We wait. Snow flakes flutter down, like ash from a burning forest. Breath coalesces in the air, swirling and enveloping me. The cheap khaki only comes in two sizes, too big or too small. My own uniform compacts my form, and I struggle for every breath. The cold bites off toes, noses, fingers, and pierces already sloughing lungs. I remember – who was it now? - shouting at me to get up, to man the fire-step. He's not here now, somewhere else. There is no one else. The trench snakes for miles across a diseased land, weaving in and out of the pockmarked landscape. Every now and then, artillery thuds. We can't see where it lands. We have been told to wait, so we do. For king, honour and country, we wait. I chew a stale biscuit, which breaks into thick clumps. Most of the food is gone now, eaten by rats, or men. Or both at the same time. Hunger wracks my body, like a fever. My guts clench and unclench. I remember someone, their name eludes me, who gnawed off his own finger. Got there before the cold did. I have no idea why we are here. Only that if we were not, we'd be disgracing ourselves. Funny thing, patriotism. Sends men into holes in the ground, human excrement up to your thighs; that's on a good day. The only thing that is reasonably dry is our rifle, which protrude like extra limbs, jutting out awkwardly in oilskin cases. I often see an old friend, who only ever has his back to me now, face down, trying to swim in the mire. Doesn't look like much fun. Everyone avoids him as he careers around - sometimes he knocks into the walls of the trench. I yell at him as he passes, tell him to watch where he's going. Everyone else stares at me. With blank, piercing eyes, they shake their heads sullenly. They begin to mutter. I feel something digging uncomfortably into my ribs, right over my heart. It's a piece of paper – a blotched, frayed picture of smiling woman in white, hugged up close to a young, handsome man. Tears streak down my grimy face, passing cuts, bruises, scars. I try to remember who this depicts, but flies away from my stumbling grasp. It's cold. Sometimes, the mire freezes, and we have solid ground to pace along. I see my friends face in the mire, a bellowing laugh on his face. He's enjoying himself now. Then a murmuring begins, and dull thuds shake the earth, disturbing clumps of snow that patters down. Men, before just milling around in the cramped walls, jump up, and yell raucously. A new cloud, otherwise alone in the clear expanse of the sky, drifts towards us. More rain, more soggy biscuits. Someone something over my head, and I fall over, startled and shouting. I want to rip the contraption from my head, but it distorts my vision. I tear at it, but my movements are slow and awkward. I get up, angry at this unnecessary attack. I peer over the barbed wire, cowed by the sudden obscurity of my senses. Shadows approach in the gloom the discoloured cloud. Reinforcements! I wave my arms hysterically and scramble out of the trench to which we have been confine for so long, snagging my legs on the thorns of wire. A red smile grins at me from my leg. I scream louder and louder, and go to say my name, but it catches in my throat, my tongue cloyed by a coppery fluid. I feel warmth spread down my neck, across my chest, painting the picture scarlet. For once, it's warm enough for me to lie down. I crawl back to my friend, see my colleagues make the sign of the cross, a mutter their condolences – but I want to sleep. I close my eyes next to my old friend: now I swim to, but with a smile.


“We are all of us, afraid of the dark” he says it sadly, as though he’s delivering a terminal diagnosis, and in a way, he is. “When we’re kids, yeah,” snorts Philips. Now he’s lazily shaking his head with an economy that makes it all the more striking, “we still are. Every last one of us.” “How do you work that one out?” says Philips, disdain dripping from his words, disdain and the beginnings of aggression. There is a threat here, but it’s pathetic. Philips is showing himself to be that bully-in-waiting and I wish he’d shut up. I dislike conflict, but he’s bringing it and I can see that it will be down to me to shut that stupid mouth of his. I should do it now, but that isn’t how it’s done. Innocent until they prove themselves guilty. Pre-emptive strikes are frowned upon. Even by me. The old man looks up at Philips. Looks into him, then his eyes shift a little and he’s looking through him as though there isn’t much of value in Philips. That there is a damning look and Philips knows it. He bristles, but he doesn’t know what to say, only that he’s not comfortable with the way the old man looks at him and he wants it to stop. Philips has a need to fill the silence and change the old man’s focus, “it’s only a blackout. What’s with all the drama and tall stories?” There is something like pleading in his voice. He wants the old man to go easy on him. He doesn’t think he’s being fair. Since when did fair come into it? The old man sighs and an air of disappointment fills the room, he should not have to say this, in saying it, he damns us. He damns us all. We are not ready, I know that in this very moment. Perhaps we never were. “This isn’t just a blackout that’s coming. The lights aren’t going to come back on. Not ever. There is a darkness within us. Always has been. Forget the wheel, or whatever other invention people bandy about as the most important development in our history, fire was

the  transformative technological innovation in our evolution. Fire gave us warmth and light. Respite from the unending darkness. When we stepped out of the darkness, we changed for the better. Problem is, we never did anything about our darkness and it has lain in wait for us ever since. We are afraid of the dark because it speaks to our darkness, and when it speaks, we

feel  it. We feel it and we

know. ” “We know what, old man?” says Philips flippantly. I should punch him in that dumb mouth of his, but I don’t. I want to hear more from the old man and Philips serves a purpose right now. He’s asked the dumb question I wanted to, but was never going to ask. “Can’t you feel it?” asks the old man, he looks around the room as though there is something in here with us, something other than his sorrowful disappointment, “if you give yourself a moment. Cease attending to the constant noise we’ve created in an attempt to deny and ignore our very selves, you will hear it. If you look down into your selves, you will see a darkness that goes all the way down into hell itself.” “This is utter cobblers!” cries Philips, “we’re talking about a blackout, not the end of bloody days!” “There’s that noise,” says the old man calmly, as though he’s teaching a class of five year olds, “you’d rather make some noise than acknowledge how close we all are to that dark half. That all we have ever done is turn our back on that darkness of ours. Ignored our true nature and lived a charade that is now coming to an end.” Philips scowls at the man and for all the world looks like that petulant five year old. The again, I doubt he’s made it to five. Right now, he seems more like a grumpy and petulant two year old slinging toys like they were his own excrement.

Despite his poor behaviour, I want to side with Philips and that proves the old man’s point. I’m in denial and I don’t have the guts to face the truth. We’ve all been in denial and pretended everything was OK for far too long, and now it is too late. I want to ask him all the same. I want to know what it is that we can do, but this question of mine remains unspoken. I already know the answer. There is nothing we can do. It is too late. Far too late. Silence falls over us then. Each of us forming questions and half thoughts then pushing them away and down. There is nothing of use available to us now. All I feel is a shedding of an invisible skin. The armour of civilisation has turned to dust and now I am red raw and vulnerable. I smell of blood and fear and my very existence is an open invitation for the evil that is coming. I hope it is not going to be painful, but my hope is weak and futile. With a force of will, I consider what it is that awaits us and I face my cowardice. There are worse things than death. Death would be an escape from what is coming. Even a painful death would be preferable to the dark wave of change and what it will bestow upon us. That darkness brings chaos, an instantaneous undoing of all that we built over thousands of years. The dark is our undoing and I can already feel myself unravelling.

I really can feel it right now, some of what the old man has told us. His words have summoned my darkness forth and I resent him for that. Now it is not Philips I want to punish, it is him. I swallow this down and I shudder. I have experienced a small taste of what is to come. I can smell it on the wind and I know what is coming with a growing certainty that threatens to completely undo me. So, I fight. I make fists with my hands and I stick with what I know, and I hold it together. I hold it at bay. I do what I have always done, what we have always done, since we huddled over the fire and waited out the long, dark, bitter nights. The darkness crowding in and threatening to take everything from us as we cowered from it and held on in the hope that the sun would rise before we fell prey to the most fearsome of all predators. “This really is the end for us, isn’t it?” the words escape my mouth before I know what it is that I am saying. Thought and feeling made all the more real for them having been said. The old man smiles. It should be inappropriate, but I feel gratitude for both the sight and the warmth of it, “we also fear change. An end heralds a beginning.” “What’s that supposed to mean?” Philips asks. We exchange a look, the old man and I. I know at least some of his meaning and it is cold comfort, but it is at least something. I find that I do not want the coward’s escape of death, instead, I want to see this thing through. Come what may, I want to be a part of what is next. Philips persists, “no! Tell me what you mean! All these ramblings and your mumbo jumbo, it’s all getting on my bloody nerves, you old git!” I’m up on my feet before I know what I am doing, and I’m grabbling Philips’ throat and pinning him against the wall before he can react. I stare into his eyes and all I see is fear. Fear and cowardice. Whether it’s mine, or his, I can’t tell.

“Shut up.”

That is all I say. The sound of those two words is alien to me. I am broadcasting on another frequency and there is no recognition to be had here, and that casts me adrift on the first waves of the dark tide that will very soon consume us all. So soon? I thought we had longer. I wanted longer. We always want longer, and we are never ready.

We go unwillingly into that dark night. My fear is displaced by an overwhelming sadness. I feel the darkness stirring and I can no longer separate the darkness without, from that darkness within. Everything is bleeding into one and I feel it rising up.

Counter to everything, I feel that upward movement and an inexplicable elation. I am with the part of me that I have always considered to be the entirety of who and what I am. Now I know how wrong I was. This part of me has had its day and now it is leaving. It rises, only so it can fall, and it will fall eternally.

That well of darkness is infinite. That is the hell that awaits us. The hell that has stalked us all of our days. I turn to the old man and we both smile, but this time I see his smile and it does not warm me. It is cold and it is hungry, as are his eyes. His lips move further upwards and reveal teeth that are a threat. I feel my detached response and what frightens me the most is that this does not frighten me. It excites me. I am being freed and there will be no rules. Only me and the darkness. I doubt there will be much of me left after this eternal night begins. Then I understand. I want this. I have always wanted this. Everything before this has been a lie. This is not who I am, because there is no

who . This is what I am. This is my nature, and I am returning to it. I am returning to the darkness. There is only the darkness. There has only ever been the darkness. It indulged us. It allowed us to play in the light for a short while, now it is reclaiming its own. This is when the lights go out for the very last time and the darkness finally swoops back into its rightful dominion. The lights go out across the globe, and that is then the light goes out in each and every one of us. This is when the light goes out of me, and this is when the first of the screaming starts. I think some of the screams are mine. It’s so difficult to tell. It’s even more difficult to care.


“You’re finally going to take me there?” Peter asked. “Yup,” Dennis said with a nod.  	The two sat high up in the branches of an old redwood tree. Out toward the horizon, the silhouette of a city loomed, the tall skyscrapers veiled by a thick morning haze. Peter eyed it, curiously. He had always been told the city was a dangerous place, however, he was now of the age where he was expected to make the journey to its heart. To do so was a rite of passage. There, the Elder Dove would reveal to him the secrets of the past.  	“You ready?” asked Dennis There was an ominous tone to his voice that put Peter on edge. “Yeah.” “Okay, let’s go.”  	The two leaped from their perch and picked up speed. The wind rushed past their ears and, when they felt the onset of weightlessness, they spread their wings, and the two pigeons began their hour-long journey to the city. Dennis took it slow, becoming more alert than normal once they passed outside the boundary of pigeon country. His amber eyes scanned the landscape below, pointing out important features for Peter to remember as it was his little brother's first time outside the border. He also did this in case he didn’t make the return journey home, and his brother had to find his back, alone. “What is that!?” Peter exclaimed, pointing to a massive concrete structure stretching over the bay. “That’s a bridge.” “Who built that?” “The humans.” Peter’s eyes widened. “No way! The humans? How did those savages manage to build that?” Peter had seen few humans in his short life and found them to be unimpressive things. They were awkward creatures, scarcely able to take care of themselves, and were wildly unpredictable. They talked with screeches and shouts, hardly able to carry on a conversation without getting emotional. “Humans aren’t what they used to be,” said Dennis. “What happened to them?” Dennis pointed to the city. They were close now. “That’s what you are about to find out,” he said, “For now, just stick with me.” The two tightened their formation, crossed the remainder of the bay, and made for the gap between two colossal buildings, the tops of which disappeared into overcast clouds. “Oh my,” Peter said as the details of the city came into view. Many of the buildings were charred and crumbling, with thousands of shattered windows that looked like jagged maws. Cars jammed together in jumbled heaps, filling the streets. Broken glass and trash littered the sidewalks. “Be on the alert,” said Dennis. “The humans here are more wild than the ones in the country.” Aside from the wind producing an odd harmonic as it flowed through the concrete jungle, it was eerily quiet. Peter stayed close to his brother as they banked this way and that, dipping and diving to avoid low-hanging cables and lights. His eyes darted all around, taking in all he could. He imagined what this place looked like before it was destroyed and thought it to be a busy yet exciting place to be. “PIGEONS!!!” A voice screamed from below, “Rats with wings!!! Die!” “Bank left!” Dennis shouted. Both turned just in time before a rock whizzed by where they used to be. Dennis quickly led them around the corner and out of sight, before circling back a minute later.

“What are you doing?” asked Peter. “Shh, I want to show you something.” Dennis found them a silent perch. “Look and see,” he said, pointing at the woman. She was an odd thing to look at. It was cold yet she wore scant clothing and walked with an exaggerated swing in her hips. Her face was coated with a substance that made it look artificial and her hair was unnaturally blonde. A moment later, a group of men appeared at the far end of the street. They paused for a moment and, once they saw the woman, started hooting and hollering as they advanced on her. “Those are city-born males,” Dennis said, quietly. “Dangerous things. Very unpredictable around women.” Each of the males puffed out their chest and began boasting in an odd ritualistic manner. The woman paused, placed her hand gently on one hip, and pursed her lips. It was too much for the men to handle and they began to fight one another. The woman laughed, gleefully. “See how primitive they are,” said Dennis. “Their hearts are wild with desire.” Peter nodded, amused by the scene. “Come on,” said Dennis, “Let’s move on.” They flew for another couple of blocks until they saw another woman walking alone down an alleyway. Dennis perched them in a hidden place so they could observe. Unlike the other woman, this woman had blue hair and was dressed comfortably as she walked from one end of the alley to the other. Once she reached the end, she stopped, looked both ways, and then turned around to walk back the way she came. “I feel like this is the right way,” she mumbled under her breath. Peter watched her walk back and forth for ten minutes before he leaned over to Dennis and asked him what she was doing. “She’s trying to navigate based on what feels is right, but she keeps second-guessing herself,” he said. “We call it the doom loop. She’ll be at it for hours before she makes up her mind.” They flew for a while longer until they came to a blue and white skyscraper. They circled around it, making their way higher with each lap until they reached the top. To Peter’s amazement, another tower was built on its roof yet this one looked naked. It was a maze of interconnected steel beams, angled slightly, and forming a tall pyramid. Crowned on top was a series of smooth rectangular panels with watchful faces painted upon them, their detailed eyes overlooking the city in all directions. “Woah,” breathed Peter as they neared the top of the second tower. Behind the panels was a large nest that could have easily fit more than five hundred pigeons. A faint glowing light pulsed within. Dennis dove for the opening. Peter followed and the two came to a stop just beyond the threshold. “Greetings, brother birds.” The Elder Dove approached, feathers white as bleached flour. A talisman hung loosely around her neck and she wore a small crown made from twigs and colorful pebbles. She walked toward them with purpose, head bobbing back and forth, elegantly. Both Dennis and Peter bowed. “What do you seek?” she asked in a commanding tone. “Knowledge,” said Peter, “as is the right of all pigeons.” The words flowed from him, well rehearsed. “Come,” the Elder Dove said. “Come and see.” The warm light in the center of the nest pulsed, its predictable frequency providing a hypnotic ambiance. Gold and silver chains dangled from the domed ceiling, shining bright. “In the beginning, the humans reigned supreme,” the Elder Dove began, “they were masters of the world, ruling with god-like powers; capable of flight, instant communication, and possessing limitless knowledge at their fingertips.” The dove stopped and looked at Peter, her stare deadly serious. “But they became too proud of what they created and began to experiment with things they knew little about.” She led them to a rectangular panel leaning against the far wall of the nest. It was a head taller than Peter and had a reflective, onyx sheen to it. “We don’t know much about what happened, as little survived the Desolation.” A sudden gust rattled the nest as if brought about by the mere mention of the calamitous event. Peter and Dennis flinched, but the Elder Dove continued. “We were never really able to figure out what happened until we found a human out in the country sane enough to learn how to communicate with us. Apparently, these towers emit a frequency called ‘6G’ and the humans hoped it would strengthen their technological prowess. They were eager for progress and neglected dissenting voices. They activated the 6G towers without knowing whether the frequency was safe. The moment they did, everyone within range of the towers had part of their brain fried, the part responsible for logical reasoning; leaving only the emotive side of the brain to make decisions.” “Oh, my,” said Peter. “This problem was compounded by these black panels - the humans call them smartphones - and the fires of their emotions were stoked. No longer did they think. They just felt. Driven by greed, fear, and hate, they turned on one another. Each nation declared war on its neighbor and rained fire down from the sky. Cities burned. Many people died.” “That’s terrible!” “But there is a silver lining to this tale. The humans did not foresee that the same frequency that made them insane caused a massive increase in the cognitive ability of city-dwelling birds, predominantly pigeons. As the humans slaughtered each other, we pigeons were able to escape the Desolation, and form colonies of our own far outside the cities.” Peter gazed at his reflection on the screen of the smartphone. “Why didn’t they just turn off the frequency or throw away their phones?” asked Peter. “It was too late. The damage was already done and they would rather sacrifice their sanity than do away with their smartphones.” Peter remembered the men he saw earlier and the wild look they had about them. “What will happen to them?” “Some of our more altruistic scientists are trying to develop a way of protecting the humans from 6G using tinfoil hats but, so far, none of the humans will go along with the experiment. They always complain about how awkward and silly the hat makes them feel. For now, they will live on in their own primitive societies, governed by their chaotic emotions and wild feelings until we pigeons overtake them with sound logic and reasoning.” “Pigeons will inhabit the earth,” said Dennis. The Elder Dove nodded. “And blameless will we remain.”


The witch love potion The crisp autumn air was warm, people stood by a train station as a light rumble started. The train was coming. It was a large barreled train with red accents. The light was a pale yellow that was barely seen in the afternoon air. When the train got closer you could hear the screams and yells of people by the tracks.

“Please don’t do this. Do you want to be a murderer? I swear I’m not a witch, I was just tending to my moth garden and- and my pet raven was helping me… please believe me” the witch pleads as she looks at the train coming at her and back at the people.

“You’re a witch Crow Jones and so is the rest of your family. They are filthy and dangerous and so are you. Just admit you’re a witch, Crow.” The feminine voice bites back at Crow.

“Faye, please” she waits in silence, the train racing towards her, “Fine I’m a witch and I’m happy about it. I’ll curse you if I get out of this Faye.” Crow taunts.

“That’s all we need. Thank you, Crow and Bon Voyage. “ Faye yells and the train inches closer and closer but then the train screeches and derails off the tracks. Crashing to the ground as people scream. Silence.

“Ha, I win!” Crow grabs her wand and casts a spell. With sparkle and shimmering light, the ropes appeared around Faye and the crowd.

“See you around Faye! I had fun!” Crow winks and runs into the forest. Faye blushes and grunts, ”Alright people we will get her next time.”

A little stone cottage stands in the rough forest, to the left of the cottage was a greenhouse. The greenhouse had something flying in it. Moths. The beauty and elegance of the moths were mesmerizing. They all were earthy-toned with spots and speckles of color. Then out of the peaceful sleeping woods, a witch runs into the cottage. A bird flies in from the east with a note tucked in its claws. In the small kitchen, the bird sits on a perch, and a floral couch sits in the lower part of the room. Potions, crystals, and herbs clutter the room. Crow is slumped on the couch panting for oxygen. The bird caws to the tired witch. She looks, sighs, and walks to the bird to slide the note from its feet. The note reads.

Crow, I need a potion for… something… please use these ingredients.

Jasmine flowers Vanilla Rose petals Cinnamon

Water Golden Human hair

Please…

Sincerely,

Demetri

Crow sighs again mumbling, “Another love potion… blah.” She goes to the greenhouse with a basket in her hand. The colors were even bright in the candlelight with majestic blues and purples. Gorgeous rich reds and oranges. Soft greens and rich greens. Crow grabs the jasmine and rose petals. Out the back of the greenhouse, there’s a path leading to a covered hill with candles surrounding a large cauldron. Crow then ignites the flames under the shining pot full of river water. She starts the potion. First the jasmine flowers, then vanilla, rose petals, cinnamon, and… wait… the golden hair.

“ Rats,” Crow grunts. “Fable! Come here and stir this while I’m gone, okay?” The bird comes elegantly to the witch and sits on the big wooden spoon. A house stands two stories high in a town with dimly lit candles glowing pale yellow everywhere. A shadow of a woman with a pointed witch's hat appears. She stalks the house with closed windows. Crow walks to the blue-painted door and turns the handle. Locked. She grabs the wand with a crystal on the end and vines going toward her hand, she flicks her wrist and the door opens.

You could see the furnace glowing on the stone floor in front of it.

The room was still and quiet, Crow walked to the stairs and hit a chair on the way. It tipped but Crow caught it before it fell. The first stair creaked in a low tone so Crow jumped to the second stair, she made it to the top and looked into the first room. No one was there because it was a closet. The second room contained a girl with long golden blonde hair and Crow blushed and whispered,” Faye looks so cute and peaceful,” she turned a bright red and shook her head. Then she grabbed some scissors to cut the golden hair. She cuts a nice clump. Faye stirs and rolls over, she clutches Crow's hand and speaks softly, “ I wish a thousand times that we could be together,” she kisses the back of Crow's hand, making crow turn into a lobster. “ I love you… Crow. “ Crow gasped a little too loud and Faye opened her eyes slightly. Crow runs to the other side of the bed and jumps out the window as she whistles a broom comes to her aid. Then they fly away into the night. Faye looks around confused and shivers, she gets up and closes the window.

Back at the cottage Crow finishes the potion. She could stop thinking about Faye, her small features and perfect small button nose. She had beautifully curved lips and a gentle voice that said,” I love you, Crow. “

Crow mumbles,” Faye, why did she do that? Well, Faye was just dreaming so it’s not true.” Crow threw the hair into the cauldron and it started to boil up but in a flash Crow grabbed some dirt and flung it in. The potion was ruined. She ran inside and started a letter.

Demetri, I messed up the recipe so I have to start again. It will take another few days.

Sincerely, Crow She gets to work on a plan, a plan to see Faye more without getting caught. The morning breaks and Crow flies to the front of Faye’s house and drops a letter that says,

Faye, go to the river in the woods at sundown… Alone. Please You'll find out who soon Crow flies high above for a while waiting for Faye to get the letter. Then moments later Faye walks out in a jean overall dress with a daisy flower shirt and brown combat boots. Her hair was tucked into a bow at the back of her hair, Crow bushes, almost tipping off her broom. After Faye grabs and reads the letter she starts to look around so Crow flies off to the spot, Faye will meet her. She sets up a small picnic with flowers and a small terrarium of moths, moss, and crystals. Then some rose petals and notes lead to the greenhouse just down the path. Floating light also surrounds the picnic making it glow in the coming sunset. Crow returns to her cottage and starts a new batch of the love potion. Then it's sundown, Crow gets the whole plan ready then Faye arrives at the spot, Crow watches from above. Faye sits and eats while looking at the floating lights. She's oblivious, Crow assumes. Just one last thing for her to do. Faye sees the notes and petals. She cautiously followed the path, the floating lights followed and lit up the orange, yellow, and red trees. Faye reached the greenhouse and gasped with a small chuckle, “ Wow,” she whispered. She stumbled into the greenhouse, and she wondered looking at the brilliant plants and candlelit flowers. The moths flew around her head and landed on her hands. Then in an impulsive jab Crow locks the doors. She then flies down to see Faye.

“ Hi there, Faye,” Crow

Faye flips around and glares,” Crow, what're you up to? Are you going to curse me?”

“ You know I could curse you with wet socks or deadly bees that follow you and the only way to get rid of them is with a true love's kiss. Weird I know but weird is fun. Alas, I think we need to talk instead. I know you don't like me but a little birdie told me you love me.” Faye blushes, “ Oh you're a little red in the face, so it's true then. Well, I have good news...” unexpectedly Crow was in the greenhouse, doors still locked. She pushes Faye against the wall and grabs her chin. Faye is too stunned to speak but Crow had that covered,” I may or may not love you too.” Faye makes an impulsive move and kisses Crow. Crow backs off and gasps.

“I'm uh confused and so relieved,” Crow grabs Faye's hand. Faye jumps and grabs Crow and pushes her to the ground.

“ That was not real, I hate you, Crow. You're a witch,” Faye holds Crow down and puts a fist in the air. Crow ducks her head in fear. Faye looks at her face and blushes, she can't do it.

“ ugh fine, I do love you,” she mutters.

Crow kisses Faye again. She kisses back.


It’s the guardian’s job to protect. Each person lives and dies by the dates of the Creator. Those times are hard on us, but it’s a necessary part of the job. My girl’s time is coming. I can only watch, invisible at her window, as she sits in bed with an IV in her arm, and some friends surrounding her. Claire’s become so frail that she’s trapped here in the hospital. She’s wearing a hospital gown and a pink bandana to cover the hair loss. “They still don’t have a diagnosis?” One friend asks. “No,” she responds. “They think it’ll kill me if I’m not careful. I can’t walk too much, or keep food down.” “That’s awful. Does Adam know? Has he visited you yet?” Claire’s gaze drops to her hands as they fiddle a loose thread on the blanket. “He knows I’m sick, and he knows I like him. I told him on Friday before I blacked out. He looked… upset. I don’t expect him to visit if he doesn’t like me back.” My heart aches, tearing in my chest as her confession floods into my memory. Yes, I’m Adam. I materialized and became her friend when she was five years old. Being an angel, I could appear the same age and “grow up” with her. My love for her in the beginning felt like genuine friendship. I enjoyed her company, and her heart always held the purest intentions. When she entered college, I imagined even more. I could never bring myself to tell her, though. She’s going to die young. An angel shouldn’t bed a human, anyway. Humans are tainted. I can’t stand to see her so upset because of me, but I can’t show myself now. The door closes as her friends leave. Now, all alone, Claire hangs her head and rivers of tears spill down her face. I remember the first time she came to me, crying. She was eight years old, her parents had a tough divorce, and her mom couldn’t leave her chair, eat, or even smile for days. Claire was so worried that she didn’t love her anymore. “That’s not true,” I told her “she just feels guilty.” “What?” she sniffed “Why?” “Well, your parents were arguing a lot, and now they’re not together anymore. She thinks she let you down and that you don’t love her anymore.” “But I do love her! I mean, I love Daddy too, but how could I not love my mom?” “A flower goes its entire life without ever being told how pretty it is. Without eyes, they can’t see the beautiful shapes and patterns they have. It’s pretty sad, but they do okay. Humans can’t live without knowing how important they are. They shouldn’t have to live like flowers. Remind her you love her, and everything she does for you. If you don’t, she won’t get better.” Claire’s face lit up in a beautiful smile. She agreed to do so, and I helped her make a card and a crown of clovers from her backyard. Her mom cried tears of joy. She got better, and Claire vowed to tell everyone how important they were to her. I, of course, got that every day, and hearing it only made my love for her grow stronger. But I won’t hear that today. She’ll be dead tomorrow morning and cry herself to sleep thinking that I don’t like her at all. Something twinges in my thoughts and pulls my attention back to present day Claire. Wait, she isn’t crying anymore, now she’s-she’s pulling the IV out of her arm! Claire! What are you doing? A yelp escapes her lips as she holds the wound shut, blood pouring over her fingers. Regardless of the obvious pain painted on her face, she turns and settles her feet on the floor. Is she standing up? Don’t! You’re shaking and bleeding! Claire!

She takes a second to steady herself and wobbles to the door. Her hand falls from her arm, and blood trickles along her path. Is she looking for me? No, she can’t! I fly past her, materialize in the hall, and lean my shoulder on the wall, hating myself for doing this to her. I should’ve never showed myself. The door opens, and she freezes up when she sees me. Her eyes are wide, dark circles underneath, and her pale lips part to catch her breath. “You shouldn’t be out of bed.” I tell her. “You’re bleeding, and it looks like whatever you have is making it hard to walk.” “How long have you been standing there?” She asks. “Why are you up?” “I just wanted to see you. I wanted... If I die tomorrow, I want to know that you don’t hate me.” “I could never hate you, Claire.” “Then why didn’t you visit before? Why are you hiding out here? Were you ever going to come in?” Tears pour down her cheeks again. “Cause I would’ve just tried to apologize.” “So?” “I learned a long time ago that a knife hurts more when it’s pulled than when it’s stabbed. When your life is on the line and someone makes you happy, the idea of death seems much worse. It hurts more to see what you’d be leaving behind.” “How could you know that?” “Trust me, it wouldn’t have been worth it.” We’re quiet for what seems like an eternity, then her cold, bloody hand grabs mine. “Adam, I don’t want to die, but I’ll be okay if you just tell me the truth. Do you feel the same? Or was I stupid for bringing it up?” I reach out with my other hand to dry the tears on her face. “Claire, I’ve always loved you, and I always will. I’m so sorry I made you doubt that.” Claire smiles up at me, closes her eyes and leans a little closer. Her lips are parted, begging me to taste them. I lean in too, but I’ve already done too much, and without thinking, I realize I’ve dematerialized. She’s staring into my eyes, but she can’t can’t see me. The shock on her face makes that clear. She gasps and steps back, tears racing down her face as her eyes search around for me. Her breathing gets heavier. “Breathe,” she whimpers, clutching her throat “I can’t... breathe... help.” Her voice isn’t loud enough. We’re in the back hall, in the middle of the night. Minutes pass like hours until she collapses. I kneel by her side. She’s not gone, not yet. She still has until morning. With a quick glance over my shoulder, I materialize and carry her back into her room. I lay her back on the bed, push the emergency button on the bedrail, and dematerialize again. Help arrives in a flash. A doctor and two nurses rush to her side and scramble around with a ton of equipment, trying to keep her alive. When they finish, the IV is on her other arm; they’ve cleaned up the blood, an oxygen mask covers her mouth and nose, she has defibrillators on her chest, and a heart monitor on one of her fingers, all for nothing. Her condition is stable, but the oxygen hangs loose in the outlet, and will fall out, letting Claire pass before sunrise. Three hours left. Meanwhile, I can’t stop staring at her. I’ve protected her from so much crap in her life for this? No. I won’t let her die. She thinks I abandoned her; that our last conversation never happened. I’ll most likely lose my wings for changing fate, but I’d be able to live a happy, mortal life with her. When death comes, I’ll fight him off. I’m her guardian angel and I will protect her. That’s my job. It’s strange. If she hadn’t gotten out of bed, I’d still be standing at her window, waiting for her to die. I would have let her pass believing that I don’t care about her. A smirk finds its way onto my lips. This is why I love her. Because her ambition drove me .


Rose always wanted to be a musician. She always found herself fascinated by VMA and MTV awards. She’d spend hours envisioning herself with a shiny and polished grammy award. If Rose can travel to the underworld and fight to the death for this dream, maybe it will be hers in waking life. So Rose takes the bait and travels to the depths of the astral realm. Her thoughts blur and her body trembles as her consciousness rises out of her body like zombies re-surging to the earth. Rose arrives at a beige hall where a set of three light brown, wooden doors glisten. The three doors signify significant years in her music career. 10 years old (5th grade), 17 years old (her sophomore year of highschool), and 19 years old (her sophomore year of college). One door leads her to a memory where puberty breaks her voice in and she utilizes new vocal tools like vibrato for the first time. Another leads to her first time performing live. The final door leads to a time where she stops singing for a plethora of reasons, depression being one of the many. Her main fight is not Beyoncé or Taylor Swift, it is her doubt. There’s a secret that will light up her path beyond one of the doors. If she picks the right door, she will succeed.

When Rose lands in the beige hall, her eyes are still adjusting to the room. The room fades into a bright yellow as her eyes settle and she gazes around and all there is is a void. There is green, black, and yellow cursive plastered on the walls in arabic. A fair skinned woman floats into the hall. Her feet are barely off the ground and she’s floating with angel wings for arms. The hall where each door is is locked. A blue screen is glowing on each door.

“There is a time where you gave up your dream and that time is behind one of these doors.” A woman with brown long hair, brown tanned skin, and ghostly eyes says. “How do you know this?” Rose asks. “Because I’m one of your angels, your dream didn’t die at one singular point in time. Each time you nurtured them and awakened to your power, you felt fear. You overcame each fear with love but there came a time where the darkness consumed you,” the woman says. “What do you mean?” Rose asks.

“Put simply…you worried that your strength could destroy more than it could heal so you avoided your gifts worrying that you would be nothing without your pain.” she says

“i don’t understand,” rose says “you won’t understand now, it’s all repressed but you will once you watch all three videos we should get started now.”

The screens turn black and begin buffering with white dashes loading in the center.

“You will watch ten second clips of these memories. They may seem distant because your body stores memories rather than your consciousness, which is why no spirit remembers when they transfer their souls into a new body.

“Are you serious?” Rose asks. "Where do dreams go?” she asks.

“Well, they flutter into the abyss. They float in the air like oxygen and attach themselves to new bodies every day. That’s why dreams are so random. We breathe dreams like how we breathe oxygen.” She says.

“Now this is very important,” the woman says. “You lost your way in one of these memories, and to acquire your dream once again, you will be required to cultivate enthusiasm, joy, gratitude, and bliss all at the same time. It sounds easy, but you do it more than you think and I’ve seen it often from you.” she says.  “I lost my dream?” Rose asks.

“Yes, you threw it away because you felt inadequate. But don’t worry, you can get it back,” the woman says, “but now the universe needs to know that you won’t do it again. The truest test of faith is distance. The universe is giving you a second chance. You’ve already done the work, but now walking through the right door will give it back.

Rose turns her head when she hears a chime in the distance. “How long do I have?” she asks. “You have an hour in earth time and 10 minutes in astral time. Which clip would you like to watch first? There’s no order you’re required to watch them in.

“I want to choose number 19,” Rose says nervously. “Good choice,” the woman says. Before it starts, I ask her name. “I’m Ivy. Poise…but ivy.” she says smiling. My eyes held no hope in the clip. The more I learned, the more sorrow I felt. People believed in me less and less. Algorithms favored me less and less. Beauty faded with age and not substantially, either. I wasn’t old either, just unpolished. Insecure. I was just me. Swallowed by life’s conducive surprises. The blue screen turns black and my body trembles as the memory consumes me. The video is playing back a hopeless recall of the aftereffects of antidepressants. My face was plump and my stomach was round beneath my shirt, pulling the top half of it up to my chest. Without delay, this memory resurfaces. I pulled a notebook out of my bin of journals and rubbed dust off of the nape of my acoustic guitar. I peeked out of my window and the sun was setting smoothly. The guitar’s body was icy against my leg. The metal strings elicited pressure into my fingertips. As I pressed down, the guitar hummed in some random alternate tuning open d I believe.

I wrote word upon word, stringing together broken sentences in harmony with c shapes up and down the fret. Scribbles were dancing across the page. After formulating a verse and a chorus, I propped up my phone against my sheets. I stared at my reflection through the phone, looking long and hard, I couldn’t tell who I was anymore, so I shut my phone off. Tears streamed down my face. After watching this clip, I wasn’t sure when I had even left my body. This had to be the death of the dream. The doubt, the insecurity, the fear of judgment, my heart felt heavy and torn.

“You okay?” Ivy asks.

“Yea, I’m alright. I just never thought I’d make it out of that time, i've come so far.” Rose says.

“How so?” Ivy asks.

“Well, I started playing guitar just a few years after I learned how to sing. Life shifted gears. My self image got so bad that I couldn’t even create in the way that felt the most fulfilling.” Rose says. “It all just felt surreal and unfair.” “Listen, Rose,” Ivy begins, “Life is going to throw obstacles at you, but it’s up to you what you’ll catch and what you’ll throw back. It’s not your fault what you went through, but it’s up to you to grow from it and plant seeds of hope in your own life. You get me?” she asks.

“Yea I guess,” Rose says solemnly. I pick the next clip, the first one, number 10. I immediately glided into the hall of my 3rd grade auditorium. The warm lowlights cast a shadow on my chorus teacher’s face. Ms. Jones.

“You remember the lyrics?” she asks softly.

“Yes” I say. “Okay, sing the bridge for me” I sing quietly but my vocal chords tremble in a way they never have before. I cover my mouth in shock.

“What was that?” I asked fearfully.

“Your voice is blossoming,” she says with a wide smile. “That’s good. It’s called vibrato. Just go with it.

“Okay,” I say. My bright burgundy choir robe drags against the dusty tiled floor. I walk up the steps, passing all the proud families and staff smiling in the distance. An applause erupts once we’re all prepped on the stage. My stage fright begins in my hands. They tremble ever so slightly and my heartbeat quickens, and the room begins to spin. I take a deep breath and try to relax. I don’t remember anything until my solo. The spotlight traces my face as I step up to the lead microphone and there I am singing the national anthem. I’m welted into the heart of fear, coldness, and bare emotion. The end of this moment is something I remember clearly. I promised myself that I would never humiliate myself in this way ever again. The love must have been real because I did this, over and over again within the span of a 10 year radius. When I get back to the hall, I find Ivy sitting cross-legged on the ground. Her legs are drifting slightly above the ground. I look down at my feet and all I see is a white skirt draped down my body, but I can’t see the legs. “How much longer do I have?” I ask.

“you to have 5 more minutes,” she says.

“Okay, let’s jump to the last clip, the one in the middle, 17.” I’m hesitant to open the last door. Ivy’s wings glow as she waits “this is it,” I whisper to myself. The door creaks open and there is a nostalgic ambience to the abyss. I walk through the darkness and my feet lead me to a high school talent show that took place during my senior year. My guitar is weightless, strapped across my shoulder. Only a few people make up the audience, and empty chairs are clustered together. A backing track begins and I play along with it. I open my mouth to sing, but I freeze instead and feel claustrophobic. My hands tremble, and eventually, the strumming slows to a stop. Sweat trickles down my forehead. The crowd is silent, confused, and their silence is deafening. I breathe remembering my 5th grade chorus teacher’s words. Whenever you feel scared, imagine you’re the only one on stage. No one else matters. With a deep breath, I clench my guitar and strum, gathering myself. I step closer to the microphone and an applause erupts in the crowd. I gasp the moment I return to the hall with ivy. Everything makes sense. “You didn’t lose your dream” she says “you just forgot that the world isn’t against you”

The truth pulls me into its suffocating embrace. Each of these moments is proof of my love for music. Love that lifted me, sustained me, and kept me. The vibrato at 10, the freeze at 17, the depression at 19. Each of these moments molded me and told one story. Each time I gave into fear, the dream slipped away. I gave up because I was afraid of myself. I was afraid to grow, to change, I was afraid of being different. There was never a singular path carved out in front of me. There was no step-by-step plan. “Exactly,” Ivy adds. “Your gift was never lost - it was just waiting for you to come back,” Ivy adds. “How do I make sure I don’t lose it this time?” i ask

“By choosing love over fear, always.” She says “if you did it before, you can do it again” ivy smiles a warm smile. “Thankyou” I say.

“Not a problem,” she says “The dream is yours, now go get it.”

I wake up in my bedroom with sunlights engulfing my entire room. My guitar is right across from my bed with a post it note taped onto it. “Go get it :)” I pick it up and harmonize with the birds chirping in the distance. As I play the strings, they sing effortlessly, for the very first time in years. 5 to be exact. I feel whole. The dream never died. It was just waiting for me to believe in it again.


Salaam/Hello! Before you read this please note that this story is EXTREMELY GRAPHIC! If you are light-hearted or sensitive to such material then please do not read this. If however you do read it then please read it till the end. This story is meant to portray a fraction of the possible cruelties which the people of Syria might be facing. DAMSEL IN DISTRESS The bullets whizzed past. People were getting gunned. Debris was clouding everything. The storm of blood, sand and stone resonated in the eyes of everyone leaving pulses of fear in their hearts. They were scarred for life. The militants of the regime kept the civilians pegged down in their base. It was a bottleneck situation. Only one-way out, and it was through the street full of barriers and resistant front lines of merciless soldiers of Bashar's regime. They had snipers placed in strategic wide-angle access points, making sure no one could even lay a foot on the street. The people were pushed back either into their houses or whatever cover they could find from the constant blasts and bullets. Bodies lay in piles down the street and the smell of blood and gun powder staunched the air. One was forced to only two sounds, either screams or bomb blasts. Silence was a forgotten term. Hisham was one of the gunmen. Thirty four killed today, he thought. It wasn't enough. Abbas, one of the other militants, was on forty seven. He just had to beat him. HE HAD TOO !!! He remained behind cover while reloading his rifle. The anxiety was building up in him. Once cocked and loaded he got up and sprayed all the bullets. He just wanted to see them run, to see them cry, to see them afraid. He smiled at his collage of mass murder. No one could touch him. Here he was god. He slumped his rifle over his shoulder and admired his work. They were too afraid to come. Suddenly, he noticed one of the bodies moving among the dead. It was a woman, half conscious she moved weakly. Trying to regain a sense of where she was, but she was defeated by several injuries, lack of energy and mental torture of the battlefield. 'Desert,' thought Hisham. The flame inside him ignited. He motioned to his colleagues on his side to cover him. Walking the past barrier, he went to her and grabbed her by the forelock and dragged her back towards the base. Ignoring the shouting, screaming, kicking and crying from the woman as her body scraped against the rubble and ground, he just had one thing in his mind. Tonight he was having a feast! THE DEVIL'S CELLAR The woman was chained in a dark cellar. It smelled of old dust and musty oil. The bars and walls were covered with cobwebs, and the whole place was cluttered with broken furniture and outdated newspapers. There was a small window behind her where the moonlight trickled in, shining against her bare body. Each hand was tied by rusty chains supported by a post on both sides. She was forced to either stand upright or slump and let the pressure of her body tense the chain around her wrists. She felt a mouse brush her leg and let a scream in fear while jolting. Immediately, the bruises on her body ached even more from the sudden movement. Her tears and sobs dried up. She could do nothing. She was nothing. She was completely helpless. Why didn't they just kill her? She was struck by horror. What they were going to do to her? Suddenly, she hears a scraping rattle against the bars with footsteps. The pace was brisk, haunting, like a panther in hiding waiting to pounce. She could hear the person walking up to her. The moonlight only revealed the boots and military trousers. The upper half was veiled by the lusting darkness. Even so, she could see some smoke. The trail led to cigarette, which was revealed as he lowered his hand and flicked it away. Hisham stared at her. The fear in her eyes was unmistakable. Sweat pouring from her forehead, her body trembling from fear and her breath racing. Here she was, naked, stripped of dignity and humiliated. He loved the power he had. He was in control, and she was her prey. 'This bitch is mine,' he thought. In a sudden move, he slapped her on the face, leaving a red mark, went behind her pulling her backwards by her hair. He put his hand over her mouth, unzipped his pants and thrust into her. Her scream muffled against the cold, hard fingers, her eyes widened and tears started streaming down her face as she felt him inside her. He handled her fiercely and with each pound, she screamed. “PLEASE STOP!” “NO” “PLEASE!!!" She knew there was no one who could save her. He pushed harder with every force against her with increasing pain. Her legs were trembling. Her body was shaking. With one long last thrust, he pushed away from himself. She slumped helplessly as she cried and moaning. She was defeated. Wiping the sweat of his forehead, he zipped his pants and made his way out. The echoes of the her cries decayed as he walked away. He met three of his men down the corridor. “The bitch is all yours," he said. By the time he reached the end of the long corridor, he could hear the screams all over again. The boys were doing a good job. THE BIRTH OF HOPE Nearly five months passed. The woman repeatedly abused, manhandled and tortured. She was reduced to nothing but an object, a sex object. Even slaves were privileged to have feelings, but hers were dead. The same prison, the same four walls, the same sins every day. Her life was lifeless. Her body lost its stature. There was one significant change. She was pregnant. So many of the militants had their way with her. She didn't know which one fathered the bastard child she was carrying. She could only feel the baby move in her. She didn't care whose it was, it was a life inside of her. It was her baby. Hisham was in the mood again. He strode towards her cell, the urge burning in inside him. There was nothing left in her that attracted him to her except the fear she had in her eyes. However, it eventually died out. She learnt to accept that this was her fate. There was no fun anymore. He wanted to change that this time. He walked up to her near-limp body. Her eyes were blank, expressionless. He grabbed her face, locked into her eyes with a menacing smile. She just looked at him, There was nothing she could feel anymore. He placed his hand on her swollen belly and for a second he saw the jump in her eyes. 'The bitch cared for this kid,' he thought. This was going to be fun. He drew a blade from his side pocket, which gleamed in the rays of sunlight. Her eyes widened. What was he going to do? And without thinking he pressed the knife on top of her belly, under her bosom. She immediately realized the horror she was about to face. Slowly, and yet delicately, he started slicing around the belly. Scream after scream, the pain worsened. The blood trickled down her legs. She tried swerving side to side but the more she moved it hurt and ripped her harder. There was nothing, but she could but watch herself being cut open. Tears were streaming down her eyes. “STOP … PLEASE STOP … NO!” Her screams couldn't help her. He kept cutting her open. He was halfway around and then stopped. Her belly was half skinned open, the bloodied internals could be seen from the side. He threw the blade away. She couldn't feel relieved but at least he stopped. The pain was unbearable until he grabbed the open side of her stomach and swung it to the other side to rip her entire skin off. She screamed so loudly, helplessly as she felt pain like never before. Everything was now revealed. Blood was splattered around her feet. She was shaking uncontrollably. She just wanted it to end. He threw the separated flabby stomach skin to side as if it were junk. 'Now comes the fun part,' he thought. He could see the foetus wedged inside her. Ferociously, he grabbed it by the neck and pulled it away from its clove. A few organs slipped and slid to the floor. She screamed. Her baby was in his hands. “Please don't harm it, please don't harm it. It didn't do anything to you. Take me but leave it alone," she cried. Her voice was nearly gone. She was losing too much blood. Her vision started to blur. He looked at the disgusting flesh in his hand. It was weak and pathetic, covered with blood. He grabbed the umbilical cord and ripped it open, separating the thing from the woman. She screamed as the cord hung loosely over her revealed stomach, dripping pus and blood on the floor. He then held the thing in front of her. He let her stare at the unborn baby for a split second before splitting its neck. The baby was dead. “NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO," she screamed. He swung the flesh over his head and pulled out a pistol and shoved it into her mouth. In that one moment, he saw the ultimate fear in her eyes. Covered in tears and blood, she slumped in his mercy. He looked at her long enough to enjoy the product of his work before he pulled the trigger. The bullet went through head and blood splattered against the wall behind her. Her body was completely limp as the chains in her hand tensed under her dead weight. Her intestines scrambled to the floor. She was dead. REFLECTION POINT I would first like to apologise if the story disgusted/offended you. But I had to make sure that what I wrote really affected the reader. We have become such a cold-hearted society that we have become apathetic to mass murder. We are witnessing an act of national terrorism, yet it is amazing that we can sit back and watch it happen without doing anything. If you felt anything from this story, be it sadness, pain, hurt, disgust, anger, then please use that to help me raise money for the Syrian people. Don't just sit there and think others are doing something or it won't make any difference.


It is more dangerous to talk with wolves today, even with feet planted firmly on the path. They used to cast clear and frightening shadows. Sinew and jaws presented boldly as threats. But now they stand, sheltered by the trees, whose heavy branches bow under the weighty tokens of just cause, and whisper soft rationalisations to those who pass them by. In these treacherous sharp forests, a girl is as likely to be stoned by kin or a lawman as she is to fall foul of a wolf’s ravenous jaws. And so she did, this girl of ours. Despite all her efforts, and concealments, her screaming. Red could not win in the face of such cunning. She did not want to fight. Could not, when the tearing came. But she would not cower, eyes down for their sake. She would be damned if she were bought low by creatures such as this. Her strength remained taut in her jaw, her hood held firm; a talisman, a shield against their sneers. She clung to it tightly, presented it unflinching, even as under the gaze of her judges it became incitement. They poured meaning on her hood then. Cursed its redness, called it brazen, made it a symbol of scarlet intent. She didn’t seek predation she told them, “only safety” she cried, frustrated at their callous, unwilling ears. No thought was given to the colour’s threat, its natural warning, or violent hue. Instead the voices raised. She heard the meaning twist in the air, become crippled, then fall discarded by those self-proclaimed ‘impartial’ men. Red, they said, was wanton. And now not even the Woodsman’s kindness could save her, so absorbed was he by adulation. He was become the Saviour. The Saint. The defender of virtue. The Liberator of Women. Their praise filled his ear and stilled his tongue, as each charge was levied against her. He basked and he preened as they built up the gallows. Still, she could not muster rage for his blind indulgence. How could he know she would be marred by his silence? How could he know that his rescue came too soon? Her fingers were still knotted in the pelt you see. Certain proof to those decided before time: ‘She touches it still, she brought it to her own hands’ false confirmations for those pricked by guilt, and fearful of blame. Never mind that her grip was seized in fear. No thought of her need to be certain, to be sure over and again, that no breath came. That the beast would not stir to rend her flesh or smother her voice with terror. She clung to it with all her might. This last proof of freedom, the cold, bloodless flesh a comfort she could not describe. And so the hangmen came, unknowing, mute in their cruelty all the while, wordlessly chiding, scolding, ripping peace from her grasp. Taking what little freedom remained and naming it guilt. Asking for it they said, begging for it. They knew. They saw. They quieted their own dread and uncertainty with dark thoughts, and she spat her hot tears in their faces.


“I think there’s lions in these woods,” Ko said.

“Lions, Ko?” Robinson nervously scanned the line of trees. He was sitting on the left tire of their overturned vehicle; desolated in a meadow of tall grass. “What do you mean lions ?”  The sun was beginning to set, darkening Ko’s face.

It was impossible to read his eyes, only Ko’s silhouette stood out against the melting sky. A shotgun was strewn around his shoulders, the barrel pointing towards the horizon. Robinson could barely see the glint of Ko’s blade, he was sharpening a piece of tree branch that had lodged itself into the motor.

“Well it is Africa, John.” Ko continued to rigorously cut.

Twelve days earlier, Ko had sent a letter to Robinson, inquiring about an expedition to South Africa. The two had become well acquainted during their time in Vietnam. Robinson’s regiment had stumbled upon the aftermath of an ambush, twenty-seven casualties. Ko was the only survivor. While they were nursing Ko back to health, all he would talk about were elephants. No one understood why. Ko mentioned how he’d read in a book once that elephants had the ability to remember faces. And, he spoke of how valuable their tusks were. Robinson shifted anxiously, “You said we’d be safe on the reserve.”

“Safe? We’re poachers, John. It’s either the scouts or the wildlife that’ll get us.” Ko finished sharpening the stick. He ripped the branch from the motor, sending splinters of wood flying. “Be a dear and grab the matches, would ya?”

They had been following a herd of elephants for twelve hours now. Their car was equipped with snares and poison dipped darts before it was overturned. Now all they had left were the bullets of Ko’s gun. The men weren’t expecting to kill an adult, but they were keen on attacking the younger bulls. “ The Ivory ,” Ko had told him. That’s all they needed.

“Now is not the time for a smoke,” Robinson said with a ring of skepticism.

“It’s not for cigarettes, it’s for a torch.”

“Won’t the torch just alert the scouts?”

“It’ll help ward off the hyenas.”

“Hyenas!?”

Crack.

The men fell silent. The grass was still, the sound of crickets reverberating throughout the clearing. Robinson could hear the rattled breaths of Ko beside him. The sun dipped out of sight, leaving lingering hues of indigo.

“Get the matches,” Ko said.

Robinson fished around for the burlap sack, which he had placed on the hood of the car. Unfortunately, it was getting much harder for Robinson to see his hands. He prodded the empty space beside him. Robinson felt his neck hair rise. The bag was gone.

“Ko,” Robinson whispered, “Ko the bag is gone.”

“I can see it.”

“What?”

Robinson felt Ko’s hand on his shoulder, guiding his arm towards a shape, ways away from the car. Robinson strained his eyes to see a lumpy mass planted in the sward. Ko unlatched the shotgun from the strap across his back. He cocked the gun and with an affirming click, he hoisted the weapon to his shoulder.

“How’d the bag get over there?” Robinson asked.

“I don’t know. You probably knocked it over by accident.” Ko was perched beside Robinson, scanning the shrubbery.

Robinson felt the head of a cold cylinder prod his back. He turned, facing Ko, who was pointing his gun at him. He nudged him with the barrel, indicating that Robinson should retrieve the bag.

“What about the hyenas?” Robinson argued.

Ko gestured to his gun, “I’ll keep an eye out for you.”

With a deep sigh, Robinson turned back towards the bag. He realized that if he sprinted he could probably reach it within seconds. He just needed the matches. He climbed down from the overturned belly of the car and a new layer of fear enclosed him. He felt vulnerable on the ground. Ko’s “security” offered no comfort, seeing as there was no light to track hyenas anyway. Without further contemplation, he began to run. He could see the bag clearly now, the moon had traced the outline with a ghoulish glow. He halted right before it, dropping to his knees and furiously digging for the matches. Robinson felt the outline of a box in his grasp. In triumph, he yanked the matches from the compartment. That’s when he heard the rustling.

“JOHN! RUN!” Robinson heard Ko shout.

Six rounds were fired.

Robinson didn’t hesitate. He could hear the rustling of the tall grass following him, licking at his ankles. He didn’t look to check. Reaching the car, Robinson clawed at the metal door beams in desperation. He could not get a proper foot holding. The weeds tangled around his boots as the rustling drew closer.

 Robinson felt a hand reach down and yank him up. He scrambled up the side door of the jeep and stood tall on the overturned vehicle. He darted his head around. The gun was missing, so were the bullets. All that they had was the stick Ko had sharpened as well as the matches Robinson just retrieved from the bag. That’s when he heard screaming.

Robinson unbuttoned his shirt and hastily swaddled the branch. He pulled the matches from their box, striking a light. The flame; a single firefly in the night. Using the match, he ignited the branch which became a makeshift torch. Robinson could see the grass now. In the thicket of reeds, the pale faces of lions stared at him. Something was wrong.

The eyes were hollow and vacant in the light. Their mouths hung dry and their skin sagged. It was when they moved that Robinson felt his stomach twist. They slithered through the grass like centipedes, without making a sound. When Robinson raised the torch closer, he gasped. They weren’t lions at all, they were people. Thin, translucent people.

Their bodies were masked in the skins of lions. Poised on their toes as dancers would, they hunched over, arms longer than their legs, scraping against the dirt. He saw one of the creatures dragging something through the undergrowth. It was Ko.

Robinson went cold. The hand that had helped him up the car was not his partner. He felt it now, sliding across his back prickling his skin. One by one the fingers pierced into his shoulder.

“You should’ve been faster.” The flame dissipated and the moor went quiet. There are, in fact , lions in these woods.


In a land, not so far from this one, there was a little village. This village was known as waffle-town. In this quiet town lived a fellow named Waffle lad. Waffle lad had lived a happy, albeit boring life up to this point. The world was magical, but you become accustomed to the magic over time. The rivers of maple syrup, the trees that dripped butter for sap. It was wonderful but waffle lad was an adventurous soul. He hungered and yearned for the great unknown. So when waffle lad finished his work, (peanut picking. Very important step in making peanut butter.) he began to wander in a new direction. One his waffle parents wouldn’t be pleased to have him go. Soon enough waffle lad discovered a mysterious cave. One with an unmistakable aroma. Fruit. Strawberries and peaches and oh so many sweets and treats. He impatiently jumped on in, running deeper and deeper into the cave, his waffle flesh heart pounding with excitement. He hadn’t seen real fruit in years! He’d only ever eaten dried fruit, which was good, but it was nothing compared to the lure of dripping fresh fruit flesh. Finally waffle lad found it. Trees upon trees upon trees of apple, peach, lemon. Bushes of berries and lovely sweets of all kind. Waffle lad didn’t know yet, but he wasn’t alone. Pancake Sam was not too far off, observing the intruder with gluttonous and wrathful eyes. Waffle lad couldn’t resist and Gave into his hunger. Eating peaches pit and all. Scarfing entire trees worth of the fresh fresh fruit. However this action would not go unpunished. Pancake Sam had already set a revenge plan into motion. He cast a devilish spell onto the fruit. And with an evil cackle exclaimed “YOU FOOL, YOU HAVE CONSUMED THE CURSED FRUIT OF SAM.” He took a deep breath and sneered, almost joyfully “You will face my wrath” Waffle lad jumped in fear and embarrassment. He covered his fruity covered face and ran out of the cave, hoping to hide and never be seen by pancake Sam again. However the curse had already begun. To punish waffle lad for his gluttony, pancake Sam had cursed the fruit. Any who consume the fruit would have their body swell to unbelievable size, and never be able to consume food again, until eventually they died from asphyxiation or hunger. Waffle lad of course had no idea, and simply carried on his daily life. Boring, but safe. Waffle lad remembered fondly the thrill of adventure and risk as he picked peanuts. He tossed one in his mouth. Technically it was against company code but all his coworkers did it anyway. But then The peanut bounced and fell to the ground. Waffle lad shrugged and chocked it up to bad aim. And this time carefully placed a second peanut into his mouth. The crunch was satisfying. But nothing compared to the soft wet flesh of apple and peach. He longed for the sweetness. “Hey, waffle lad, your lips look a little funny. You ok?” Asked French toast tod. “What?” Exclaimed waffle lad. Waffle lad ran to the nearest bathroom and looked himself in the mirror. Sure enough, his lips had grown puffy and blown up. Like a balloon! Waffle man immediately remembered sam’s threat. “you will face my wrath”. Chills ran down waffle lads fluffy crust. What the hell was he gonna do? The lips were growing as he stood. Then his foot began to feel funny. No. No way. He took a look at his feet. Swollen and deformed. Parts of his body were just swelling up. Like someone was blowing up water balloons under his flesh. waffle man screamed. “MY TAINT. MY TAINT. HE GOT MY TAINT!!!” Waffle lad immediately clocked out and ran to confront pancake sam. There was no way he was gonna get away with this. He was sure. Nobody inflated his taint, or any body part for that matter, without his prior consent! The cave grew closer, and if waffle lad had let his mind focus, and hadn’t let his rage take over, he would have seen the mighty bacon dragon, blending into the cliff face. However waffle lad did not, and sped walked right on into an obvious trap. Thunderous feet crashed behind, and waffle lad saw the bacon dragons head sticking into the hole. There was no way it’s body would fit, however this didn’t stop waffle man from running as fast as waffly possible to hide inside the cave, deeper than the fatty breath of the dragon could get him. Here he was. Yet again in the fruit haven. And on the other end, in a throne that waffle lad hadn’t noticed before, sat pancake Sam. “Well well Well.” Pancake Sam jeered. Pure fire burned in his hateful, petty eyes. “Here you are again. Come to make me reverse the curse?” “Turn me back!! I didn’t know the fruit was yours! I just thought I’d found some free snacks!!!” Waffle lad explained. “I didn’t know what I was doing was wrong!” Pancake Sam cackled his same old cackle. Sending the echo across the room. “You didn’t know? You didn’t know?! How could you not have known??” Pancake Sam accused. “You and your greedy mouth came in here, and didn’t even bother to ask any questions.” Waffle lads dumbfounded look cued pancake Sam to continue. “These fruit. You don’t see anything abnormal? You haven’t seen a fruit in years. Tell me, what does a fruit need to grow?” Asked pancake Sam. “Umm... syrup and cinnamon?” Said waffle man, clearly unsure of his answer. “You idiot. They need water and sunlight. Now tell me, what do you see?” Waffle lad looked around. They were in a cave. Underground. But he could still see. Upon further inspection, waffle lad found vines along the perimeter of the farm, and they were glowing a warm orange. However the warmth soon decayed into a sinister red as pancake Sam stared waffle lad down. “There is no sunlight... or water! Just stone and plants!!” Exclaimed waffle lad “Correct. Now you understand why I punished you.” Pancake Sam laughed as he finished, and leaned back in his throne. “So... will you undo it?” Asked waffle lad. “No” said Sam simply. “Wait why not??” Yelled waffle lad. As the words left his mouth, the stone on the left wall began to chip outward. The smell of meat and fat began to fill the room. “Now that you have been here, you know what I have. And I can’t have you spreading rumors.” Pancake sam’s face stayed flat, other than a tiny uptick in the corner of his lips. “Come my pretty. FEED UPON THE FLESH OF THE INTRUDER.” Screamed pancake Sam. Waffle man immediately sprinted back, but found the cave entrance had been covered with a huge rock. No. No no no no. The bacon dragon dug harder and soon it’s head was visible. A rusted metal chain around this ones neck. It was a different dragon than the one outside. It broke a wing loose and the fatty smell filled the air. And aroma that penetrated everything. A mighty roar ripped its way through the air, causing rocks to shake and waffle lad to fall on his fluffy behind. Waffle lad screamed in terror. Big mistake. The dragons head flung towards his direction. And the wall exploded. The dragons massive form stepped into the open farm area, ducking to not hit its head. It was flapping its wings uncomfortably, clearly trying to readjust the chains binding the creatures neck, and wing claws. The creature had two legs, and two wings. It’s wings had claws that could work as a makeshift pair of legs, but the dragon was clearly meant to fly. It’s tale easily as long as the creatures body. It’s scales oozed with Grease and hardened chunks of cold fat were stuck around the creatures joints. The dragon finally got its bearings and roared another earth quaking explosion. Rocks fell from the roof and Pancake Sam was nowhere to be seen. It was just waffle lad, and a mighty, flesh eating, fat breathing, grease oozing, glistening, meaty monster. “THINK WAFFLE THINK” screamed waffle lad. Immediately the thought popped into his head that maybe he could get out the way Pancake man had. But likely the door was sealed and there was no way. He couldn’t kill the beast. That was obvious. But the gaping hole the creature had made was still there. Only several tens of feet off the floor from where waffle lad stood. The creature was biting at its chains, fat coagulating Into the chain link and locks. It wasn’t paying attention to waffle lad. Just roaring every once in a while. Waffle lad began to move. Slowly making his way across the wall. The dragon watched with eyes like lasers, however it didn’t attack. Or even really seem particularly aggressive. Waffle lad saw the creatures chains went from its neck down its back and into the wall hole. Waffle jumped and grabbed the chain. This pissed off the dragon which immediately went berserk. Throwing waffle lad down to the ground. When his eyes opened the dragon was inches from his face. Fat and grease dripping from its lips. Then waffle of saw something interesting. It looked like a sword in its teeth. In a moment on sheer desperation he grabbed the sword, and pulled against the dragon as it flung its head back. It looked bewildered. Pawing at its face until it realized what had happened. Then the bacon dragon nuzzled him. Waffle lad stood up and pointed towards the hole, and the creature lowered its head. Waffle lad climbed on and the dragon led him in. The dragon was large enough for waffle lad to hide flat on its back without being seen from below. “So the deed is done?” Sounded a familiar voice. Pancake sam. “Get back into your bed. Now.” The dragon slowly sauntered into a giant cage, make of solid steel. “FASTER” screamed pancake Sam and the creature bellowed in pain, almost throwing waffle man off. Electricity cracked through the air, but waffle man could not see below as the dragons wings were far too wide. The dragon fell in, throwing waffle lad down into the corner. But still hidden by the dragons massive body. The door fell shut from above us in the mountain, locking the dragon in. It was a terribly small cage, for the dragon. Just enough room to stand or lay down. But it couldn’t fly or move at all. Rage filled waffle lad. He wasn’t going to get away with this. He was hellbent now on both reversing the curse, and freeing the dragons. He didn’t even care about the fruit any longer. This was unfair and unjust. Waffle lad immediately went into stealth mode, which was hard as waffle lad was now about double his size. Even with his doubled size, the bars were easily two waffles thick. Enough to hold a dragon, but not waffle lad. He followed pancake Sam. Up stairs, left, right, right, left. Straight and bingo. A door with jewels and beautiful (albeit kinda over the top) Designs. The doors opened on their own. Pancake sam wandered in. And waffle man slipped through just as the doors were shutting and hid behind some furniture. Pancake Sam was silent other than the noise made by him pouring himself a glass of syrup. Waffle lad, sword still in hand, crawled carefully around, behind pancake Sam as he sat down to drink his syrup. “Hello waffle lad.” Said pancake Sam. Waffle lad froze “Care for a drink? I’ve got plenty to share.” Offered Pancake Sam. Waffle lad didn’t move a muscle “I know you’re there. You’re gonna put that toothpick across my flesh and attempt to save your little dragon friend. Just come take a seat.” Waffle lad stood slowly, and walked around to a chair to the left of the couch. Fireplace to his left, and pancake Sam to his right. “I’m surprised you managed to befriend her. Her name is delly by the way. In case you were wondering.” Pancake Sam took a sip of his drink. “Do You know who I am?” Waffle man stayed silent. Sword still clutched in hand. “I was once an adventurer like you. But... we are different. Fundamentally. I liked magic and wizardry. You seem to have befriended this creature with no hesitation. You make friends. Allies.” Waffle man wasn’t sure what he was getting at. As if he read his mind, Sam said “my point is, I see myself in you. A different version of me. A reflection, but a shattered and dirty one. Don’t get me wrong, I’m still going to kill you. You never stood a chance.” With a flick of his wrist waffle lads sword flew out of his grip and dipped into the fire. Before waffle man could even get up, the blade was back, an inch away from his face, red hot, and razor sharp. Pancake Sam continued. “However I am interested in you. So I’m going to study you. How you befriended delly so easily. It took me months of shocking her before she submitted to me. And yet within thirty seconds you have her under your grimy palm?” The sword seemed to get hotter, and maybe it was his imagination, but it looked closer. “You hurt them” waffle lad said Pancake Sam gave me a curios look. “You hurt the dragons. That’s why they don’t want to cooperate. You hurt them and they refuse to work for you and undermine you at every opportunity.” Pancake mans face stayed stoic and strong. Nothing moved. Unbreaking, unnerving eye contact. “I helped stop pain, and she was so desperate for a friend that she immediately trusted me” Wether or not this was true, waffle lad had no idea. But the longer he talked the longer he had to think of something. There was a bed, lots of bookshelves and dressers. A chandelier, paintings and art. It was a luxurious room. But nothing he could use to fight back. “Your input is interesting. But I don’t believe you. I think there is something inside. Something like me. Don’t get me wrong, we are far from the same person. But I think you are magical too. And I think it expressis itself in different ways” Waffle lad tried to repress a laugh. “I am deadly serious waffle lad. Most folks would be dead. But not you. You walked to a cave, befriended a dragon, and followed me to my place of residence, with little issue. My curse should have killed you in minutes. Your airway is unaffected. Which honestly threw me for a loop.” Pancake sam stood up. “But I am here to kill you now” Sam grabbed the sword and with a mighty swing.... an explosion? Waffle lad opened his eyes to see a dazed Sam with sword several feet away. The roar was unmistakable. Delly. Waffle lad ran. Booked it as fast as he could, and somehow found his way back to the cage. Delly was clawing at the cage, but the dragon from outside was here too, after ripping a hole through the wall. The other dragon turned to attack but delly roared and it froze in place. Looking at me, then at delly. It seemed to understand and continued clawing at the cell. It was useless. Waffle lad knew the door opened up so he began to lift and lift with all his might. He knew HE couldn’t lift it, but if the dragons caught on, they could. Sure enough the other dragon sniffed and began trying to lift the bars with its nose. Delly followed suit and soon enough she was out. The odds were looking to be in my favor. Delly still had her chain on, and I attempted to remove it, to no success. I heard roars of rage. “WAFFLE LAD I WILL KILL YOU”. Followed by some very comforting explosions and incoherent screaming. Waffle lad made eye contact with the other dragon, who happened to not have chains, and nodded. This was it. Three on one. Pancake Wizard, vs dragons and a waffle. Soon enough the chaotic clammer made it down to the cages and pancake Sam was there. Other than minor bruising he was untouched. But he was literally glowing. Not on fire but.... it must have been magic. Magic that got stronger with rage. Pancake sams eyes were locked onto me, into my soul. “You’re going to die here waffle lad”. Said the pancake. “you are going to die alone, and you’re never going to be found.” He took a step forward, opening his palms and dropping the sword with a light clank. “Nobody will miss you. And I am going to enjoy every minute of therapy I give my dragon friends. They WILL be punished.” Fire began to grow from his palms. “I would ask if you have any last words. But I really don’t care enough” And with that he lunged forward. Fire exploding from behind, and erupting from his palms. Waffle man ducked out of the way and the other dragon blocked the flame with its wings. A guttural roar filled the air, and honestly waffle lad couldn’t tell who it was at first. But when the dragons face became visible, the crispy, crunchy burns became visible. But the dragon wasn’t in pain. It was the closest to a smile the dragon could have with its face structure. The dragon kept taking the blasts, over and over, switching wings and even using its head to protect me. “DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIEEEEEEE” cackled the pancake. And then the dragon fought back. It was horrific. The incoherent screaming and gurgling. Liquid searing hot grease and fat, and even fire was shooting from the bacon dragons mouth. And it began to shred pancake Sam. Fluffy bits of burnt flesh and syrup flew into the air, catching fire and evaporating as it touched the dragons crispy and Burnt skin. The swelling lowered immediately. Waffle lad fell to his knees. And the dragon now easily melted the chains off of delly, and began shooting her with fire as well. Apparently dragons needed to be crispy to be healthy. The fat around her joints melted and her skin grew to be sharp and crispy, just like her friends. The dragons shared a quick head nuzzle, and delly lowered her head for waffle lad to climb on. The dragons both knew the way out, and In a matter of minutes they were outside again. Fresh air filled waffle lads fluffy pores. And he held onto delly as she, and her dragon friend took flight. Waffle lad pointed to his house and the dragons headed in that direction after an exchange of roars. As the dragons landed, waffle lad hopped down. No longer swollen and puffed up, Waffle lad jumped to the door. He was a new person. And as waffle lad opened the door, he realized. “I’m not a waffle lad anymore... I’m a u/Waffle-Man.


The grey clouds began to close in over the small, desert California town of Manouri. They darkened the skies in a manner that soaked up the pouring light. The grey sky especially darkened that old, dingy abandoned house on Nabollon Street. Just on the end of a residential neighborhood, and bordering on the Deadlands; The region where the town ends and the desert truly begins. It is only populated by endless dirt, dead bushes, and tall trees that desperately cling to their lives in this dry environment. That old house stood still in the quiet winds of Manouri. Vacant for years, and not a soul dwelled within it for decades. That is, until it gained a new resident in that fateful February month. A broken window on the front of the non-home peered into the world outside, and with it was an odd man who stared from the inside. His face pure white with hair as orange as a tangerine, and long like a bouquet of freshly picked roses. His lips donned black lipstick, and each eye had three black dots drawn below them. He was a clown, and his name was Jiggles. An oddity from a far away place. Presumably chased out, or perhaps a failed entertainer? Something in his past drove him to living in the basement of that old, forgotten house by the Deadlands. Jiggles approached the door, with its hinges ready to give out at any moment. Thunder drummed outside, but he chose to ignore it. "Maybe... maybe I should venture out to see my new surroundings!" he muttered to himself. By the time the old clown made his decision, rain was pouring down, and Jiggles walked in stride with an umbrella in hand. The old umbrella was white, with a pattern of multicolored balloons that dazzled the withering parasol. While observing the sights of the neighborhood, he skipped merrily, ignoring the downpour. Finally, Jiggles slipped and tumbled, eventually falling into a nearby sewer entrance. He stood up with a disorienting pain in his head, and he raised his hand up to adjust his red nose. "Oh, now that was an awful decision!" The water had already carried the clown a slight distance from the entrance, and the disorienting feeling led Jiggles in a different direction. After about five minutes that felt like five hours, he came across an old storm drain which water from the neighboring street cascaded into. Jiggles couldn't fit through it due to his adult size, but he noticed that the grate in front of the drain could be pried with the right amount of force from the outside. Without much more thought, he thrust his arm through the drain, attempting to alert any nearby folks about his predicament. One person did hear the clown's cries. It was eleven year old Jake. With a particular fondness of the rain, he had left his home to splash and play in the puddled streets. Jake cautiously approached the drain. After all, when seeing an arm with a baggy, colorful sleeve emerging from the sewer, one can't be too careful. "Hello? Is there someone there?" the boy asked in a hushed tone. "Yes! There is someone there, and it's ME!" The arm retracted and a head arose. The white-faced, red-nosed, orange-haired minstrel startled Jake, taking him slightly aback at the sight of him. It was as if Jiggles reminded him of something... "Ah, thanks for comin' over here, kiddo! I'm gonna need your help!" Jiggles said. His voice sounded almost metallic against the moist grate, but that didn't distract from the gravelly sound that came from the clown's throat. He spoke like someone who smoked ten packs a day, but still had the energy to speak in a coherent and upbeat fashion! "This grate might be movable if you just reach your hand in and lift it up. Think you can do that, kid?" he said. Jake's eyes widened. Instantly he remembered what the clown in the sewer reminded him of; A film he had seen with his friend Bobby awhile back. This realization was enough for Jake to quickly bolt away from the sight. "Little brat..." Jiggles said, but at the same time he felt understanding of the boy's fear. Not everyone loves clowns as much as they used to. After about two hours, the old clown found his way out of that disgusting sewer. He walked back to that dingy house in his soaked costume. The floorboards creaked with each step from his oversized shoes which were now caked in sewage. His eyes were tired from all that time outside. He stumbled down to the basement where he was mainly living. There was an old, partly torn apart bed, and a withering end table at the bedside. On the table sat a doll. It was a clown doll, and it looked decades old. Jiggles began to sit on the bed to lie down, but quickly realized how dirty his suit was. "Hmm, I wonder if there's a shower in the desert!" he joked, with a light giggle. The next day, the boy who encountered Jiggles rode his bike to the local park. Jake was there to meet his best friend, Bobby. People frolicked and played in the park. Children, parents, and even dogs enjoyed themselves in a myriad of fun ways. Jake approached Bobby, still slightly shaken from the other day. "Dude, you're gonna think I'm crazy." Jake said. "I saw something in the sewer that scared the shit out of me." "Damn, what did you see?" Bobby replied. "CLOWN!!!" a voice bellowed from the park entrance before Jake could open his mouth. The two boys looked over only to see Spencer, a boy they recognized from school. "Exactly!" Jake said to Bobby. He waved Spencer over to the both of them. "What the hell happened, man?" Bobby said. Spencer attempted to catch his breath while recounting his story. He had walked to the local lake to see its peaceful, tranquil beauty. Little did he know, there was something alive in that lake. Not a fish, but a performer. A circus performer! A performer with a dirty suit that needed to be washed in the lake. While observing how pretty the tree-surrounded body of water was, the clown's head rose. Jiggles emerged with his portly, straight-standing form. It was slow, but also fast at the same time. Spencer had barely any time to think. After all, what could one think? Especially when a clown comes right out of a lake! Jiggles was fifteen-feet away from the boy. He opened his eyes and saw the child gazing at him. His bright orange hair appeared thin and frayed from getting wet, and the ancient paint on his face was cracked. "It's a nice day to float, isn't it?" Jiggles said, waving and giving Spencer a friendly smile. The boy screamed and ran like his life depended on it, straight to the local park. "Huh. Again? That's quite... peculiar." Jiggles remarked. After hearing Spencer's account of the incident, Jake and Bobby looked at each other. Jake, with a look of fear, and Bobby with confusion. "I saw the clown too!" Jake said. "You guys both saw a freaking clown?!" Bobby replied. "Ohhh holy shit guys, this is just like that movie!" Spencer huffed, still catching his breath. "Wait, so that means... we're gonna have to kill it?" Jake said. "If only we knew where it came from." Bobby wondered. Jiggles hiked back to the abandoned house. His polka-dotted costume dripped with lake water, but was slowly being dried by the cool winds. He reached the door of the dingy house. Before opening it, the clown pulled out a red balloon, blew it up, and tied it to a string to make himself feel better. The sound of the balloon alerted the attention of of 11 year old Jane, who happened to be taking a stroll on Nabollon street. "Hi there!" Jiggles happily said. She looked towards the house, only to see an orange-haired clown holding a red, drooped balloon, and smiling directly at her. "Oh, do you want this balloon?" he said, while pointing at it. Jane ran far away, yelling "HOLY SHIT!" as loud as she could. Her running took her to the safest place she knew. The park. Her panicked running and red hair blowing rapidly in the wind alerted Jake, Bobby, and Spencer, who had still been talking about the clown that they saw. The boys quickly rushed to the girl's aid, as they had recognized her from school. "Are you okay, Jane?" Spencer said. "It was the clown, wasn't it?" Jake said. Jane looked up, shocked and confused. "How... how did you... know about the clown?" The boys looked at each other. Their emotions ranged from perplexed, to scared out of their minds. "It went into that abandoned house by the Deadlands!" she proclaimed. "Now we know where to find it." Bobby said. He felt determined to put a stop to what he believed was a threat, but also felt just as fearful as the others. "We have to stop the clown. Does anyone know where we can get weapons?" Jake said. "I think my dad has some baseball bats or something. Let's hurry!" Bobby exclaimed. Later that day, the kids came straight to that old house on Nabollon Street. Jake was armed with a metal baseball bat, Bobby with a pipe, Jane with a tree branch, and Spencer with a pie. "Are we all clear on the plan?" Jake asked the rest of them. They are stared at him, likely having forgotten what to do. Jake groaned. "Spencer, you smash the pie in his face, then I'll get him in the back of his head. Bobby will hit the groin, and Jane hits him in the chest. We clear?" "Uhh... can I opt out? Please? PLEASE?" Spencer whimpered. "No way fraidy-cat! This thing probably kills kids, and we gotta stop that!" Bobby said. "Yeah, emphasis on 'probably', huh?" Jane replied. "It'll be just like in the movie!" Jake said. Bobby kicked in the door. The inside foyer was dilapidated, with creaking floors and rats scurrying on the floor. There was a near pin-drop silence filling the room. "It must be in the basement." Jake whispered. The kids nodded together and began to descend into the basement. It was illuminated by a burning lantern, and Jiggles stood in the corner, likely daydreaming. Upon hearing footsteps coming into the room, he turned out to see the children. "Oh.. hey kids! What are you doing do-" Jiggles said, before getting cut off by Spencer. The boy mustered up all his courage and rushed towards the clown with the pie in hand. The whipped cream exploded on Jiggles' face, and the other kids rushed in. Jiggles scrambled to wipe the pie from his face, and that's when Jake made his move. He struck the clown in the back of his head with the metal bat, and Bobby whacked the groin with a rusty pipe. "Kill it before it kills you!" Jake screamed. Jiggles attempted to compose himself and figure out what was going on. "What the fu-" he was cut off by Jane hitting him in the chest with her tree branch. Jiggles fell to the floor and vomited through the pie on his face. The realization hit. He had also seen something similar to this in a movie. "Do you little urchins think I'm..." Before he could finish his sentence, the children realized their stupid mistake. Jane approached Jiggles and put her hand on his shoulder. He flinched at first. "I am so, so, SO sorry! I kinda acted on impulse." "I'm really sorry too..." Jake said, dropping his bat. The other two boys also set their weapons down. "Okay..." Jiggles began to speak, dusting off his costume. "Just because you saw something in a movie, that doesn't mean it's true!" "Yeah, but everything was so similar!" Bobby argued. "Fiction mimics real life, kiddo. Truth is, reality tends to be more interesting." Jiggles explained. "I've seen some really intriguing stuff in my life!" "You're not mad, are you?" Spencer skittishly asked. "Surprisingly no." Jiggles said. "Sure, I just got the shit beaten out of me by kids, but at least I can say that it's a different kind of housewarming!" The kids laughed at the clown. Suddenly he wasn't so scary now that they were getting to know him. "It's like what I always say. Bad experiences become good stories!" he said. "You know, you should perform for the people at the park!" Jane said. "That's not a bad idea, kiddo!" Jiggles exclaimed. The old clown wiped the pie from his face and exited the basement with his new friends to make way for the town park.