bit ironic now. He couldn’t help but let out a laugh “How can you laugh after what you did to your son you twisted -” Maureen pauses as Arthur’s laughs turn in to something else entirely. Something she can’t be sure she’s ever heard from her ex husband. Arthur was crying. The funeral came and went. Arthur knew he’d never be allowed to attend. He wasn’t going to argue. Jacob was just as much his son as Maureen and he deserved to be there and he shouldn't care what anyone has to say. But just as quickly as those irrational thoughts began to build up as they always do, this time Arthur simply cried. He’d shed more tears in the last week then he ever will in any lifetime he may ever live. A ringtone goes off and Arthur contemplates answering the call or forcing the phone through a sheet of drywall. “Hello, Mr.Donaldson” says the voice on the other end.

“Hello” “Mr.Donaldson we were calling to confirm that you’ll still be coming by the lot to pick up your purchase. We did the best we could to make it ready for the road. You’re quite the lucky fellow you know?” exclaimed the man.

“Yea? How’d you figure that?

“Well these old Mustangs aren’t exactly falling out of trees these days. I heard you were in a bit of a fender bender on the way here last week? I do hope you’re alright. I know your son would hate to miss out on taking you for a ride in this beauty. Mr. Donaldson are you still-”

Arthur can’t bear it anymore. He lashes out at the closest thing to him. The kitchen table gets the worst of it. Arthur drops to the floor after he tires himself out, but still manages to force himself to continue sobbing. He crawls over to the living room, grabbing the little toy car perched next to an old photo of Jacob and himself from a Christmas when Jacob was still a baby. Arthur holds the toy car to his chest and shouts as loudly as he can, but not with words. Guttural noises wrapped in his own guilt and sadness are all that escapes him. Arthur lays on the ground, knowing his son will never know his father cared after all.


I'm almost out of love. I can feel it, feel the pinpoints of searing heartache that prod my beating heart every waking moment. My whole life I'd been wealthy with admiration. My mother, my father, and my sister who had loved me so. Our affection fed each other so that we could live happy lives. My father used my mother's undying fondness to keep a roof over our heads, keep our stomachs filled, and give my sister, Tilly, and I whatever our childish minds desired. He used his children's love to fuel their college funds, which is how Tilly and I both ended up at an ivy-league school. That, and we were teeming with knowledge of the world. The other kids at school were envious of me until we graduated. Charlie is swimming in love , they whispered. Why can't he give us some? Then they grew smarter and figured if they befriended me, they would be able to chisel my love out of me through accounts of friendship. But I was too clever by half and had no trouble turning down each person who tried to strike a false conversation. Eventually, they hated me. I was okay with that. But being smart didn't mean I never did wild teenager things. I threw grand parties that cost absurd amounts of affection. People would show up just because they knew I was well-off and tossed my love around only to receive half an hour of enjoyment. I would be the first to leave - like anyone cared - and find Tilly at home, curled up with a book, a spot already open for me across from her. She knew me like the back of her hand, just as I did. Tilly was my greatest companion. But life and love only last so long. That's what I told Tilly when I attempted to take her to one of my parties. It was to be a masquerade held in a beautiful atrium. It was the talk of our entire town. I wanted Tilly to go with me. "It's not my thing, lover boy," she said, unbinding her brunette coils. "I'll read about it in the newspaper next week, though. It sure sounds fun." She put her nose back in the book she was reading, but I snapped it shut and threw it on the carpet beside us. We were sitting on a windowsill, sharing a blanket and hiding from the never-ending snowfall. When she shot me a fiery look, I gave her a pleading stare. "If it sounds fun, why won't you come with me?" "That's pathetic reasoning. Just because it sounds fun, doesn't mean it will be." " Tilly." " Charlie." I narrowed my eyes, hoping they looked as green as venom. "I'll bury your book in the snow." Tilly's jaw fell slack. "You wouldn't!" I smirked at her wickedly and toppled off of the sill, securing her book and barreling down the hall. She chased after me, but I was too fast on my long legs. I dodged the things she threw at me and sidestepped her when she got too close. I was at the sliding glass door when Tilly finally shouted, "Okay, okay, I'll go!" I thought I'd won. But I lost terribly. That night, Tilly and I entered the party hand-in-hand. I wasn't lying when I said it would be beautiful: pillars of plated gold that held up a shining glass roof, diamond chandeliers, golden platters of expensive delicacies, polished marble floors that stunning people waltzed across in light steps. I looked at Tilly, half of her sharp features hidden behind a sapphire feathered mask. There was a smile on her lips and her emerald eyes sparkled like jewels. "Charlie Knox, you constantly surprise me," she whispered, reaching a pale hand up to pat my slicked-back brown hair. "It's a good quality," I replied, and whisked my younger sister away to dance. It was a grand night. We drank sparkly champagne with sunken strawberries. Tilly made two or three friends - those of which who were not particularly fond of me and cast hateful glances. She received many compliments on her diamond-flecked dress, her smile growing brighter with each one. I'd never seen her so happy and social. I will admit this once to you, and never to anyone else. The glasses of alcohol I'd consumed were numerous. They kept piling up, a fresh flute always in my hand. I barely noticed until my world started swaying with the music, and I felt I was about to retch. I was sober enough to catch this and grabbed Tilly's arm. She was talking with a blonde girl who never bothered to look at me. "What is it, Charlie?" Tilly said, and then stepped back to seemingly get a better look. "Are you alright?" "I think we should go home," I told her, avoiding the second question. "It's getting late." Tilly nodded understandingly and led me through the crowd of dancers. I dropped my half-empty glass off at the table before the giant French doors just as we stepped into the chilly winter air. It bit at my nose and bled through my navy-blue suit. Why wouldn't I bring a jacket? I was so ignorant. I got into the driver's seat and started the car. Snowflakes crusted the windshield, but I was so tired. I didn't take the time to wipe them off, figuring that we lived just a few blocks away. It all happened in a chain of events. One moment I was squinting through the snow, the next the tires were slipping over a sheet of black ice. Tilly's scream filled my ears and pierced through every drink I'd had that night. My foot slammed on the brakes, screeching as we spun like thread. Red light swirled faster and faster, and gradually, slower. We were slowing down. We were stopping. And everything was okay. I was breathing hard, my heart pounding. I glanced over at Tilly, who was frazzled but looked okay. "I'm sorry," I said. She shook her head furiously but didn't accept my apology. I closed my eyes and rested my head against the steering wheel, letting the shock and adrenaline ease off. We were okay, and we could get back home safe. And then the red light flickered to green. I heard the whir of car engines from all angles. I jerked up, frantically looking out of the window and all around. We were in the middle of an intersection. How did we end up here? I thought we'd spun into a lone street, an alleyway, something that wasn't dangerous. I guess I never considered it. Quickly, I turned the wheel and stepped on the gas. Which way was I going? I couldn't tell. My mind was muddled with champagne and fear. I kept driving, telling myself I would find a way out by will or by hope. I prayed even though I was never religious. For one second, one measly second, I closed my eyes. That was the last mistake I made, the mistake that cost more than any party I ever held. I don't remember much from when the accident happened. It's all quite fuzzy. I recall Tilly screaming my name, two bright headlights, and the crunch of bone on concrete as our car was flipped and we were both cast onto the road. I was told afterward that I fell asleep at the wheel and a man in a truck didn't see us. I was told that the doctors had to perform emergency surgery on my legs and I would never be able to walk again. I was told Tilly was killed. They said they'd save the details of her death so I wouldn't feel worse than I already did. But they did say that she was dead when they arrived. I hate that they didn't tell me what happened. It left too many doors open, too many possibilities of the way she had gone. Her head could have been bashed on the concrete. Her body could have been crushed by the flipping car. Glass could have slit her throat. Tilly's heart - the heart that provided the love to keep me stable - was six feet under. And it was my fault. Because I didn't fall asleep while driving, even though I agreed that I did. Because I got in the driver's seat, knowing that I was drunk. All my fault. So, like I said, I'm almost out of love. Tilly was my biggest supplier. After her death, my parents closed themselves off and stopped loving. Stopped loving each other, stopped loving me, stopped loving the world. Which I understand, because Tilly was the world. And because I never bothered with friends and I assumed I would be stable my entire life, I spend each day crippled on the windowsill of my dilapidated house, rereading a worn book that still has her handwriting on the cover. Tilly Knox. I spend and spend and spend my love on useless things. If I spend enough, my heart will stop. If I could buy death with the dwindling love I have, I'd be first in line.


A short story I recently posted on the HFY subreddit One shot. Edit: Spelling Edit: The original inspiration: \~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~ Specialist Kotar examined the still warm cadaver on the table in front of him once more, just as confused as before the medical scanner had spat out its report. This was the first example of an 'earthling' that had been brought to him for evaluation, something the military normally did on the first day of occupation of a new system. And normally they brought him a live specimen. But this was the fourth day in orbit of the third planet of this miserable backwater part of the galaxy, at least some of the rumours about difficult fighting and unexpected resistance must be true then.  But - the specimen. Being dead, he had to skip the psychological profiling entirely for now, that would have to wait for a more intact example. Cause of death was obvious, it was still leaking bright red blood slowly from a head wound - probably caused by an assault bayonet from the looks of things. The body gently twitched form time to time, as if trying to defy the very laws of nature itself. But it was the scans that made no sense. Excessive scar tissue all over the body, including assumed vital areas. This was confirmed visually, ugly pinkish ropes of it across the body almost randomly, or at least not according to any pattern he recognised. Kotar would have assumed some religious or perhaps social significance, if it weren't for the internal scars on the report. Internal organ functions were mostly predicted by the scanner, but it was clear that some were plain *not right*. Some seemed to have pieces missing from them. Others had tiny mechanical devises in or up against them. There was at least one example of an organ missing altogether, the connecting tissues curled back on themselves as if recoiling in horror. What manner of vile beings did this to themselves? None of the scars were consistent with predator attacks.  The more he looked at the scans the worse it got. Nerve ends were severed in places, or pinched painfully between artificial implants of an unknown nature. Metal clips held tissues together. Newer, painfully raw looking scars overlapped old faded scars. One of the surface ones still had artificial fibres - *cloth fibres!* \- holding it closed! He fought down the urge to purge his stomachs. The very worst was where the scanner had identified that part of the alien was *biologically from another different earthling!* They *cannibalised* each other for new parts! A thousand interrogations of a thousand different species hadn't upset him as mush as this things very existence did.  But Specialist Kotar had a job to do. The soldiers would need the information he gathered here on how to best cleanse these abominable creatures from existence. He prepped himself for dissection, he would have to confirm the machines report manually. Just as the laser cutter touched the surface of the earthling if flung itself bolt upright with a great gasp of breath, scaring the excrement out of Kotar and sending the cutter flying across the room! Before he could recover and call for help, the injured but impossibly *NOT* dead earthling monster lashed out with an arm, shattering Kotars frail body almost without effort. His last view of the world was spent helplessly watching the earthling climb off the table and stalk off into the ship. \~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~ I'm a regular author on the HFY subreddit.


Submitted for (AND WON) Reedsy Contest #87, Prompt "Write about a mischievous pixie or trickster god." I’m not sure how long it was before I realized that the shuttle train never stopped, probably about the time it dawned on me that the people who had gotten on with me were gone. The train is supposed to run from Grand Central to Times Square, one stop, five minutes at the absolute most. But it had been… how long had it been? I don’t know, I was reading my book. I can space out pretty bad sometimes. Family lore has it that I slept right through a freak tornado that ripped off our roof. But the bluish fluorescent lights on the train flickered out with a hum, and when they turned on again, I realized something was amiss. The windows were turned into mirrors by the underground darkness, and in them was a face with a mischievous grin, complemented by a rakish light in the eyes and a tumble of curly brown hair. Samill, the trickster. He materialized from the window. “It’s been some time since we’ve seen each other.” “I can’t say I’ve missed you much, Samill,” I replied, sighing and putting my book down. He laughed heartily in response. “All of the wonders I’ve shown you and you don’t even have a smile to spare for me?” He had a note of mock offense in his voice. “I guess I’ll have to take this little adventure to someone else.” “Go ahead. I won’t mind.” He smiled, more broadly still. “Just kidding, it has to be you.” “Why?” “You’re the only one who’s done it before and let’s just say I need you to survive.” He meant that I’m the only mortal to travel to the realm of the gods and return both alive and a mortal. I did it when I was a girl; it was a whole thing I can’t get into now, but Samill was behind that, too. He damn near got me killed. “I don’t need anything from you this time, Samill. And I’m not a kid anymore. Why would I take this risk?” Samill appraised me. “Indeed, you are no longer a kid.” He turned his head to the side and held his fingers to his eyes like a camera lens. “A fine young woman, might I say. Are you in want of a companion?” “No,” I replied flatly. “Alright,” he said, smiling. “No need to be testy, just asking. Anyway, I need you to get something that was stolen from me.” “Get it yourself.” “Oh no, I can’t show my face there. But you would be able to slip right in and out, unnoticed.” “Surely there’s some other mortal in this world or another, aching for adventure or in need of your favors. I don’t need anything.” I looked down at my phone to check the time, but the screen displayed Samill’s mischievous face in profile. Samill looked at me seriously for some time, calculating something as he always did. “How is your sister, Stella? She must be twenty-seven years old now, am I right?” The air went out of me. What was he planning to do to her? He narrowed his eyes, a playful grin forming in one corner of his mouth. “Don’t worry, love. Your sister is fine. I kept my end of that bargain.” “And I paid a huge price. We’re even.” He crouched in front of me. Up close, I could see the glow of his skin and smell his hair; unearthly and unfathomable. “I can give you your magic back. You and Stella.” I froze, not daring to breathe. Samill took our magic in exchange for Stella’s life. We’d lived more than ten years without it. Sometimes, I wonder if I dreamed that I had it: a memory of fire dancing on my fingertips or chasing Stella on the surface of a lake; ephemeral, slipping from me like water in a palm. A gnawing, gaping longing opened up in me. “Ah,” Samill said, standing up smiling. “You’ve missed your magic. I do wonder sometimes how any mortal can bear life without it.” “Magic attracts the gods and all mortals are better off without that.” Samill grabbed his chest. “My poor heart. Come, let me show you something.” He beckoned me to the front of the train. It had stopped moving. With a dramatic swipe of his hand, the front of the train melted away, revealing the damp entrance to a long tunnel. “I need you to find the goddess Badha and retrieve the emerald she’s guarding. She’s blind and can only sense the gods. You will be able to go without notice,” he looked down at me out of the corner of his eye. I shot him a sharp look. “The underworld? Last time was different it was the heavenly gods. This is the realm of the dead, I won’t make it out. They won’t let me cross back into the living.” “If you speak your secret name to the guardian, he will let you pass alive. And if you give me the emerald, I’ll return your magic to you and your sister.” “But my secret name is for my passage into the afterlife. I can’t speak it twice.” “That’s just superstition. Encouraged by the gods, mind you, because your secret name has power and the gods know it. But you can speak it more than once. I give you my word.” I faced him and looked defiantly into his eyes. “No, sorry. I don’t need the magic, neither does Stella. Find someone else.” Samill laughed. “Well, Phoebe, I’d hoped you’d come around on your own. But barring that,” he shoved me through the front of the train and I landed right on my face in the rock and the mud. Before I could stand up, he smiled at me and waved his arm, making himself and the train disappear over my head. I made a hearty effort to bang on the now closed wall where Samill had thrown me through, but it didn’t work. If I was going to get out of there, I knew I’d have to descend this tunnel to figure it out. I pulled up my phone. Dead. Technology didn’t really work in the magical realms. The gods are terrified of it; Google is better at reading our minds than they are. It took some time for my eyes to adjust to the darkness, but when they did I noticed tiny dots of light embedded in the rock. I hit my face on the occasional tree root that was hanging from the top of the tunnel. I can’t say how long I walked, but at some point, minutes, hours or days later I arrived at a dried up river bed that I knew I’d have to cross to continue. Water is powerful and even its absence can be a trap set by a sorcerer or a god. I crouched down and put my ear to the ground. The *whoosh* of running water filled my ears. Some kind of underground river. I pressed my finger into a spot of soft mud beneath a rock and pearly liquid that looked like a cross between clouded water and honey emerged. I recognized it from old stories my grandmother told Stella and me, the River of No Name that runs through the center of the earth. It would expect payment of some kind, I reckoned. All enchanted crossings did. But I had nothing on me. I was unprepared. I tried my phone, since it was the most expensive thing I had. I placed it gingerly on the rocks, but moments later the phone launched itself back at me. Ok, that wasn’t going to work. I thought for a few minutes and then realized: the river would want my name. I leaned over to the rocks and whispered “Phoebe,” but the rocks let out an agitated hiss and rumbled. I wiped my hands on my jeans and looked up, cursing Samill. The river wanted my secret name. I was forced to trust what Samill said about my secret name not losing power if I say it more than once. I bent my face even lower this time and said, in as low a voice as possible, the name spoken to me once by my mother the day I was born and written on my heart, *Efweth*. Water coursed through the rocks, gold and white and pleasant. It leveled off when it was a few inches high and pulled itself to either side, allowing me to pass over the rocks. Eventually, I came to the end of the tunnel which was a large, circular cavern with walls made of rocks and mud. The light in the rocks was brighter here, so I was able to see more easily. It seemed I was alone. I walked around the room, my hand on the walls, feeling for some exit or hidden door, but I came up empty. I looked up, but whatever was above me was either too high or too occluded by the darkness for me to see it. “Ok, Samill. What am I doing here? Help me out?” Just then, an enormous woman descended from the ceiling; twenty-feet tall with a tangled mass of hair falling over her shoulders. She seemed old, older than the earth, but also ageless. As soon as I noticed something that would indicate her age, a wrinkle, a grey hair, it would fade away before I could be sure it was there. *This must be Badha*. “Samill? Are you here you nasty little imp? I told you if I ever saw you again I’d rip you to shreds and it would take you three millennia to stitch yourself together.” I pushed myself into the wall and held my breath, not wanting to make a sound. The goddess moved a few steps forward and backward, shaking the cavern as she did. “No it can't be Samill. He couldn't be... But who said your name? Why would anyone speak of you here?” She moved her arm around the cavern to feel. I pressed myself further against the wall. “Make yourself known, whoever you are. Another useless goblin? Be gone, goblin. I’ve nothing for you here.” I looked all over her for some sign of an emerald, nothing on her neck, nothing on her fingers or in her hair. She made herself some kind of beverage and after she was done, she sat down with her great legs out in front of her. I was standing next to her massive calf, I could have reached across and grabbed it if I wanted to. She sipped from her cup and paused, putting her ear up like a curious dog. She sipped again and got on all fours. I had to run toward the entrance of the cavern to avoid her as she changed positions. Then she put her ear to the ground and knelt up. “Mortal, I know you’re here.” Damnit, Samill. “Tell me why you’re here, mortal.” I neither replied nor moved so much as an eyelid. “The river told me mortal. I’ll say your secret name if you don’t answer me. I don’t think you want that.” I wasn’t sure what the consequences of that would be; should I call her bluff or answer her? Everyone in my culture is given a secret name at birth, whispered in their left ears by our mothers at the moment of birth. We are never to speak it until we die. We were told to always guard it as the name possesses great power that could be used to harm us or someone else. “Did Samill send you?” “Yes,” I croaked out. I was very thirsty. She laughed, quietly at first and then so forcefully the walls shook. “Tell me, mortal, what did he tell you to get?” “An emerald.” She laughed again, this time wiping tears from her cheeks. “My sweet child, Samill knows I don’t have that emerald. What did he promise you?” My stomach dropped. What had he set me up for? “Eternal youth? Love? Please, tell me.” She was still laughing and occasionally broke into wheezing coughs. “He said he’d return my magic.” She stopped laughing. “Who took it?” "He did, Samill.” “Why?” “In exchange for my sister’s life.” “And you believed him, when he said he’d return your magic?” “I don’t know. I refused him. But when I refused he threw me down here.” She brought her hand to her chin like she was thinking very hard. “I don’t have the emerald, dear. Samill knows that.” “Ok, then, I’ll just get out of your hair.” She cackled. “You’re in the realm of the dead. You can’t return. You must know that.” “Samill said…” “Samill lied,” she said, still wiping tears of laughter from her blank eyes. “You can’t return. And I’m hungry, come here.” She swiped her arms out again, narrowly missing me. I ran again to the entrance of the cavern and had nearly managed to get away when a tree root ripped from the floor and pulled me back. “I told you, there’s no returning for you, mortal. Samill as good as killed you. I don’t know what you did to piss him off.” I had no weapons. No magic. No way out. I closed my eyes and readied myself for my fate. I wondered what death would be like if I died already in the underworld. Then I got an idea. Lining the walls of the cavern and up into the ceiling were tree roots, the ones that brought me back into the cavern when I tried to escape. I escaped from the root holding me and ran across, another root shot out and chased me. I ran back and forth around the cavern, narrowly avoiding the roots as I did. The whole time Badha was laughing. “Mortals always fight so hard. So entertaining. Well, I’ll be back in a minute when you’re dead.” She stood up but fell right away as the roots pulled her back down. I’d trapped her in them. She pulled and grabbed at them, breaking a few, but they held. I knew they wouldn’t hold long, so I made one final move. I leapt up onto the roots holding Badha, the tips of new ones chasing me as I did, and ran headlong into her chest, dodging out of the way at the last second. The root didn’t find me, but did find Badha’s chest, shooting straight through it and out the other side. She gasped and choked. “No, no. This isn’t possible.” She weakly pulled at the root in her chest, but then she started to disintegrate into the dirt below her, her flesh and hair and clothes falling into so much dust. I was stunned. I thought I would incapacitate her, not kill her. I had no idea what the tree was made of that it was strong enough to kill a goddess, but I ran out of there as quickly as my feet would carry me. The River of No Name parted for me, it did not expect a second payment. I clambered back up the tunnel as fast as I could, falling and tripping as I went. I reached the end of the tunnel, still closed off. “Samill! Let me out of here.” I could see the tunnel starting to fall away too. Soon the ground beneath my feet would be gone. “You feckless bastard let, me, out!” Nothing. "Damn it,” I said, realizing that this wall was the Guardian and I needed to tell it my name or I’d fall into the creeping oblivion below. “Efweth,” I said as quietly as my adrenaline would allow. I was back on the shuttle train. Samill sat jauntily across from me, legs crossed, smiling as though he could hear a distant good tune. The only evidence I had that anything had happened was that I was covered in dirt. “I’m going to KILL you,” I shouted and ran over and started battering him with my fists. “Kill you. There was no emerald.” He restrained me easily, smiling. “I know. I needed her killed. I knew you could do it.” My jaw fell open. “Why? Why didn’t you just kill her yourself?” “This is the problem with all of you magical mortals who chose to integrate into the larger society. You missed all of your lessons. Celestial gods cannot descend into the underworld. Only humans can. I would immediately evaporate if I stepped down there.” “Why me?,” I asked, crying now. “Why? It could have been anyone.” He shook his head. “No, not anyone.” He sat back down the seat. “It had to be someone with your talents.” “I don’t have any talents,” I wept. My shoulders were shaking. “I was just trying to survive.” “And yet, most would not. Just as most children would not have survived the ordeal you went through. No, it had to be you, I’m sorry.” He stood up again and walked to the door of the train, which I realized was moving again. “Here,” he said, reaching into a pocket in his garment. “Your magic.” “No! No, please,” I begged. “I don’t need it. Keep it.” He smiled again, larger than before. “I need you to have it. I’m not done with you yet, *Efweth*.” The loudspeaker called out, “Stand clear of the closing doors, please,” and he snapped his fingers in my direction, stepped out and disappeared into the crowd. People filed into the train and I wiped the tears from my face and tucked my hair behind my ears, but people still avoided sitting next to me, covered as I was in mud and dust. I held up my left hand, cupping it around my right forefinger as though to protect it from the wind, and produced a dancing blue flame from the tip of my finger. I couldn’t stop myself from smiling.


I do not know who or *what* he actually is. Some of us think that he is a forgotten God punishing us. Others say that he is a malevolent demon out to hunt humans. Everyone in the support group has their own theory. The only thing we all agree on is that he is a supernatural being out to get us all. I infer that he a biological urge to see us suffer and be terrified. That is the only plausible explanation I can think off. Why else would anyone do the things he does? Two years ago, I went to a bar near my house. It was there that I first saw him. He stood in the corner resting his back against the wall. A small crowd was gathered around him. With his sharp wit and Greek God looks, he had everyone around him laughing at his amusing stories. Soon, I too felt attracted towards him and in minutes, I was chuckling at one of his celebrity impersonations. My gaze fell onto a young couple out in the back. They stood hugging one another. Each time the enigmatic man made a joke, they laughed together for a few seconds. Then their expressions would change. They would proceed to hug each other even tighter with a terrified look on their faces. No one else seemed to notice them. Everyone else was too engrossed listening with awe to the big, hilarious man. When I woke up the following morning, I jolted upwards from a sharp and intense pain. Throwing off my blood-soaked blanket, I discovered the cause of my pain. A huge bloody slash ran across my pale stomach. It was surely not there the previous day. The doctors could not explain it’s sudden appearance and just assumed that I was lying about the circumstances surrounding my injury. Once I reached home, I turned on the TV in order to distract myself from the pain. The news ran a report regarding a dead couple the police had found on the highway early this morning. I took out my phone and looked on the internet for pictures of their corpses. I was beginning to have some suspicions. The moment I saw the photo, all the pieces in my mind clicked together. It could not be a coincidence. The couple in the photo was the one I had seen at the bar yesterday. Their corpses even had slashes on their bodies that seemed identical to mine. My injury today had something to do with the handsome man I saw at the bar yesterday and he might somehow also responsible for the couple’s death. The only piece of the puzzle I could not figure out was why did the corpses look as if they were smiling. Later that night, I looked for the mystery man at every bar in the city. When I finally found him at a shady bar in the next neighborhood, he instantly recognized me and ordered some drinks. Once again, before I could help it, he charmed me and I threw my suspicions out the window assuming that I was overthinking things. This handsome and funny man couldn't possibly be harming me, I thought to myself as I fell asleep that night. When I woke up the next morning, I was absolutely certain that the mysterious man *had* been harming me. A long ugly slash now ran across my back. My fingers started trembling. I remembered that he had even offered to drop me home last night. He knows where I live, I thought to myself. A cold shiver went across my body and I rushed out of the house. I ran as far as I could. The moment I started to think that I’d reached far enough, he magically appeared before me. I turned around to run but I then heard his voice. He started making slightly amusing remarks. I couldn't help it, I grinned. My body froze and my foot began to ache slightly. He then proceeded to make a few more jokes. As I laughed, a terrible terrible pain shot up in my ankle. Seconds later, I’d fainted from the agony. When I woke up, he was no longer there. My foot was covered in blood and all I could do was limp. That night, the support group found me crawled up inside a dumpster, terrified and shivering. The group was formed by other people the mysterious man had been attacking. They explained everything. A few months ago, the man started showing up in various bars. He would captivate people around him and make them laugh. Every time a person laughed, he/she would become completely vulnerable to the mysterious man. The man had the bizarre but terrifying power to telepathically inflict pain and injuries upon people as long as they were laughing. What made the matters even worse was that even if we laughed when he wasn't there, he could still somehow sense it and harm us. Everyone in the group had been a victim of his unusual power. We were his chosen targets. That day, I left my home to join the group. After learning everything, I was frightened of ever spending a night in the house alone again. All that happened long ago. The support group now lives together in one of our richer member’s mansion. We have become more of a “survivors group” now. There are so many of us. We have people of multiple races, religion, and gender. It seems the mystery man does not discriminate. The locals think we are crazy and the media pays no heed to our cries. Our own families think we are delusional and self-harming. We haven't felt laughter in months. Nobody even smiles anymore, afraid that the mysterious man might somehow find a way to inflict pain on them. There are few who muster the courage to go out in the day. Maybe to meet their family, or maybe just to give in and end it all. They seldom seem to last for more than a week. Sooner or later, the man finds them. They shriek in pain as he makes them laugh. He then proceeds to laugh as he watches them shriek, feeding his sinister powers. There’s a rumor that’s been going around that the longer he waits before killing you, the more he’ll be depraved he’ll be when he finally gets to you. I pray to God that this is just a rumor. I have been living here for the longest now, everyone who was in the group when I joined has long since been dead. If the rumor is true, it means he’s saving me for last as sort of a special prize. The world seems bleak when everyone is afraid to laugh. Sealing off one of the most natural human responses takes a heavy toll on your psyche. But still, if we ever come across the mysterious man, he’ll find a way to make us laugh. We’ll be howling in pain but he’ll find something so witty to say that it will still make us laugh. By this point, you’re probably in disbelief. You’re wondering the same question that everybody else asks. Why don’t we just refrain from laughing at his jokes? No matter what he says, surely we can control our laughter given the circumstances, can’t we?” Well. The answer is simple, really. No, we can’t. He’s funnier than every comedian on Earth combined. He isn’t just funny. He happens to be fucking hilarious. And sooner or later, you’re bound to laugh.


“Look, dad.” Sara sighed. She held the phone under one arm while she struggled to coral the wild papers strewn across her desk into a neat pile. “Not this time, okay? Maybe this summer. I’ve got work coming out of my ears, and some major tests coming up after the break. I have to study.” Sara got the papers in order. She stuck them into the briefcase she was holding. “Law school isn’t a walk in the park, you know.” “Sara, honey, I know you're busy.” A deep voice breathed from the phone. Sara did a quick glance around her cubicle. Every student at Rushmore Law had their own cube in the library. It was in this box that they spent grueling hours hunched over textbooks and hundreds of pages of case law.

I am so ready for the break, Sara thought. Before leaving the library, she brushed her fingers through her unruly gold-brown hair. As she stepped out the door and into the parking lot, the brisk air splashed her face. I’ll have time to do a little pleasure reading and hang out with friends. “I am busy, dad.” Sara grunted, patting her suit pockets as she searched for her Honda keys. The Honda was a car that Sara had had since her eighteenth birthday… The birthday when she’d left for college. The day she’d left Silver Meadows, the home of her youth, and never looked back. Why would she? California and Rushmore’s School of Law were ten times more interesting than that small town in the backwoods of Mississippi. They were more interesting, and they held less painful baggage than Mississippi and Silver Meadows. “I’m busy, and I can’t make it home this Christmas... I’m sorry.” Sara found her keys and unlocked her vehicle. She slipped into the driver’s seat. Sara tossed the briefcase in the backseat. It landed atop a mountain of junk. “Hey, I’m heading back to the dorms now. It’s the first day of break, and Cami and I have plans. Tell mom I love her, and-." “Sara,” her dad’s voice grew grave. “Listen to me; you need to come home this Christmas.” “Dad, I-.” “Honey, your mother..." her dad trailed off, before clearing his throat. “Your mother isn’t feeling well, and I think it would be best if you came to see her, just in case." There go all my plans. Sara stomped off the plane. She snatched her luggage off of the baggage carousel like a child throwing a tantrum. There goes hanging with Cami. There goes reading a nice book with a cup of hot cocoa. There goes Christmas. I’ll be spending it worrying about mom, in a town that I hate, in a house that I hate... Perfect. Although, despite her bitter thoughts, Sara couldn’t help the whispers of worry that echoed ominously around her mind. Her dad had said that her mom was ill and that he wanted her to come home for the holidays. However, he refused to say exactly what was wrong with Sara’s mother. What if she’s really sick? Sara swallowed. She stepped outside the airport doors and waved down a taxi. What if, all this time, she’s been ill, and I’ve been brushing them off? Sara shifted uncomfortably in the taxi’s hard seats. It wasn’t their fault what Jed did. Heck, it wasn’t exactly my ex’s fault. So why do I blame them all, like it was?

Sara had called a car rental near Silver Meadows before she’d even gotten on the plane. They had a car ready to go for her when the taxi dropped her off there. It was a base model Toyota Corolla that had seen better days.

It was the cheapest car they had. So, Sara took it. Right away, she noticed the car’s engine grumbling like a grumpy old man. She tried to ignore it, focusing instead on the growing familiarity of the woodland around her. The trees were coated in layers of ice, which glistened over their branches like crystals. The sky was the same color as the water that brushed against the shores of Cali’s beaches. Sara turned off the main road and onto a gravel backroad. That seemed to be the final straw for the old Toyota. With a groan and snap, a few miles from her parents house, the car sagged forward and ceased to move. “Oh, no, no!” Sara groaned, smacking her head against the steering wheel. “Not now! Oh, come on.” She tried the gas. The car sputtered, smoke rising from the engine. Sara, with a groan of her own, stepped out of the vehicle. She made her way to the front of the car and popped the hood. Dad always made this look easy, Sara realized, staring with a blank expression at the mess of cables before her. Which thing-a-m-bob does which? What should I do? “You look more lost than a calf, trying to climb out of a ditch with two backward hooves.” Sara jumped. She glanced over her shoulder. Instantly, her stomach dropped. A man stood behind her. A young man with hazel eyes and straw-blond hair. He was wearing a brown leather jacket, cowboy boots, and jeans. He looked the same as he had at eighteen. “I…” Sara’s mouth went dry. She wet her lips and tried again. But words wouldn’t come out. She could feel cold, biting, water against her skin. She could hear herself screaming out as that same merciless liquid filled her lungs and pushed at the back of her eyes. “It’s not funny!” She remembered saying, as she tried to take an amber bottle from a boy. A boy who stood on the edge of the river. “It’s not funny at all! Give me that! All of you are being dumb!" “Who’s bein’ dumb?" One boy, who stood next to the one she was speaking to, sneered. He had black eyes—the devil’s eyes. “We is just having a little fun, right, Cas?” "Yeah, yeah, we are.” The boy, the one who’s drink Sara continued to desperately snatch at, agreed. He pulled the drink from her grasping hands. “Don’t be such a mother.” “I’m not! But this is foolish. If you get caught-.” Sara glared at him, her eyes wet with tears of worry and frustration. Cas looked away, shame coloring his ears. He didn’t want to be there. He was just there because the guys had invited him, and because he didn’t want to be at home with his father. “Come on, Cas.” Sara urged, her voice soft as cotton. She grabbed his hand, his warm fingers slipping into hers. “Let’s go back to my place. You can sleep it off there.” “Oh, go suck an egg, you whiny little snitch!” The boy with the devil’s eyes reached out, shoving her. Sara felt the ground slip from under her. She tumbled off the river’s bank and into the wild water below. “Sara!” She heard Cas yell. “Sara!” “Sara? Uh… Are you okay?" Sara shook her head clear. She blinked at the young man before her. “Yeah, um, Cas... How are you? It’s been a long time.” She murmured, trying to get her heart rate to return to normal. Cas shifted from foot to foot uncomfortably. “It has.” He agreed. The young man squinted at the ground for a moment before jerking his head towards her car. “Need a hand?” Sara, meanwhile, spotted the truck parked a few paces from them. She glared at it. How did I not hear him coming? I forgot he lives on this road too...Rats. “It’s a rental.” Sara told him, though she couldn’t quite make eye contact. “It sucks.” Cas laughed—a forced laugh. “Don’t they all? Let me see if I can get it going for you." Sara was half-tempted to refuse, but Cas didn’t give her the chance. He put his hands on either side of the open hood and peered inside. Sara relaxed. She remembered that Cas had a knack for fixing things. She knew he could get the car started, so at least she would make it to her parents without having to call a tow. Cas fixed the car faster than Sara thought was possible. When he was done, he stood by the hood, licking his lips thoughtfully. “Are you stayin’ in town long?” He asked. Sara stiffened at the hope in his voice. “No.” She said, bluntly. “Just to check on my mother. A few days, at most.” Cas’s shoulders sagged in disappointment. Then, he furrowed his brow. “Your mother?” He echoed. “What’s wrong with her?" Figures, Sara’s shock was slowly being overcome by the raw bitterness that had been her friend during the first few months after Cas’s eighteenth birthday—the day his no-good friend had pushed her into the river. Like he’d keep up with an ex’s family. “She’s sick.” Sara said. She opened the car door and slipped into the driver’s seat. She rolled down the window to add. “Thanks for your help. I take it your still living around here." “She’s sick…” Cas looked beyond puzzled. However, he just shrugged and shook his head. “Uh, yeah. My old man’s place. He passed on a few months ago, and I inherited the cattle ranch. He had so many unpaid debts that I had to sell most of the land and the animals, but I managed to keep the lot the house sits on. I’m right up the road from your parents, if-.” “I remember. Thanks for the help. You have a good night.” Sara said, as formally as she could without sounding rude.

Cas winced, like she’d hit him. “Yeah, Sara… you too, hey, maybe we could-.” Sara pretended not to hear him. She started off down the road, towards her parents house. Sara pulled into the dirt driveway of her childhood home. She blinked in awe as she spotted her mother putting up clothes to dry on the clothes line. “Mom?” Sara asked, getting out of the car. Her mother turned to her, a gasp escaping her. “Sara! Sara, honey!” The woman rushed to greet her. Sara opened her arms to her mother, and the short woman buried herself in them. “Oh, my baby! My sweet baby, you finally came home!” “I…” Sara pulled away. She tried to ignore the lingering feeling of safety that her mother’s smell, a scent of flowers and dough, left her with. “You look... good?" Her mother was just as puzzled as she was. “Of course!” She said, "Why wouldn’t I be?” “Because dad told me..." Sara trailed off. The front door to her old home opened. A skinny man with brown hair and a stiff mustache, dressed in a plaid red shirt and jeans, walked out of the house. He smiled when he spotted Sara. “Sara,” he greeted, opening his arms up invitingly. “It’s good to see you! We-.” Something in Sara’s head clicked. A raw fury exploded inside of her. She didn’t move to hug her father. “She’s not sick, is she?” Sara nodded to her mother. “She never was. You made that up.” “W-what?” Sara’s mom looked back and forth between her daughter and her husband, her eyes wide with confusion. Sara felt sorry for her. But she couldn’t stop the anger she felt over her father’s lie. “She had a cough for a few days. She was still recovering when I called you!” Sara’s father grunted. He straightened up. “I had to do something! You wouldn’t come to see us! I missed my little girl, and you would never come to visit!" “So, you lie and tell me my mom’s ill? That she’s… dying?” Sara spat. She took a step back. “Don’t you understand? I hate this place! I almost drowned in that river!” She waved a hand wildly in the direction of where she knew the Mississippi River lay. “I almost died because I tried to stop my boyfriend and his stupid friends from drinking themselves to death! If Cas hadn't... if he hadn’t gotten to me when he did, I would have died. That’s all I can remember when I come here. If you wanted to see me so badly, dad, why didn’t you and mom come visit me in Cali?” Sara stopped, breathing hard. Her mother looked close to tears. Her dad’s jaw tightened. “And leave this town without a sheriff?” He growled. “I couldn’t do that. Sara, I know what happened scared you-.” “It ruined me.” Sara hissed. She felt tears fill her eyes. “And you told me that if I just worked hard enough, I would stop remembering. You were wrong. And you were wrong to do this.” Sara turned and got back in her car. “I'm not a puppet on a string that you can just bend to do your will. I'm not staying here on account of a trick." “Sara, don’t be like that!” Her dad snapped. “Sara, please, don’t go!” Her mom called after her, her voice cracking with desperation. Sara ignored them both, just as she’d ignored Cas, and let the car drift down the driveway. Somehow, someway, almost as though fate was dragging her there, Sara found herself standing at Cas’s front door. The old farmhouse, with its green walls and white trimmings, greeted her like an old friend. Sara stood at the door, one hand raised to knock. What am I doing? She wondered, lowering her fist. She chewed her lip, peeking over her shoulder at her car. Maybe I should just go find a place in town to stay. Sara grimaced. And waste more money? It was already more than I could afford to get down here. Every other cent that I have goes towards paying for school. Sara took a deep breath and forced herself to knock. She waited, a lump in her throat. Sara heard barking behind the door. She remembered that dog. His name was Bailey. Cas had saved him after his father had hit him on the road. Sara took a step back as the door squeaked open. Cas was there, holding Bailey, the yellow labrador, by the collar. “Sara?” He blinked in surprise, before a grin lit up his face. “Hey… I didn’t reckon you were gonna come by.” “Didn’t intend to.” Sara admitted. She paused. “Can I come in?” “Was a time when you didn’t have to ask.” Cas let go of Bailey. The big dog rushed forward and sniffed at Sara’s pants. He wagged his tail. “Guess he remembers you, huh?” Cas laughed—a genuine laugh this time. Sara followed him inside. Cas waved for her to sit down on the coach in his living room. Sara sat. She watched him return from the kitchen a moment later with two bottles of tea. Is that the best he can do for holiday refreshment? Sara wondered. “Drink?” Cas offered, sitting down beside her, far enough away that it was clear he knew where her boundaries were. She nodded, taking the bottle. “No beer this time.” She muttered, opening the tea bottle. Cas stiffened. “You know, I’ve waited years to see you again.” He murmured, gazing down into his drink. Bailey came over and rested his head on his master’s lap. “To get the chance to tell you how sorry I am. That night… I was angry and frustrated with everything. My dad ruined my birthday and made me feel worthless. And then Jed... he made it sound fun to go do what we did, with the beer.” Cas looked up, his eyes bright with remorse. “I never thought he’d do something like what he did to you, and I coulda killed him for that. I loved you, Sara. I never would have done anything to hurt you." Sara closed her eyes. “I know.” She whispered. “It wasn’t your fault, but it still hurt, Cas. Even before he pushed me, you stood with him against me. I was only trying to help you, and you were horrible to me." “I was a jerk back then.” Cas sneered, the self-hatred clear in his voice. He took a sip of his drink. “To everyone but you... guess I finally showed you my true colors, aye?” “Well, you did jump in the river to save me.” Sara smiled softly. Cas shrugged. “It wouldn’t have happened if it wasn’t for me." Sara pulled up her sleeve. She shoved her arm in front of Cas’s face. He blinked.

“The bracelet.” She murmured. “I was going to give it to you on your birthday, before everything happened." The silver bracelet on Sara’s wrist had her name engraved on the band. Cas ran a finger over it. His shoulders sagged. “I really ruined everything, didn’t I?” He rasped. The young man rose to his feet. “Wait here; I want to show you something.” He turned and made his way up the stairs, leaving Sara alone with Bailey. She arched an eyebrow at the dog, who was staring at her. Bailey tail wagged. Cas reappeared a moment later. He sat back down and handed her a small, velvety, black box. “That’s what I was going to give you,” Cas confessed. “On your eighteenth birthday.” Sara knew, from the way he said that, what was in the box. That didn’t stop her from tearing up as she saw the beautiful, gleaming ring. “We could have had it all, couldn’t we?” Cas said, an unbearable affection and regret in his voice. Sara looked up. She saw the emotion in his eyes, and she remembered something. The one thing that had always made her love her hometown had never been the place. It’d been him. “Maybe we still can.” She told him without anger or resentment. She handed him the box and gently placed his hands around it. She rested hers on top of his. They were as warm as they’d been when she was a girl. “Someday."


The scene is Old Town, Scottsdale, and a new type of depression has infected the locals. At least half of his friends are out of a job. All of the bartenders, and drivers, and waitresses, and tour guides that were thriving just weeks ago are now wondering how they will pay next month's rent. Old Town has become a ghost town and the remaining occupants have grown restless. People are technically still allowed to leave their homes and most stores are still open, but the newly accepted social norms encourage the most extreme form of social distancing. Even the drama has subsided as the participants have retreated into hiding. And so, for the first time in forever, the streets of Old Town were quiet and sparse. Social media and dating app activity has spiked since the loose lockdown. And it's just another lonely March afternoon on one of the dating apps when the boy matches with the girl. They chat briefly about the state of the world and their collective impending gloomy future before he shifts the conversation texts. Immediately after doing so, he realizes that his text game is just as weak as his Tinder game and so he suggests that they go for a ride. They meet at a restaurant and eat in his car as no one is allowed to dine-in anymore. And as they cruise aimlessly through the city, they speak freely and grow close. Just before sunset, they arrive at the perfect viewing place for such an event. They’re now quiet as they take in the awe-inspiring scene before locking lips atop the mountain across from the fading sun. The ride back to his place is serene and free of negative thoughts pertaining to everyone's reality. On his bed, they open a bottle of wine and it is halfway gone by the time they find the perfect movie to watch on Netflix. Only a few moments into the movie, a move is made and sex ensues. This passionate display of carnal desire will stay with him forever. He hardly sleeps afterwards as he replays the night and thinks about what the future could hold. The girl represents everything he thinks he wants. Eventually his thoughts are overtaken by sleep but his slumber is disrupted by the intensity of the girl’s coughing fit. *Could this be the virus?* She’s struggling to breath and he’s struggling to focus in this most unnerving of situations. He thinks of who might be able to help but he realizes that all of his friends are probably sound asleep in their rooms, anxious, but healthy and currently at peace. And as he drives her to the emergency room, he tries to come to terms with the fact that he’ll likely be in her shoes in due time. The boy feels terrible about the fact that he can’t shake those questions floating around in his head. “Was any of this worth it? ...Is she really worth it?” The following weeks were dark and volatile in the Old Town that was once very much alive and consistent. The lights illuminating the streets of Scottsdale were mostly dark as there was no activity to shine light on. The standard shared sadness remained, but this time, it was the virus that consumed the town.


Hey so below is my first attempt at a short story. Any tips or advice would be muchly appreciated. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ The old man smiled with his yellow crooked teeth, taking a seat opposite you in an equally plush high back armchair. "Where to begin.... Hm?" He scratch his chin, "Well the start would be the best place I suppose." He rested his feet upon a small foot rest, "Our story starts around 150 years ago underneath the smoke filled skies of victorian London, truly the technological and cultural capital of the time. You see these items all belonged to a Miss Harriet Beechwood. The Beechwoods were a prominent family in Victorian high society. Her mother Phillipa a common fixture at gala's and parties, mixing with who's who of the day. Harriet's father, Oswald, was a successful London banker. It was during a visit to her father's workplace she met the strapping young adventurer Godwin Whittock. She had her many tales of his daring feats from her father, who had overseen the fiance of many expeditions led by Godwin into the heart of Africa, at the time regarded as one of the last great untamed wilderness' yet to be tamed by the white man. Needless to say it was love at first sight, at least for Harriet. This initial meeting was quickly followed by a whirlwind summer romance of secret rendezvous and lengthy letters professing each others undying admiration and love. Yet it was not to last, you see Oswald knew of Goodwin's womanizing ways and upon uncovering their relationship Oswald forced the randy adventurer to propose in an attempt to save his dear Harriet from heartbreak and his family name from humiliation. Harriet was of course overjoyed when her darling Godwin proposed, her heart filled with joyed, her spirits never higher as she counted the days til they were wed. But alas this is Harriet would never get her happily ever after as on the eve of her wedding she received a letter written in Godwin's hand, it explained how he had never loved her and that the whole marriage had been forced upon him by her father. The message also revealed the extent of Godwin's promiscuity, listing a whole slew of mistresses including Harriet's own mother." The old man paused for a second, drawing a slow steady breath as if to calm himself, he continued, "Upon hearing the news, Harriet immediately set out to confront her parents, who at the time were staying at their country estate in the peak district, a good two weeks outside of the city. The heartbroken young lady would spend the next two days in her carriage mulling over each betrayal. Her lover, who she once idealised, revealed to be naught more than a womanizing lathero. Her father, her daddy dearest, a man who she believed would always protect her had humiliated her to save himself from embarrassment. Her loving mother, a woman who had always preached the values of a good marriage and fidelity, was in truth a hypocritical harlot, willing to drop her bloomers even at the cost of her own daughters heart. It was during these long hours of solemn contemplation that Harriet's once pure and kind heart grew darker, stained black by spite, hatred and malice. She no longer cared for others, why should they feel happiness and joy, things she had been robbed of. If she could no longer feel joy, she would ensure no one else ever would."  "Unfortunately Harriet would never reach her parents. Around midday on the seventh day of her travels, a terrible accident occured. As the carriage wound its way along a particularly craggy path, one misplaced foot from one of the horses result in the carriage to tumble down the valley, and into a the thicket of bushes below. The carriage driver was killed instantly, the horses managing to bolt free, yet poor Harriet remained trapped, bleeding out and barely conscious. Passerbys by were unable to hear her cries for help and so she died, slowly, cursing the world for how it had wronged her with each breath."  "Her remains weren't found until 3 weeks later, by which time her blood had soaked deep into her luggage, carrying her curse and hatred, binding it to those her few earthly possessions. Those that found the carriage each of course took a souvenir, only to find their loves soon drained of happiness and joy, needless to say many tragic tales like Harriet's have followed these items down through the years. Stories of young newly weds driven to suicide on their honeymoon upon receiving an ornate brooch as a wedding gift. Tales of bankers going broke, losing it all after purchasing an antique ring.