So, Neomi. What can you tell us about the voyage? It was nothing special. Just a week aboard a transport vessel. I think we where shipping cardiac bulbs, but i don't know for sure. The crisis... Now that i said it out loud i realize how prophetic that names is. Anyway, the crisis was an old junky, but it was still pretty reliable. The AI running the ship was an old Atalanta that loved dad jokes. Yeah, that serious, no nonsense attitude of most AI is just in the newer software. The crew considered of myself, the technician, the amazing captain Wannerham and a cranky pitface called Sulfur Mckaline. And how did it begin? With a voice in our heads. A strange, calm voice. "System error detected, please run diagnostics" There is only one thing that talks in your head. The warp drive. F*cking magic. Of course everyone looked at me, so i floated over to the engine room. The... Most people have never seen a prometheus alcubierre drive before. Could you discribe it? I'm an engineer, not a wizard. I, sorry, now one knows how those deathtraps work. That's true, but can you discribe what it looked like. I'll try. It's basically a big, black ball. In front of it, there are these glowing, flying lines that form statistics, pie charts and numbers. No idea what any of them mean. Around the ball there are also these wheels with glowing edges. That's how I saw something was wrong What was wrong? The top right wheel was shacking. Now, normally you can just look at the perfect satisfying motions, but this was going back and forth and wiggling. Amongst the holograms, there was also a small flashing pink light with some scribbles underneath. I just did what the voice had asked me and pushed the big holographic button that said "run system diagnostics" Suddenly, everything was flashing pink and droning sirens filled my ears, but only for a moment. And then? :( What? That's what the drive showed me. Al the holograms where gone, except for a big pink :( . In my mind i heard the voice again. Still completely calm. "Your machine has ran into a problem and needs to be repaired. We're collecting some error info, then we'll repair it for you. A technician is on there way" And how did you feel? Nervous. I moved like everything was made of nitroglycerin. From down the hall came the voice of the captain. "Everything still in one piece?" "No idea" i yelled back. I thought I would explode or something. Well... I didn't know what would happen. After a minute of just staying still there, i slowly moved to the bridge. At least I intended to, but i noticed something strange. The leak, right? I guess it was. I didn't look like a conventional leak though. The wheel that had been wiggling was now twitching. Faster than it could feasible move on It's own. Then it started growing and shrinking. Pulsating. Like it was breather or something. I don't have a better analog. If you've never seen what dark matter does... The pulsing spread to the other parts of the warp drive. That horrible sound began What sound? Like spacetime ripping at the seems. Like an organic version of radio noise. Like thousands of cthulhu hornets stuck in a jar. Like... The air shivered, rived and twitched. Everything shivered, rived and twitched. And you just stayed there? Oh no, that all happened in a split second. When it finally registered in my brain, i started booking it down the corridor, but that was hard. The corridor expanded and twisted and tumbled and went mad. Or i went mad. Who knows. When I finally made it out of that hellhole, i saw the captain, trying to figure out what was wrong. I just rounded the corner as a burst of quickly expanding, writhing shit was thrown out of the latch a had come from. Wannerham was a great captain, but only for simple travel. Not emergencies. He froze. I tried to drag him with me, but he wouldn't let go of the grip. (Long pause) Should we continue this another time? No... No, i want to get it out of my system. I eventually gave up. I know it's heartless, but i just didn't know what to do. So i left him there and draged myself to the cafeteria. Before I left, i just saw his limp body being torn apart. Now he was a part of the exploding and reassembling mess that was once the bowels of the ship. And what did you do then? I was afraid the oxygen might start leaking into outer space, so i grabbed a space suite and put it on. Stupidity kept me sane. "I was in control" I was never in controle of that situation. The engine room was at the bottom of the ships ass, so i went to the exact opposite room, the cockpit. And Sulfur and Atalanta? Atalanta was offline. As for Sulfur. No idea. Probably already dead. I wasn't going to check. As i floated into the big glass room, i could hear something exploding. It came sweaping through the halls. A bright burning. Right as the color shifting, twitching, tongues of flame shot out if the doorway, I heard the voice again, with the words that probably saved my life. "Temporal safe switch activated" i had no idea what it meant and prepared for the explosion. I opened my eyes and there it was, bright as the sun. Yet you survived. How? You see. The explosion never came. I'm losing you. It was there, but didn't come closer. It still moved, sure, but very, very slowly. Like those slow motion cameras. I couldn't believe it. I waited for my life to flash before my eyes... But nothing came. I couldn't move. Well, i could, just very very slowly. The only thing that happened fast was my mind. It must have been 5, 10 maybe 20 minutes, but it felt like an eternity. Just floating there. On one side, an eldritch abomination of flame and twitching rubble. On the other, a pane of glass shielding me from The horror of deep space. And how did you end up docking at the phobos space elevator? This isn't the ended of the insiedent. Oh no, far from it. Phobos was still 3 hours away, and the ship wasn't moving anymore. I couldn't do anything but wait. But i had forgotten about the technician. Wasn't that you? No, the other technician. Remember the pink screen of death. The voice had said "A technician is on their way" i think they arrived. I saw something coming through the flames. When the flames had consumed about half the room, i suddenly saw a white face, looking back at me. Then, at regular speed, the black cloud the head was attached to truw some black powder at the flames, which started retracting. It dove back into them, leaving a seemingly solid tunnel trough the fire. Then thousands of thin strings appeared between the lose parts of the ship. The thing came back and solidified a black, human arm, gave me a thumbs up, saluted me and disappeared. Disappeared? Yeah. I blinked and they where gone. And then? Time starded passing like usual again. The flames quickly retracted into the hallway. Then it was quiet. I managed to get Atalanta back online. Don't ask me how. She immediately scanned me and tried to liven the mood a little with a stupid pun. I don't even remember it. I was in shock. Catatonic maybe. I just got her to take me to the nearest colony. And you made it out unscathed. Mostly unscathed. (Neomi takes of her boot and puts her foot on the table) Oh god It's not as bad as it looks. For all you shittertens who are only listening, get a tv. But also, my foot and a bit of my leg is narld and warped like the smudge tool in photoshop. I can still walk on it, and it's working as intended. Just a friendly reminder of that one time i almost exploded. This story is from a worldbuilding project on r/operationbeagle.


THE PHOENIX ARISES This story is true; compiled of facts from personal knowledge and conjecture derived from newspaper reports and there are three main actors. The first was a gangster from Chicago, name o’ Murray Humphreys, an associate of Al Capone and the brains of The Outfit, who, once Capone was imprisoned for tax evasion, left the windy city and settled in Norman, Oklahoma. Humphreys, a main player in Capone’s rise to the top, though he was not Italian, was revered for his money making ability. The second, another gangster, from New York, name of “Owney” Vincent Madden, had made a fortune from prohibition. Best known for owning the famed Cotton Club, Madden, suspected o’ the murder of another violent man, Vincent “Mad Dog” Coll, was made to understand that it was time to leave New York forever, settling in Hot Springs, Arkansas where, with the complicity of a corrupt city government and police force, he continued to thrive. Our stage is a small town barbershop, name o’ Timmy Joe Sullivan’s which offered, as the sign said: “the best damn haircut in all of Oklahoma”. Men gathered here for a trim and to take part in the jocularity that formed part of the everyday conversation. “Hey, Timmy Joe, can you trim my nose and ears, while you’re at it? I know it’s nature but it just keeps growing”. “And stops growing in the place you do want it; on the top of your head”. Every man, sitting patiently on faded, ancient banquettes awaiting their turn, would join in the laughter. You can picture the scene: Timmy Joe Sullivan’s barbershop, Texhoma, a great place to shoot the breeze, vent about the Sooners’ poor form or whatever. For the twenty odd minutes that it took Timmy Joe to give the man on the throne his undivided attention, maybe only ten minutes was allowed for the trim and the rest was devoted to chat. Timmy Joe, with his soft Irish accent, knew exactly what all o’ his regulars wanted in the way of a haircut, remembered each’s little idiosyncrasy and, to all o’ his customers, felt like a close friend in whom they could confide without fear o’ judgement. Satisfied with their new coiffure, they would disappear back into their worlds and not give Timmy Joe another thought until that time, two to three weeks hence, when they would require his skill with scissors, once again...and that’s just how TJ liked it. “Hey, Timmy Joe, how would you describe the business o' barbering?” “Well, personally, I like to say I am engaged in deforestation”. TJ had set up shop in the town way back in ’22 and the barber had soon become a favourite o’ the local community, not least, on account o’ the ten cents for a cut, five cents for a shave that was the fixed price for the next two years; no appointments necessary and no jumping the line. Everybody knew the rules and, if’n anybody left the premises for even ten seconds, his place would be forfeited in the queue. Womenfolk trusted their young ‘uns to Timmy Joe because, not only did he have a wooden board that he would place across the armrests o’ his barber chair so that kids could sit, proud and tall, staring into the mirror, but Timmy Joe remembered all the boys’ names, their favourite games and the like and the young boys all loved to jaw with TJ and looked upon the barber as they would a favourite uncle. If'n a mother insisted on waiting for her boy, Timmy Joe always ensured that there was a copy o’ Modern Woman or the new craze, Vogue, positioned in the magazine rack along with Time and Reader’s Digest and, for some strange reason, The Chicagoan, all o' which TJ subscribed to. In ’26, four years after setting up business, the barber had proposed to Lily Evangeline, a young widow, who had been bringing her son, Charlie, for his monthly trim ever since his father had died in an automobile accident, twelve months previously. Timmy Joe had kept a respectful distance from the widow and had gone out o' his way to lift the sorrow that engulfed the eight year old in the chair and barber and boy had become fast friends and, after her period of mourning had ended, she had accepted Timmy Joe’s offer o’ marriage with alacrity. Lily had inherited the farm, almost four hundred acres devoted to soybean and rice, upon her husband’s death and was considered a catch by all and sundry but Timmy Joe, though he began to live on the farm, had made it abundantly clear from the get go that he wanted nothing, financially, from the spread and considered it to be Charlie Evangeline’s future; to be protected at all costs. That’s the kind o' man that Timmy Joe was, an honest teetotaller admired by all that knew him. TJ was a devoted husband and, though he knew that he could never replace Charlie’s real papa, he was determined to be as good a step-father as it was possible to be and they were, indeed, a happy little unit. Mornings were quiet in the barber shop, which suited Timmy Joe just fine. He’d make himself a cup o’ coffee and settle down in the one and only barber chair to read the latest periodical and could, quite contentedly, have stayed in that position all day long but, as customers began to drift in, he enjoyed catching up with those he hadn’t seen for a few weeks and hearing their latest news. Sage advice was lavished, laughs were many and, occasionally, sorrows were shared in genuine empathy. “Hey, Timmy Joe, did you ever see a man without a beard?” “Yep, many times. They call ‘em women”. But, every now and again, Timmy Joe would be asked a question that seemed to, momentarily, flummox him and, if anybody had really been paying attention to the way he answered, they may have noticed inconsistencies. One o’ these questions was to do with where TJ had originated from? Depending on who the questioner had been, TJ came up with a variety o’ different Irish locations. The other thing that people asked was why TJ subscribed to The Chicagoan, Chicago being so far north. To this, Timmy Joe would, sometimes, say that he had passed through the city, one time, and taken a shine to it or that he had subscribed in error but couldn’t be bothered to cancel the subscription. I, as a regular frequenter o’ these premises, was savvy enough to have picked up on these nuances and, as an attorney at law, my curiosity was aroused. My office was above the barbershop and, when the law business was quiet, I would wander down and brew a coffee for us and sit and enjoy the repartee that was as normal as the sound of scissors clicking. In this way, I became close with Timmy Joe, intrigued though I remained about his background. But, apart from these minor anomalies, life for Timmy Joe could not have been better. He was happily wed, lived in a fine house, loved the day to day calmness and steadiness o’ tending his barber business and the years passed peacefully and uneventfully, the business making enough to more than cover the needs o’ Timmy Joe and his family and the farm making a modest, annual profit, all o’ which was ploughed back into the agricultural business in the form o’ machinery upgrades. “Hey, Timmy Joe, what d’you call a line o’ people waiting for a haircut?” “A barbecue”. That’s about when nature began to take a turn for the worse, in a way far more destructive than anybody could have foretold. The drought came in three cruel waves: ’34, ’36 and ’39 and it were the in-between years that fooled most people into thinking the worst was over and encouraged them to borrow heavily and reinvest in their land, only to be caught out, yet again, the following year. The lack of rain, combined with the high winds served to sweep the unanchored topsoil into clouds o’ dust, known as Black Blizzards, reducing visibility to mere feet, making agriculture impossible, leading to the death o’ crops and the bankruptcy o’ thousands. Banks foreclosed on mortgages and families, known as Okies, were forced to uproot and head west. The Dust Bowl had arrived! Through it all, Texhoma suffered greatly, including the Evangeline acreage but they had two great advantages: firstly, they were beholden to no bank, having no mortgage on their land. Secondly, they had TJ.  Though he had never seen anything like this disaster, TJ kept a cool head in a crisis and he reasoned that the three o’ them could live on the money his barber shop brought in, even though business had slowed considerably since the mass exodus of Okies. The barber shop became the place for gatherings to debate the whys and what nots o’ this cataclysmic event and everybody had an opinion on cause and solution. Timmy Joe managed to earn enough to see his family through the disaster, long as it lasted, and he strongly advised that the four hundred acres be left fallow with not a single dollar spent on it until the crisis was over for good, as it surely would be, one day. Trusting TJ’s wisdom, Lily and Charlie did exactly that. They watched others invest money, usually mortgaged, into their land and, for a time, look to be recovering, only for a new wave of drought to suddenly arrive and destroy everything. In ’38, those leeches, the land grabbers, made their move. They, too, knew that Mother Nature would turn eventually and they started to buy up huge tracts o’ land for cents on the dollar. Many families felt that they were lucky to get anything for their acres o’ dust and accepted a pittance for land they’d farmed for generations. Charlie, when first approached, politely declined the derisory offer made. The second such overture was not presented so pleasantly, with a number o’ the Dixie mafia hovering menacingly in the background. Charlie, now a young man o’ twenty one years was not easily intimidated and, once again, refused the offer made. Lily, though, sensed that these men would be back, unwilling to countenance that anybody would dare to reject their proposal but, despite her fears, she urged her son to say nothing to TJ. Why, exactly, I cannot say. Maybe, intuitively, she sensed something hitherto undisclosed about her husband. It did not take long for Murray Humphreys to realise the golden opportunity that the catastrophe o’ the Dust Bowl presented and, joining forces with Owney Madden, they began to buy up as much land as they could across the three states o’ Texas, Arkansas and Oklahoma. Where farmers refused to sell cheaply, intimidatory tactics were used and reports o’ homes being firebombed and owners disappearing, never to be seen again, proliferated. In Timmy Joe’s barbershop, talk o’ these happenings was becoming more and more regular but, on account o’ Lily assuring him that no such threats had been made on their property, though he listened with interest, to the stories his customers told, TJ felt no undue concern for his own family’s wellbeing. So, when, somebody rushed into his barber shop, one day, and yelled that the Evangeline property was ablaze, nobody was more shocked than Timmy Joe who urged me to drive him home in my car but, by the time we had driven the twenty miles, the barn had burnt completely to the ground incinerating livestock that had been contained within. The house was untouched and Lily and Charlie, though traumatised, were unharmed. TJ was just pleased that his family was safe, reasoning that they could always rebuild a barn as everything had been insured. But Charlie, devastated by this event, was no longer willing to remain quiet and, despite his mother’s protestations, blurted out the truth o’ the attempts to intimidate him into selling the land. Timmy Joe was deeply shocked, as was I. Without another word, he asked me to drive him back to Texhoma but, en route, insisted on stopping at a bar on the lake and ordering a double bourbon, the first drink, he said, that he had taken in almost fourteen years. When he ordered another. I was dumbfounded. Worried for my silent friend, his face betraying all sorts of internal emotions, I kept him company but confined myself to sarsaparilla. By closing time, TJ had consumed an entire bottle o’ bourbon but, far from appearing intoxicated, he seemed resolute and calm and asked me to drive him home. Mother and son were waiting anxiously and smothered him with hugs and kisses for they surely loved that man. I stood in the background as he addressed his family. This is a verbatim account o’ what he said, best as I can recall: “I have things to tell you; things that I have kept from you. I mean to get this out and, then, you can judge me, one way or the other. My name is not Timothy Sullivan. It is Tommy O’Connor. I am better known as Thomas “Terrible” O Connor. I was born in County Limerick and was brought to America by my parents as a young boy. I got into bad company in Chicago and began a life of crime, working as an enforcer for the Outfit. That’s where I gained the moniker of “Terrible” for, when my blood was up, there was not a man alive that did not quake upon mention of my name. In 1921, a corrupt cop tried to shake me down and I administered a severe beating. I was staying in a motel when he and several others surrounded the place and a shootout occurred. With shots raining down on me, I was firing blindly in an effort to escape and one of my bullets hit and killed an officer and I became a hunted fugitive...” I could tell that Lily was astounded to hear this tale, coming from the lips of her husband. Charlie, however, seemed engrossed. Me? I was busy putting together all the clues I had noted over the years: the different birth places, that need to keep up with news from Chicago. “I was on the lam for two months but was finally arrested in Minnesota and brought back to stand trial in Cook County where I was sentenced to hang by Judge Kickham Scanlan, yet another corrupt official of that disreputable county...” We all gasped. A condemned man? “Four days before my execution, I contrived to escape with four others when I overpowered a guard and took his gun. At that time, there was no Cook County sheriff’s department so I was able to cover miles and miles of open countryside without being detected. Long story short, I ended up in Norman, working as an apprentice to a barber, found I had an aptitude for cutting hair, moved to Texhoma and set up my own business, where I determined to live a good, honest life, as far removed from my former ways as possible but, sometimes, fate decrees otherwise. There you have it but, I mean for you to know that, now that my family has been threatened, I aim to exact my revenge and no man can stop me. My blood is up”. With that, TJ stood, kissed his wife and step-son and reached out to me for the keys to my automobile which I handed over without question and I watched him walk out into the darkness o’ that fateful night, the last time I ever saw him. Those are the facts. You now know the truth o’ the third character in my story’ my friend, the mild mannered barber, Timothy Joe Sullivan who was really Thomas “Terrible” O’Connor and, we three, had borne witness to this phoenix arising from the ashes. From this point on, my tale relies on conjecture and you can draw your own conclusions. According to the Hot Springs Sentinel, that same night, a lone gunman entered the hotel and casino complex, The Southern, that Owney Madden had established in Hot Springs, Arkansas and where the likes o’ Lucky Luciano and Frank Costello were frequent visitors. The description o’ that gunman, for sure, fitted TJ to a tee. Seven o’ the Dixie mafia were killed in the ensuing gunfight and Madden, himself, was fortunate to escape with a flesh wound. The following night, my car was found abandoned in Norman, Oklahoma and the Norman Transcript wrote of a gunman who had shot dead two bodyguards outside the home o’ the notorious Chicago mobster, Murray Humphreys, before entering the house and confronting the occupant. Later, the gunman left, with Humphreys, who was unharmed, admitting to having recognised the intruder but refusing to say who he was or what had taken place between them. Thereafter, strange as it may seem, the mob’s involvement in the lucrative land grabbing o’ the Dust Bowl years, ended abruptly as they focused on their other illicit activities. I never saw TJ again and Lily and Charlie, a few days after these events, took train for parts unknown and have never returned to Texhoma. The four hundred acres lay, just as they were, still in the name o’ Charlie Evangeline, though the rains, as TJ had prophesied, returned in ’40 and the land was reborn. In ’42, quietly, without fuss, the farm was sold in a private transaction that fetched top dollar. I, myself, handled the legal transaction. “Hey, Timmy Joe, you should only charge me half price as I’m almost bald” “Sure, I should be charging you double as it takes me so long to find your hair”. I miss my friend, I surely do. I miss the laughs we shared but, most of all, I miss the best damn haircut in all of Oklahoma.


There's a small cabin in the pines by a secluded lake in north Ontario. I had rented it for two weeks every summer for twelve years. The Belvedere it is called. When its owner passed, his wife wanted me to have it, so we made a deal and it is mine now. Its shingles are puckered and mossy, and the mortar between the cut logs is crumbling away. I'll fix it though, because one day I hope to live in it.I have furnished it with esoterica from my cluttered mind. Mementos from the movies, books, and music that I adore. A stuffed raccoon with a ray gun and ammo vest. A Palantir, its globe of glass ensconced in carved briarwood. The mother ship from Close Encounters. Cellophane flowers. An onion made of glass. A parking meter, and a guitar with a face painted on it (crying). Many more where those came from.Some of these things had cost me dearly. Others I had bartered for. One that I got for nothing was a broken park bench. Its frame is of cast iron, still intact. All that was needed was some good stout lumber to fix it up. This I have done, and it is bolted solidly onto a flat rock near the shoreline.At the time of this story, it was early fall, and I had arrived quite late the night before, straight from my job in the city. I had not slept well, even though the peace here is immutable. I awoke, still in darkness, then stoked the fire and relit a couple of kerosene lamps (I am pretending to be a pioneer). Putting the percolator on the stovetop, I waited for the precious cup to warm my hands and my spirits.As soon as the soft glow of dawn gave shape to my flagstone steps, I put on a warm sweater and jeans and went down to the bench by the still lake. It was that enchanting moment when the sparkling stars settle more deeply into midnight blue, and are then chided by our own star into cerulean.A shallow blanket of mist hung above the waters, and I heard the eerie tremolo of loons conversing. Feathery breezes, competing for direction, were like warm caresses, and I wished a yearning wish to be part of some great story.Just before full light, as I was searching out the singing loons, I spied a dark thing that seemed to swim quickly and aimlessly. Now in a line, now in wide circles. Noiseless, making little disturbance to the placid waters, it approached the sandy shoreline near me. When it rose from the lake, a scant distance away, I was surprised and taken aback by the silhouette of a woman both tall and lithe.She came toward me with purpose and, as I rose in inquiry, she stood next to me, uttering not a word. Stupidly, I said "hello", expecting a reply. Instead, she searched my face. I felt not a little discomfort, but could not help but return her gaze. I am usually good at telling a person's age. With her, it was different. Dressed in a cotton shirt and shorts that had curious designs on them, her body appeared to be that of someone perhaps thirty years old, in the bloom of health. But her eyes, at once haughty but kind, gave one the feeling that they had seen many lives."Can I help you?" I said. Her eyes softened, and she gave a smile. "No" she said, in a silken basso voice. "But I may help you. May we sit?" As if in a dream, I remained standing, thinking, thinking. All at once I realized my rudeness and motioned her to sit. I had seen this person before. The long blonde hair. The tan legs. The inscrutable eyes. But, I thought, it is ridiculous. That was thirty years ago, and still she looks the same."I am Sarah", she said, and I knew. I did not say my own name, for she knew."I will tell you some things", she began. I knew not to speak, neither to answer nor to ask, as my night's wishing grew in wonder."Scoop up some sand. Let it fall slowly between your fingers. Know that each grain is different from its brothers. Now, as you sit in this world with its wonders and its wars, its loves and its hate and its beauty, consider the sand. I tell you that there are as many worlds of life in God's great galaxies as there are single grains of sand on every beach of this old Earth. Those that believe otherwise are mistaken.""Some of the peoples have been here. Some walk among you. Many more know of you, but do not come because of the savagery. Know that your Earth is on a knife edge between survival and cataclysm. There are many here that would give their very lives to save her. Find them. Join with them. This is your great story. Have courage. Prepare. The day is coming."With those words, Sarah rose to leave. Putting her hands upon my shoulders, she touched her forehead to mine. I could say nothing, but cupped one of her hands within my own.And so she turned, and went back into the water. In the full day, she dove into the gentle waves. I never saw her surface.


Rachel Seeker leaned against the mossy tombstone that her parents shared, waiting there with a shovel. She had been returning to Feywood Cemetery every year on the night of their deaths, the 13th of November, for as long as she could remember, and ever since her only brother had disappeared thirty-six years ago. Before that, they use to visit their parents' graves together. This place, after all, was the last place she saw him. When he had asked Rachel to uphold a most horrible deal. She was in her late fifties now, though still able to go toe-to-toe with even the fastest and fiercest prey. Stringy locks of grey dashed the sides of her black hair, unkempt, and loosely tied at the end. She wore a double-breasted bridge coat, buttoned, and extending down to a pair of steel-toed boots. Her mouth was wiry-thin, and dead eyes locked on the horizon of the graveyard. The sun had only been down for an hour; she'd give it more time she thought. One year, she waited up to five hours and told herself she wouldn't do that again. That was in the early years though. Nights where it felt easier to be optimistic about things. Nights that now only seem to come around once in a blue moon, or not at all. Tonight felt like one of those nights, she thought. Though there was only so much optimism to be had when killing your undead brother, even if he deserved it. Rachel and her older brother, Jack, had lost their parents at an early age, both of them raised by their dad's parents instead. Their grandparents were eccentric, claimed to have come from a long line of vampire hunters. A line that her Grandfather Owen said stretched back to the early 1600s, starting with Amadeus Von Seeker, the first of their clan. Rachel had always found her grandfather's tales amusing but had always regarded them as just that, tales. When she had grown up and finally left for college, her brother stayed behind to start his training, much like their grandfather had himself in his younger days. Rachel had often thought about what if she had taken more interest in her family's line of work back then. Perhaps, there would have been a better chance at a better future for all of them. Then, as if from nowhere, a tall man wearing a checkered suit and black tie appeared, walking down from the hill and onto the gravel path towards her parents' graves. He appeared young, perpetually stuck at the spry age of twenty-four, yet walked with a cane and arched back. His skin had an almost sickly pale blue hue to it, and though he hadn't physically aged at all, there was something in his eyes that said he was tired. Tired of everything. "Rachel," he nodded, his voice carried an iciness, but was otherwise how she remembered it. He did not smile, not a bit. Rachel held herself high. She was surprised to see him again after all these years. She thought she never would. She had almost wanted to hug him, it was her lost brother, though Rachel would never show that. Not after their history. "Did you get all dressed up tonight for this?" She joked. She wasn't sure what to say, it had been thirty-six years. "Um, I'll be honest, I'm surprised to see you here." "Yeah. Well. It is our parent's death day." Jack replied, planting himself at the foot of their graves. "What stopped you the other forty years?" Scratchy leaves scattered and danced along the grounds and headstones of the graveyard. Branches could be heard swaying above them as a cold silence passed over. "I wasn't ready yet." They both lingered a moment longer on their parents' grave. Rachel turned. "Didn't stop me. I did what you asked. I've been coming out here every year for at least the last thirty-six." "Well, thank you for upholding your end. Not everyone's as eager to put their own brother in the ground." Rachel laughed. She laughed like she was young again, wrinkles disappearing from her face and a wild spark in her eye. She turned back to their parents' gravestone where now they were both facing. "You think I kept coming out here for you? For your deal? Is that why you're here tonight? You want me to put you to rest? Why now? Why after all this time?" Jack's feet shifted uneasily, resting against his cane. "I was wrong. I was wrong to leave Grandpa Owens and Grandma Alice. I was wrong about joining up with the Dumont's, the Fiends of Colorado," his voice sunk, "I was wrong to turn my back on our family and our secrets. And I have wronged so many. . ." He would be speaking from the heart if it were still beating. "I'm in some trouble right now. Some deep shit. They'll be coming to finish their work soon." "What kind of trouble are you in?" Rachel demanded, sisterly-like. "Who's coming after you?" "The Nine." That was all that Jack said. It was all he had to say to Rachel. Anyone who knows anything about vampires in America knew about the Nine, the kings and queens of the Midwest. Years ago, Rachel had put an end to one of the organization's schemes of snatching people up from the Ozarks for their blood farms. The Nine were just that. Nine all-powerful vampires, lords and ladies of high society that had successfully infiltrated public politics, technology firms, and other corporations with large amounts of money and political sway. They were not to be reckoned with. They were one reason why their grandfather had been so secretive with their trainings throughout the years. "It's true, y'know, there are fates worse than death." Jack turned to his sister with a half-smile. His teeth were smashed up, fangs missing, gums practically pulverized. Rachel was surprised he could still speak. "Did-did they. . ." "They did. They took my wings too. You should see their guys though." His ugly-looking grin only growing in size. Jack still had his pride, even if misguided or face smashed to bits. "Rachel," he said, "if you don't uphold our deal they'll flay me next and I won't get far. I'd rather not spend the next hundred years on fire in the sub-basement of some department store." "You'd rather not, huh?" She said, staring him down – daggers in her eyes. "Those aren't very strong words." His smile faded. Another silence passed as leaves again whirled by. "Jack," she said finally, shaking her head, anger seeping from her voice. She had wondered if she would ever have the chance to confront him about it. "Because of you, because of your actions, Grandpa Owen and Alice died sooner than they would have had to." Her eyes and voice filled with old hate, one forged of fire and spilled blood. "Why the fuck should I help you after all this time?" Jack's eyes widened, his face melted away. "Please, I had no idea the Fiends would want anything to do with them!" "Oh, yeah?" She didn't believe him. She had to say it. It was now or never. "How fucking stupid can you be? I got a letter in the mail one day telling me to come down there, didn't know who it's from. I show up, open the door, and there's blood. There was blood everywhere, Jack." Rachel trembled as if the scene was forever painted on the back of her eyelids. "I knew it wasn't me who messed up." "Rachel, please, I know. I know." Shadows in the gauntness of his face. "For what it's worth, I never said much. Only that I was once a son of the Seeker clan and I've been paying dearly for it ever since. I'm so sorry." His eyes dropped to the ground. "I'm not asking for forgiveness, I– " "I know what you're asking for." Rachel reached into the depths of her coat and from it pulled a rather large, very old-looking stake. Its base was wrapped in leather, silver rings sheathed around dark-colored oak leading up to a finely sharpened point. It was their family heirloom. "Ah." Jack rolled his head up, appearing almost amused now. "That old thing? How fitting, huh?" "Yeah, this old thing." She said. She knew her brother knew what it was. "Grandpa was going to give me that at the end of that year, y'know?" "Yeah. And now it's mine." "You never wanted to be a hunter!" "Right." Jack frowned, then looked to her. "It's still not too late. You can do whatever you want to. It's never too late." He rested his hand on his sister's shoulder. "You just gotta do me in last, then quit!" He smiled again, mouth ugly as sin. "You gonna bury me next to mom and dad?" "Mhm." "Nice. Hopefully, maybe, I'll see them where ever I go." Jack turned his back to Rachel. "Yes." Rachel held the stake in her hand, raising it above her head. She had done it a hundred times before. And then she brought it down. She spent the next couple of hours digging into the sweet-smelling earth, burying her brother beside her parents. A final resting place that she may someday well join. She would like that, she decided. She found she had no family left, the last remnant of the Seeker clan. She had even less now than at sunset. She grabbed the shovel, buttoned her coat, then looked around at the other headstones. She snatched a few roses from a neighboring bouquet and placed them on the freshly moved soil, starring at the graves for the last time. She'd be back the next year. This time no longer waiting. Rachel turned to leave the grave, walking off onto the gravel path, up the hill, and back into the night. Nine more to go, she told herself.


She woke up in the middle of the night to a strong gust of wind, as her bedroom shudders flung open. She raced to the window to pull the shudders towards her, until they were fastened shut and locked securely.  She let out a huge sigh of relief. She could not help but notice a shadow of a man standing in the grass one story beneath her. "Could it be?" She asked herself in a breathless whisper. She shook her head no, pushed away the thought, and crawled back into bed, for it was only 3' o clock. Fast forward to that afternoon, she was leaving school grounds to get into her little compact vehicle and go down to the seashore to get in some journaling before supper.  She noticed a man standing off to the distance, standing beside a tree, as she reached inside her purse to pull out her car keys. She happened to catch a glance at her watch, as she unlocked her vehicle, it was 3 o clock pm. Later that evening, she laid awake, restless, struggling to fall asleep, although quite fatigued.  She just could not seem to shake the thought of the man she saw earlier the afternoon, as well as the shadow of the man she saw earlier that morning when suddenly woken up by that strong gust of wind. She eventually fell asleep. Then at 2:45 am, she woke up to use the bathroom. She climbed back in bed, closed her eyes, as she attempted to get a little more shut eye before facing the big day ahead of her. It was her wedding day.  Then all of a sudden, the sound of a truck pulling up, rather quickly in her unpaved pebbled driveway approached her. She raced to the window to see who it was. The man in the green truck had shut off all his lights and stepped out of his vehicle. Just a shadow of a man stood there leaning against the truck, legs crossed, holding a bouquet of flowers. She happened to catch a glimpse of the time over her shoulder. It was exactly 3:00 am! So weird. He called out her name. She opened her window and reached for her binoculars, out of her top nightstand drawer. She got a much closer look of the fine young man. What she saw bewildered her! The man resembled her late husband, twenty years before his passing. They could be twins! " Am I dreaming?" She asked herself. She called out to him. She heard a faint whisper, " See you at 3'oclock!' Then as quick as she can blink her eyes, the image was gone. She knew that she knew that she knew that was the ghost of her late husband attempting to visit her during the hours leading up to her big day." But why?" She wondered. " Is he glad I am attempting to love again?" she asked herself as she second guessed.  He always told her since the day the two wed, that if he was ever to go before her, to not live life married to the dead. He encouraged her to find love again.  She knew that for certain. Then why did she just see him lurking behind her bedroom curtain? The next day went as fast as that wind bursting through her bedroom, just two nights prior.  At last, they were at the chapel, at half past two. Her niece Ava was fixing her veil. Her goddaughter Gianna was fussing with the sash on the back of her gown, when there was a knock at the door. The girls rushed to the door, to see who was knocking. No one was there.  They shrugged their shoulder and thought that was strange. Yet down the hallway, they saw their mom and grandmother talking in a corner, The two caught up with them, in efforts to update them on the gleaming bride's getting ready progress. In the meantime, back in the grand bedroom of the mansion, the girls had left the door slightly open. The anxious bride lifted up her wedding gown and ran over to the door to shut it. She was not about to risk the groom walking by and catching a glimpse of his lovely bride, just moments before they pledge love to one another till eternity. The moment she turned around and headed back towards the long oval antique mirror, she immediately saw an image of her late husband, sitting on the loveseat beside the mirror, " You always made a beautiful bride." He whispered gently. He patted his hand on the loveseat, while saying to her surprise," come sit for a while". He then added, "You got time yet, its only 3' o clock!" The two chatted in that next 10 minutes. It was as if no time has passed, since the blissfully happy couple departed nearly a decade ago on that windy evening in August. She was taken back instantly to that night, when she received the awful call by the lighthouse commander, informing her at 3:00 am in the morning, that his boat was caught up in a huge tidal wave. She was told, much to her demise, that there was zero chance of him making it back to shore, for there was not enough visibility The waves were much too sharp fierce, and high, for the rescue crew to make it that far out, in time to save the crew. It was at 3:00 clock, that she discovered, her honey has passed on to life eternal. The two laughed, they cried, they hugged. Then, they said their final goodbyes. She got the reassurance she needed. Her late husband had assured her, he was ok with her finally letting him go and moving on with her life.  A huge wave of peace washed over her. Then he was gone. Just moments later, her nieces rushed back in the room, as the music began to play.  She caught a glimpse of her two sharp dressed adult sons, Patrick and Ryan, waiting in the foyer, to give their glowing with joy mother away. " Come on, its 3' o clock" shouted her handsome nephew Luca, running down the lobby hallway. It was in that very moment, that she realized that no time has passed.  That whole conversation with her late husband existed within her heart. As she was escorted down the aisle by her two loving sons, it occurred to her, all will be well, a new chapter awaits her, starting right at 3' o clock!


The sun was high in the sky, shining brightly, the heat unbearable and most people staying in the cool shelter of their house, the lack of people venturing out on the streets benefited the neighborhood kids playing football in the streets. Playing bare-chested, shirts scattered on the ground. Smiles were plastered on their faces as they ran after the ball. They were ten in total, five on each team. Two rocks were placed on each side of the dirt road as a makeshift goal post and various plastic bags bundled together using a rope served as a ball. "Give me the ball, I'm alone," said Keza, the only girl playing. The boys only caved in and let her join because Shema had refused to play if they didn't. He was the best player in the group, and they needed him to win. Glancing at Keza and confirming her place, Shema passed the ball to her. Keza intercepted the ball and dashed towards the opposing team goal, as she was about to shoot, one of the boys on the opposing team tackled her causing her to lose balance and shoot the ball in another direction than intended. Shattering a window with a loud crack, the ball disappeared inside a house. The game halted and the boys all gathered around Keza, watching the broken window. "You go and take it back," one boy said pushing her by the shoulder. "It's not my fault, if he hadn't tackled me it wouldn't have happened, he should be the one going there," Keza replied pointing at the said boy. "In football, it's okay to tackle someone if you didn't know," the same boy replied shaking his head, "we should have never let a girl play with us." Shema stepped in between the two kids, placing a hand over their bare chests, separating them. "Don't fight, Keza and I will retrieve the ball and after we'll continue the game, okay." He said looking at the two kids alternately. "But-" Shema silenced Keza's retort, "No buts, we will get that ball," he said, taking her arm and dragging her towards the house. Keza pressed her lips together into a thin line, she didn't want to go get the ball, what the boy said infuriated her but that was not the only reason. The ball flew straight into Mr. Ngabo’s house. Mr. Ngabo was a tall, muscular man with scars covering most of his face and skin as dark as the night. Keza glanced at Shema and wondered how he managed to keep calm, his house was similar to every other house in their neighborhood except for one thing; various animal skulls adorned the front porch. Just looking at it made the hair on Keza's arm stand at attention, to her it felt as though the skulls were staring at her. She couldn't help but think about all the stories her mother told her at night if she didn't want to go to sleep. *If Mr. Ngabo releases his spirits and they find you awake, they'll take you away.* It was probably a way for the adults to keep the children in line but she always had a bad feeling whenever she saw Mr. Ngabo. This led her to believe that maybe, just maybe there was some truth to the stories. "You know we can also search for other plastic bags and make another ball," she said, rocking from side to side. Shema smirked at her, "You're scared." "N-no," "Don't tell me you also believe all the stories about Mr. Ngabo, they're stories invented by the adults to scare us," "I-I know, I'm not scared," staring at the house in front of her, "l-let's go." With each step they took, the thought that it was a bad idea reinforced itself in her mind, it wasn't worth risking their lives, Shema knocked on the door expecting someone to open the door, instead, the door opened itself slowly making a creaking sound. The two kids looked at each other not sure what to do. "Hello, Mr. Ngabo. My name is Shema and I'm here with my friend Keza, we're here to take the ball that crashed in the house. We're sorry for that." Silence greeted them and Shema advanced only to be stopped by Keza's hand. "Where are you going? We should go back, he's not here and I don't think he'll be happy to find us in his house." "Then better hurry and get the ball before he returns," Shema shrugged off Keza's hand and made his way through the house. Eyeing Mr. Ngabo's front porch decorations warily, Keza followed Shema inside, the living room held little furniture save for a wooden table and a chair, there was a little kitchen on their left but nothing else. Finding the ball proved difficult, the house was dimly lit making it hard for the kids to see anything. "See, there is nothing here. We should go back before Mr. Ngabo comes back," Keza said, tugging at Shema's arm. "Wait! It's somewhere in the kitchen, the window we broke is there," he replied going there. Keza waited for a while and released a sigh of relief when she saw Shema return with the ball in hand. She was about to open the door and leave when Shema stopped her. "Don't you want to look around?" "No," she replied shaking her head vehemently, "let's leave!" Either he didn't hear or he chose to ignore her as he made his way deeper into the house. Keza had the urge to cry after seeing that. "Look, there's a basement," Shema cried out, she went to join him. Shema held open the door, a staircase could be seen leading downstairs. Dragging her feet, Keza followed Shema downstairs, each step creaking. Keza's heart was beating against her rib cage threatening to explode. The basement was dark, dusty and full of card boxes scattered across the room. The only light came from a small light bulb they had turned on. "What's this for?" Keza asked for opening one card box, it contained kitchen utensils. They opened other boxes and the result was the same, each one filled with various metal objects ranging from kitchen utensils to car spare parts. A creaking sound made them halt in their movements, the door opened and there in the doorway stood Mr. Ngabo, Keza didn't have the time to think when Shema pulled her to a couple of boxes nearby and hid behind them, listening to Mr. Ngabo’s heavy footsteps as he descended the stairs. Following Mr. Ngabo's every movement dutifully, Keza held her breath; they shouldn't have come here in the first place, being in the same room with that man wasn't what she wanted and the oppressive heat made it worse. The sound of something hitting the floor took Keza out of her reverie, making her blood run cold. Turning her head in Shema's direction, she saw a startled expression on his face; he had accidentally kicked a can causing the sound as it made contact with the floor, the sound was deafening in the eerie silence that had reigned in the room since Mr. Ngabo had made his appearance. "Who's there?" Mr. Ngabo gruff voice inquired. Keza heard his footsteps approaching the card boxes where they hid and glanced at Shema, fear clear in her eyes. As Mr. Ngabo reached for the can laying lazily on the floor, Shema took hold of Keza's hand and darted out of their hiding spot. The fast movement startled Mr. Ngabo, stunning him for a short while. "You brats! Come back here," he yelled outgoing after them. Looking behind her and seeing the look of fury etched on his face, Keza confirmed that all the stories she heard were true, he looked terrifying and she was sure he would be the subject of her soon to be nightmares. Staring at the man for a second too long and not paying attention in front of her, Keza stumbled and Shema's grip loosened. Mr. Ngabo took hold of her leg, taking advantage of Keza's bad luck. "Gotcha," he said, pulling her towards him with a large maniacal grin on his face. Her scream alerted Shema who hadn't remarked that he had let go of Keza. Mr. Ngabo had his arm across Keza's stomach in a tight grip and Keza was struggling to escape. "Let me go," she yelled. "First, I'm gonna show you how I treat little bastards like you trying to snoop into my things." Hearing that, Keza broke down and started crying, her mind going over all the horrible things she'll be subject to. Without thinking, Shema lunged at Mr. Ngabo causing him to lose balance. "Fucking bra-" he didn't finish his sentence as he fell on his back, his head colliding with the floor, falling unconscious. Without further ado, Shema helped Keza to her feet and together they dashed out of the house. Ignoring the other boys who had waited for them, the ball was forgotten, they continued running only stopping when they reached Shema's house, taking deep breaths, exhausted from the intense physical activity. "Keza, your arm," Shema gasped after they had both regained their senses. Looking at her arm, she found a deep gash, Shema stepped closer staring with wide eyes. What surprised her wasn't the injury or the lack of pain and blood, not all that seemed insignificant to her as she gawked at the wound. It was a deep cut, she had probably injured herself during the fall in the arms of Mr. Ngabo, but she had expected to see muscles or bones, not wires.


Present Day “Tell me the story again.” Cassidy spun away from the console where she had been helping me arrange pictures. As we had worked, she had begged for the story that went along with each photo declaring each one her favorite. Her Mom being born, mine and Carol’s first date, the first photo of me holding Cassidy, vacations, and birthdays. “What story?” I hedged but I knew which one. The one that went with the picture in the middle. Or more accurately the story that resulted in the center photo. Cassidy asked over and over again for me to tell her, her absolute favorite story one more time- calling it one of the most romantic things she had ever heard. “Grandpa!” Cassidy planted her hands on her hips. I pulled the peanut butter out of the cabinet and the grape jelly from the fridge. “Help me with the sandwiches,” I said. Cassidy grabbed a knife and a spoon from the silverware drawer while I grabbed the bread and platter. Cassidy gave me an expectant look as she unscrewed the lid off of the peanut butter jar. “Well?” She asked. I smiled, holding out just a little longer. I smeared peanut butter onto a slice of bread. Cassidy’s eyes narrowed at me and I grinned at her. “It was a hot summer day in nineteen seventy-six…” Summer 1976 All I could think what that maybe I should have worn something nicer. Today was going to be a special occasion- remembered for years to come! And I had chosen to wear my favorite pair of blue jeans and a t-shirt. On the other hand, if I had worn something nicer, like the button down my mother had suggested, I would have made Carol suspicious. As it was, I was having a hard time acting cool and relaxed, as if nothing was out of the ordinary. Carol squeezed my hand and then gave me a smile which sent a zing through me. I loved her smile. “Sooo,” Carol drawled, dipping her head so she could see over the edge of her sunglasses. “Where are we having our picnic?” She eyed the large basket in my free hand that contained not only our lunch but a portable radio and unbeknownst to her a tiny box with a ring in it. Today was the day. I was going to ask Carol to be my wife. “Just over there,” I nodded towards a grassy hill in a shady part of the park. The exact spot where we had had our first date nearly three years ago. Carol smiled and nodded as if my answer was exactly what she had expected. What I hoped she wasn’t expecting was a proposal. I wanted it to be a surprise. I wanted her to know that I had put thought into this and returning to the spot of the first of many dates was to bring us full circle. “You okay?’ Carol asked, giving me a concerned look. I smiled at her. “More than okay.” I was on top of the world. “You?” “I’m good.” She swung our hands gently between us as we made our way to the shaded hill. I kept watching her out of the corner of my eye, trying to imagine her reaction to the proposal. I had run the scenario dozen of times and I had pictured everything from an enthusiastic yes to her bursting into tears and blubbering her answer. My older brother suggested she would say no. Only for a moment had my brain contemplated it before completely rejecting it. Over the last three years we had become best friends, each other’s confidants. Any time something happened, she was the one I wanted to tell first. I knew without a doubt that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with Carol. Under the shade of the tree we spread the picnic blanket that Carol had been carrying and then I began to pull out our meal. It was simple. Some might call it too simple for a pre-proposal meal but it was exactly what we had eaten on our first date. Carol accepted a plate with a diagonally cut peanut butter and grape jelly sandwich with chips on the side. From the thermos, I poured us both a glass of lemonade. She smiled, taking the glass. “You know something?” “I know many things,” I said as I extended the antenna on the portable radio. “Well do you know that is what we ate on our first date?” I smiled to myself as I fiddled with the dial. “Is it?” “Yep.” She popped the ‘p’. “Which of course makes it my favorite.” “Because it’s your favorite meal or because it’s what we had on our first date?” “Both.” She said around a bit of sandwich. I chuckled to myself. I settled in with my own plate as the radio belted out a Beatles song that had been popular the last couple of weeks. Carol and I sang with it in between bites. Music had brought us together in the first place. Friends had introduced us at a party and at first the conversation had been stilted and awkward but then someone had brought up music. The two of us had talked for the rest of the night and every night since. Three years later, and I couldn’t imagine a single day without her. “I hope you brought dessert.” Carol tapped her fingers together in anticipation as I slid our plates back into the basket. “You know I love dessert.” I pretended to think about it. “You know something?” “You forgot the dessert,” Carol guessed, a playful twinkle in her eyes. “I have something better than dessert.” I reached into the basket for the box. “What could be better than dessert?” Keeping the box hidden, I shifted so I was kneeling next to her. Her brow furrowed and I gave a silent prayer of gratitude that she had no idea what was about to happen. Both of our families had managed to keep this a secret from her. “Spending the rest of forever with me.” I pulled the box from behind my back. Her eyes went wide. I opened the box. Nestled inside was a simple gold band with a single diamond. Her eyes bounced between the ring and me. “Carol May Joyce, from the moment you entered my life, I knew that I would never be the same. Every day since we have met has been better than the previous simply because you have been there sharing it with me. I want to spend every day of the rest of forever being by your side, sharing the highs and lows of life. I love you.” Tears were welling up in her eyes. My own eyes were getting a little misty. “Will you marry me?” I asked. “Yes!” She threw her arms around me, nearly knocking me over. I wound an arm around her trying to steady us. “Of course I will.” She kissed my cheek. “I love you too and I want to spend the rest of forever with you.” She straightened up and I pulled the ring out of the box and slid it onto her finger. We grinned at each other. I thought I might explode with happiness. We hugged again and I didn’t want to let go. “Better than dessert?” I asked “A thousand times better than dessert.” Carol’s smile gave the sun competition in that moment as she admired her ring and then looked back at me as if I was the best thing to ever happen to her. “But you did bring dessert right?” I laughed, already pulling out a bag. “Chocolate chip cookies. Your Mom gave me her recipe.” “Oooh.” She grabbed the bag and pulled one out, biting into it. She hummed in pleasure. “You are definitely a keeper.” Present Day Cassidy sighed happily. “I’m glad Grandma kept you.” “Me too,” I laughed. The front door opened. “I’m back,” called my favorite voice in the world. Carol entered the kitchen, carrying bags of food and stopped dead. She looked around- at the table covered in a picnic blanket along with our best dishes. She smiled as she saw the stack of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on a serving platter and the pitcher of lemonade. She looked at the streamers hung over the console table telling our life in photos. “What’s all this?” She asked, her eyes shimmering. “Happy Proposal Anniversary Grandma!” Cassidy threw her arms out wide and spun around. “Do you like it?” Carol sat her bags down and gathered Cassidy into a hug. “I love it.” “Grandpa’s been telling me the story. It’s my favorite. And we made lunch.” She gestured to the table. “And I helped arrange all the photos.” Cassidy dragged her grandmother to the console. “Which is your favorite?” “All of them,” she said, kneeling so she was on the same level with Cassidy. “But I do have a soft spot for this one. She pointed to the one in the center. The one of us standing next to a tiered-cake, ready to slice into it. “It was one of the best days of my life.” She traced the frame of our wedding photo. “Mine too,” I said, kneeling next to my wife. How could it not be? It was the day I got to marry my best friend. “Even better than getting proposed to?” Cassidy asked. “Well there was cake.” Carol said. Cassidy nodded as if this was a valid response. “I certainly hoped you married me because you loved me and not because you just wanted wedding cake.” I grinned at her. “It was really good cake.” She replied and then kissed me softly. I smiled back. “And speaking of dessert…” Carol lifted an eyebrow. The oven timer went off. I returned the raised eyebrow. Perfect timing. Carol laughed and put an arm around Cassidy as I retrieved the cookies from the oven. When I turned back towards them, they were still staring at the wedding photo. “Will you tell me the story Grandma? It’s my favorite.” Cassidy requested as I laughed. “On a clear spring morning in nineteen seventy-seven…”


Walter returned to the cavern, back into the main room. Benvolio stretched out on the cavern floor, head down. “Everything ok Buddy?” Walter looked at Benvolio’s posture and face, there was something very familiar in the expression, though he hadn’t seen in on a dragon before. Benvolio bobbed his snout up and down. “I have a theory, but I must consult the author of the book.” Benvolio explained. “Would you be agreeable to a bit of a flight?” “Um, flight?” Walter asked. Walter realized that in this place, with this company, a flight didn’t mean some cramped airline seats and half a can of soda. “We need to travel a dozen leagues.” “That makes sense.” Walter replied. Benvolio nudged the book with his tail. Walter nodded and put the book in his backpack. They walked towards the entrance of the cave. Benvolio crouched down. Walter looked apprehensively at him, then braved the conversation. “So, you want me to ride you? Would it be uncomfortable to you?” Walter rubbed the back of his head. Benvolio snorted a laugh, smoke spilling out of his nostrils. “Oh, of course not. You will be no burden at all for me to carry on my back, though we will need to find a way to secure you to prevent you from falling off.” Benvolio explained. Walter rummaged through his sack, finding some rope. “That will do.” Benvolio replied. Walter was thankful that his love of hiking and the outdoors had left him nimbler than most men his age. He had some light arthritis, but nothing unbearable. He managed his way up onto Benvolio’s back, then the two of them worked together to fashion the rope around Benvolio and Walter so that Walter was secured up there. Walter, like any self-respecting suburban dad, had mastered the art of tying Christmas trees to the roof of his car, so he hoped the skills would translate. Plummeting to his death in a strange world seemed like an unpleasant way to die. “Are you ready?” Benvolio asked. Walter looked down, truly taking in how steep a drop it was from the side of the mountain where they were. He closed his eyes and thought about Sam begging him for piggyback rides. Walter felt a bit embarrassed, but then resolved that instead of him being a grown man getting a piggyback ride, he was a mighty dragon rider. “Onward!” he called out, as if trying to convince himself. Benvolio backed up a few paces, then began charging towards the edge. Walter let out a high-pitched scream as Benvolio leapt off the side of the mountain. For the span of a breath, they were falling. Walter clung to the rope, still wailing like a banshee. Then Benvolio’s wings unfurled, the force of the wind catching them, and they were aloft. Walter’s scream of terror transformed into a triumphant cry. The only Earthly thing Walter could even remotely compare it to was riding a roller coaster. Benvolio glided on the air, he swooped lower for a moment, just a few yards above the tops of the trees. The gust of the wind kicked up thousands of tiny pink flowers. Walter craned his neck to see the jet stream of flower petals trailing behind them. Walter closed his eyes, feeling the rush of air in his hair and on his cheeks. He smiled, basking in the moment. After a few hours, the sun dipped down towards the horizon. Benvolio began his descent, spotting a nearby clearing where they could land. Walter held on tightly, and Benvolio gracefully landed in a large meadow. Walter untied himself and stretched his legs. He took a drink from his canteen, and then pulled out a stick of jerky. “Want some?” Walter outstretched his hand, as he made the gesture it occurred to him that the tiny stick of jerky was probably not very enticing to such a massive creature. Benvolio carefully pinched the offering between his claws, thanking Walter before taking a bite. “Most tasty indeed. Though let us make haste. The village is about a quarter of a league up ahead.” “Will we meet the author there?” Walter asked. “In a way,” Benvolio paused. “Andromeda Chronos is deceased, so first we must visit someone with the ability to talk to the dead.” Benvolio explained.


Alfred wakes up with a slight smile on his face. It has been the first time in years that he has truly slept well. No back pain, no joints on fire. The mattress is softer than any other he has ever had. He opens the curtains and looks outside. The dark wood that almost every house is made of stands in stark contrast to the bright sunlight that is illuminating the island. A small group of people exit the church, empty buckets in their hand as they each go to their own home. They all wear the same black scarf they were wearing when the ship arrived yesterday. Amelia’s head appears through the door. “Ah, I was wondering if you were awake yet. Breakfast is ready. Jared and Finn are already downstairs.” Alfred drops his smile. “I’ll come.” The dinner table has a large assortment of all kinds of sweet and salty food. There are bowls of different fish pastes and a basket with three types of bread. “Alfred! Come join us. My Amelia has made us a lovely morning meal.” Jared throws up his arms when the old man enters the room. Finn looks up. “Good morning, sir.”  Alfred finishes his meal in 10 minutes. “Listen, brat. I’m going back to shore. You can either come with me now or stay here.” “Oh, I was hoping to return with you after a couple of days.” “Now or never.” Alfred stands up. “Now, I guess.” Jared stands up too. “Surely you aren’t leaving us so soon.” “I am.” Alfred leaves the room, Finn behind him. “Leaving already?” Amelia is standing in the hallway, a big smile on her face. He opens the front door. Cold rain hits him in the face. Wind blows the door wide open. He closes it again, adjusts his raincoat and goes back outside. “Sir, are you sure about this?” Finn raises his voice to shout over the wind. “Now or never!” Alfred bends over slightly to balance out his weight against the wind. The rain flows off his jacket and into his boots. He looks behind his back and sees Finn struggling to move forward. He sighs and takes the boy’s hand. The planks of the docks groan and creak. Gigantic waves wash over the quay. Augusta rocks up and down like a wild horse, scraping against the pole she’s attached to. “I don’t think we can sail in this weather. “ Finn leans on his toes to reach Alfred’s ear. “What?” “I said, I don’t think we can sail in this weather!” The old man grumbles and turns back. With the wind in their backs, they stumble over the streets back to the mansion, trying to not trip as the gusts push them along.  “I was worried you were seriously going to leave in this weather,” Jared says as Alfred and Finn dry their hair with a towel. “Guess we’re going to stay a little longer.” Finn hands the towel to Amelia. “I’ll prepare your rooms again.” She walks upstairs. Alfred stays indoors for the rest of the day. The weather remains the same throughout the day. Only late in the evening does it seem to calm down. He looks up from a book he found in the library of the mansion.


"You can't run forever." My sweet girl. No matter where you go, I will always find you. Hiding from me only makes things worse. My sweet Sadie, I'm coming for you. I've been running for so long I don't know what day of the month it is or even the year. Is it Monday or Friday? I just don't know. I don't even know where I am. It's been so long since I stayed in one place. I'm scared. I witness something horrible. Something that has haunted my memory for the last two years. Do you want to know the worst part? I knew them. Oh God! I knew them. I can't even talk about them. Tears are coming down my face. They were my friends, like my family since I had no family. They took me in, accepted me as one of their own. I loved them. In an instant they were gone and I was left all alone and on the run for my life. I can't even say their names. More tears are coming down. The tears won't stop. I can't make them stop. My life is shattered. Everyone is looking for me including him. The one responsible, the reason why I'm running. Two years ago, I witness the people I love the most get butchered by their own son. More tears are coming down my face as I say their name. The Henderson family was the most loving and caring family in Newport. They were a selfless people, always doing good, always caring about the community. They loved life. Amy Henderson was the most selfless person, an undeniable beauty who put a smile on everyone's face. Her parents Hank and Marie were the kinds of people who would give you the clothes off their backs. They were loved by everyone. No one hated them. Their son Caleb was different, so very different from his family. He is dark and uncaring. He is vicious and cruel even to his own family. I was always scared of Caleb. Hank, Marie and Amy tried to get Caleb help but it never worked. One night, two years ago Caleb snapped and butchered his parents and sister. I saw everything. I heard there screams. I felt their pain. I wish I done something to help them. I was too scared. After he murder Hank, Marie and Amy, Caleb sat in the dinning room chair drinking beer. I quietly got out of my hiding place and quietly packed my bags. I open the door and left. The mistake I made is going out the back door. Caleb saw me. I began to run. I ran as fast as my legs took me. For two years me and Caleb have been playing a game of hide and seek. I hide and he finds me. I change my appearance. He always finds me. I change my name. He finds me. Caleb leaves me presents taunting me. I leave under the cover of darkness with a new name, different look and to a new place somewhere far away  where no one knows me and Caleb always finds me. I never let my guard down. I never let anyone in yet Caleb always finds me. I left all my precious belongings at the Henderson home like my butterfly pendant. I have nothing left. I left no breadcrumbs. How does Caleb find me? The police can't even find me but Caleb does. Is he as smart as the police or just better? I can't think right now. I need to find another safe place. Caleb found me again. I thought I was in a place I could be safe. I was so very wrong. Caleb found me again. I don't know where I'm going but I hope Caleb won't find me this time. Only in my dreams. I miss Hank, Marie and Amy so much. I think about them all the time. I miss Amy's smile. I miss Marie's hugs and cooking. I miss Hank's dad jokes. He always thought he was funny. To me he will always be the funniest guy in the room. I hope they are together in heaven. I close my eyes and dream of the good old days. My sweet Sadie, you're running again. Don't you know, I will find then I will make you pay for running from me. My sweet Sadie don't cover yourself. Don't hide your true self from me. I love the way you look. I love your brown curls. I love your hazel eyes. I love the way you laugh. Your laugh melts my heart. Don't you know Sadie how much you mean to me. The first time I saw you, you were mine. My family were getting in our way. They told me to stay away from you. I had to get rid of them. I did all this for you. What do you do? You run from me, from my love. I had to get rid of my family so we can be together. Where ever you go my sweet Sadie, I will find you and you will pay. I open my eyes. The sunlight is hitting me. How long have I been asleep? I look at my watch. It's noon the next day. I get off the bus and walk to someplace new and different. What town is this? It's a beautiful town. Now I'm hungry. That was the best burger I ate in a long time. I pay and leave. I don't know what to do. I'm tired of running. Two years is a long time to be on the run. I'm tired of not looking at the real me. I'm tired of changing my name. I don't want to be afraid anymore. I look up at the sky praying for a sign. Hank, Marie, Amy, my angels in heaven, please give me a sign. I need you so much now. I close my eyes breathing in the beautiful warm weather. Then I open my eyes. Three beautiful butterflies fly in front of me. Thank you, my three angels. I know what I need to do. First, I need to change out of these clothes and be me. I walk to the nearest hotel and check-in. I go to my room. I open the door and walk-in. I put my bag on the bed and open it. I begin taking off my wig, fake eye lashes, contacts and change into my real clothes. I look at myself in the mirror. Wow, Sadie you look beautiful again just like you use too. Now time to get justice. I leave the hotel and walk to Fall River (that's the town I'm in) police station. I walk up the stairs, open the door and walk-in. I walk to the front desk. I tell the officer who I am and that I witness a murder. The officer leads me to another officer. He introduces me to a Detective Ryder. I sit down. I introduce myself and begin telling my story.


“No, because why would someone who isn’t tall enough to reach the 30th button even live on the 30th floor? Why not just live on the 10th floor or whatever?” Raymond asked “I think you’re missing the point dude, you got the answer right, why are you still heated?” responded Ian. “Because it doesn’t make any sense, why woul-” “I’m not going through this with you again, are we going to build this fire or what?” The conversation between the two young men echoed throughout the suburb around them as they stood around an empty fire pit on a particularly cold May night. Raymond was wearing khaki pants, white tennis shoes and a hoodie which bore his university’s logo, contrasting Ian’s outfit of basketball shorts, open-toed sandals and a t-shirt, all well worn. Directly next to the firepit was a wood pile, which consisted of logs, sticks and twigs, all of which came from the forest a few yards away from the fire pit. “It’s already pretty late, and it rained today, going to be pretty damn hard to get shit to light,” Raymond said. “It stopped raining at like, noon and we’re the only ones here, plenty of time to get it going before everyone else comes over.” Ian replied. Raymond consented, and the boys/men gathered sticks and leaves from the nearby wood pile. After a while, they had gathered a good amount, and placed them in the way they were taught in the middle of the fire pit, pushing in partially burnt pieces of wood from fires past to supplement their sticks, twigs and leaves. “Grab the cardboard,” Raymond said. Ian looked up from the pile, “Let’s try to get it going without it, like our ancestors of old.” “Fuck our ancestors, I’m cold,” his angered friend replied. Ian sighed, “Let’s just try it without the cardboard, and if we need it, we’ll use it, ok?” Raymond scoffed “Fine. I don’t know why I let you make all the decisions, it’s my house.” “But my cardboard,” replied Ian, smiling mockingly. Raymond promptly flipped him off, and they finished the preparations for the fire. Raymond moved towards the center of the teepee of sticks, lighter in hand. He angled the lighter so that it would light the tight bundle of flammable leaves in the center without knocking the makeshift creation over. “You got it?” asked Ian. “I got it. Wait one fucking second, will you?” responded the flame bearer. “Sorrrry” Ian said sarcastically, “Somebody’s in a mood tonight.” “It’s goddamn freezing out here, aren’t you cold?” Raymond asked as he attempted to cup the lighter’s flame from the wind. “Not particularly, no,” the summer-clad man replied. Raymond turned and looked at his friend, his eyes lingering on his feet, particularly on Ian’s toes, which glowed beet red in the lighter’s flame. “Why do you even want a fire, if you’re so warm?” inquired Raymond sarcastically. Ian smiled, “Why, all of mankind’s developments were spurred on by fire, my unlearned friend, without fire, no meat, without meat, no brain, no brain, no…..everything” he gestured to the world around him. “Still not sure what that has to do with me freezing my ass off trying to set some leaves on fire,” said Raymond. “Because man commanded fire, man commands the world, don’t you want to command the world, Ray?” Raymond rolled his eyes at his friend’s grandiosity, “you know, sometimes I feel like you just say stuff to sound smart.” “Not all that hard to do when compared to the company I keep” “Fuck off,” Raymond said, throwing the lighter at Ian, “and get the cardboard, this shit won’t light.” Ian furrowed his brow “Let me try, did you aim it at the pine needles?” Raymond ignored him, and began ripping up the empty box of a cake Ian’s family bought for his graduation days before. Simultaneously, Ian made his own attempt at getting the fire going, being able to successfully light some leaves on fire, but failed to spread the flame whatsoever. After several failed attempts, he stood back up, turned around, and was met with the sight of Raymond, who was looking at the cake box with a frown on his face. Ian sighed, “you’re right, we definitely need cardboard to get this lit.” Raymond, in a noticeably frustrated voice, said, “yeah, I’m not so sure we are going to be able to get this lit at all dude, let’s just use the fireplace on the deck, it will light in five seconds and there’s more room up there anyways.” “That thing can’t warm one person up, let alone all five of us. Just be patient, I’m sure I-, we can get it lit with the cardboard, that should burn up real nice,” said Ian. Raymond sighed, “Knock yourself out, I’m going to get some snacks ready for the rest of the guys” Raymond handed the cake box, now torn into several smaller pieces, to Ian, and retreated back into his house, briefly flooding the outside with artificial light, before plunging it back into darkness as he shut the door. Now alone in the night, Ian gazed around at his surroundings, his eyes drifting from the woods to Raymond’s father’s workbench, and finally to the empty firepit before him. He imagined what the fire would look like fully lit, with the ambers dancing in the air like fireflies, each log added to the flame jostling hundreds into the air, becoming indiscernible with the stars above, hanging suspended for a few moments before burning out, and falling back to earth. He imagined his friends sitting around the fire, their bodies warmed by it’s soft glow, its light illuminating their laughing faces as they drank whatever light beer or mixed drink they brought with them. Then, all of a sudden, Ian was thrust from his daydream, and the unlit fire once again laid before him, so he got to work. Before lighting the cardboard, Ian rebuilt the kindling, being careful to throw all sticks that were too wet back into the yard. After he constructed a mostly dry pyre of sticks, twigs and leaves, he held the lighter’s flame to the largest piece of torn box, and waited for the cardboard to burn bright. When it finally caught, he set the flaming refuse below his kindling, careful not to knock anything over. Finally, the flame began to spread, as the large piece of cardboard burnt bright, and Ian began to feel the familiar heat warming his face. “How’s it going?” asked Raymond as he approached the firepit carrying two cans of beer. “Pretty good, I think. The cardboard is burning nice, I just can’t get these sticks to light,” Ian replied, while feeding the last of his cardboard to the fire. Raymond tossed Ian one of the cans and opened his own. After taking a long sip, he smiled and said, “you know, if you can’t get it started with cardboard, I could try dumping some gas on it.” Ian grimaced, “dude, that would smell like shit and you’ll probably blow us both up, hell no.” Raymond chuckled, “it won’t smell that bad dude, plus, if it won’t get this fire started, literally nothing will.” Ian glanced at his creation, already diminishing in size, no more than a flicker of light hidden beneath a pile of sticks. He thought back to when his uncle taught him how to build a fire when he was a boy, and silently wished he paid more attention. “Alright man, whatever, just hurry up and grab it, I’ll try to keep this burning,” said Ian. Delighted, Raymond quickly walked around his house to enter his garage where, sitting beside his father’s Corvette, resided his item of interest. After picking up the gas canister, he poured the gas into a thick plastic cup he found nearby, remembering the time he once saw his cousin attempt a similar venture with a solo cup, only for the gasoline to eat clean through the cup in a matter of minutes. His cup filled, Raymond set the canister down, and walked back to the fire pit, careful not to spill any of his precious accelerant. Raymond walked up to the fire pit, watching as Ian steadily fed his small flame with leaves and dead pine needles, managing to just barely keep the small flame alight. “Move out of the way dude, I’m gonna toss it on,” said Raymond. Ian stood up and backed away from the fire, allowing his friend to quickly dump the gasoline on his meager flame. In an instant, the world turned orange, as the flame exploded in height and size, engulfing the entire fire pit for a moment, appearing as if the very ground was a lighter, and the fire was it’s flame. In the aftermath of the ignition, the air smelled of rotten eggs and the fire burned somewhat stronger than it had before. Ian quickly scrambled to provide the fire with more fuel, but was unable to get any of the pieces of bark, or larger sticks to catch, and the fire began to slowly fade. “Damn, I was sure that would do the trick. I guess it’s just too wet, sorry Ian. Help me out with the deck fireplace, will ya?” said Raymond Ian barely heard him, as he stared at his flame burn dimmer and dimmer, consuming what little flammable material remained, until it burnt out completely, and was reduced to nothing but a smoldering ember in the middle of a pit of ash. His mind empty, he turned his back on the fire pit and made his way up onto the deck. “If you could just light it for me when I turn the propane on, that would help a ton,” Raymond said, fiddling with a propane tank connected to the artificial fire pit centered in the middle of his deck. The fireplace was small, and consisted of a bowl of blue crystals, all fake, and a tube through which propane flows, allowing flames to spread along the surface of the crystals. It required no maintenance after lighting, able to burn for hours until the propane ran out, or it was manually switched off. The crystals were made out of burn resistant glass, which means they never needed to be replaced, as they would never burn or melt away. Ian robotically grabbed the lighter from the fireplace drawer and, when he heard the telltale hissing of the propane, moved the sparkwheel forward, and pulled the lighting trigger. There was an audible *snap* and the fire was lit, burning softly in the middle of the ocean of blue crystals. “There we go! Now *that’s* a fire,” said Raymond. The boys heard the sound of a car pulling into Raymond’s driveway, rumbling over the gravel and coming to rest in the grass front lawn. “Rick and the rest of them must be here, I’ll go say hi, put out some pillows for them,” said Raymond. Ian complied, grabbing four throw pillows from the nearby linen closet, arranging them on the couch surrounding the fireplace. After completing his task, he sat down on the couch, and gazed into the fireplace, the small, persistent flame dancing from crystal to crystal, basking his face in its glow. As he shifted his gaze from the fire down to his legs, which were completely unaffected by the fire’s meager heat, he realized for the first time that night that his feet were cold.


The sun hung high in the warm, optimistic xanthous sky, casting a relentless glare over the sprawling suburbs of Southern California. It was mid-July, and the National Weather Service issued a heat wave warning that sent ripples of concern throughout the community. The temperature was expected to soar well above 105 degrees Fahrenheit for today alone, making it the hottest day of the year, prompting residents to take special preparations against the sweltering heat. In a cozy neighborhood lined with many palm trees and blooming red and pink bogainvillia, Jack and Cheryl Morgan were preparing for what they hoped would be a refreshing escape from the heavy oppressive heat. Their spacious backyard pool glistened and sparkled under the sun, an inviting oasis amidst the parched dry yellow colored grassy landscape. Jack had always been an avid swimmer, while Cheryl enjoyed lounging lazily by the water with a good book. Together, they had transformed their backyard into a life saving sanctuary where they could totally unwind during those scorching sizzling summer days. As they set up their pool area, Jack quickly filled a cooler with ice-cold drinks- lemonade for Cheryl and ice tea for himself. "We need to stay very hydrated, " he reminded her as he tossed in some fresh fruit slices for added flavor. Digger, their playful 3 year old golden retriever, bounded around them excitedly, his tail wagged furiously as he anticipated splashes and fun. Digger was not just any dog, he was part of their close family - a loyal companion who thrived on attention and playtime. As Jack adjusted the lounge chairs and Cheryl spread out the large towels on the wooden deck, Digger took it upon himself to entertain them. He dove into the sparkling blue pool with unrestrained joy, sending waves crashing against the sides as he paddled around like a seasoned swimmer. "Look at him go!" Cheryl laughed as she watched Digger swim back to the edge of the pool, his golden fur glistened like spun gold in the sunlight. "He loves this weather more than we do!" Jack chuckled in agreement but couldn't shake off the sense of unease and fear about the heat wave warning. "We should keep a close eye on him," he said thoughtfully. "Dogs can get overheated easily too." Cheryl nodded, her brow slightly furrowed as she considered Digger's well being amidst their plans for relaxation. They decided to take turns keeping watch over him while enjoying their time by the pool. As noon approached, so did the intensity of the heat wave. The air felt extremely thick and heavy; even sitting by the pool became uncomfortable after prolonged exposure to direct sunlight. Jack suggested they take 20 minute breaks indoors now and then to cool off before returning to their aquatic paradise. "Let's set up some shade," Cheryl proposed after noticing how quickly they were both beginning to feel fatigued outside from the  long exposure in the heat. They draped a large blue striped umbrella over their lounge chairs and placed a few strategically positioned beach towels around Digger's favorite spot by the pool's edge so he wouldn't burn his paws or skin. With everything set up for comfort, they settled down on their chairs with iced cold drinks in hand while Digger flopped down onto his green fluffy towel beneath one of the umbrellas. Just as they began to totally relax into their afternoon routine - sipping drinks slowly while watching Digger snooze by the pool- the sky darkened very ominously. A sudden gusto of wind swept through the backyard, rustling the dried brown leaves and sending chills down their spines despite the oppressive heat. "What's happening,?" Jack asked Incredulously as he squinted at the dark clouds rolling in from afar. Cheryl checked her phone for any updates and weather alerts. "It looks like there might be thunderstorms sooner or later today," she replied nervously. "Thunderstorms in this heat" Jack shook his head skeptically but knew before than to underestimate California's unpredictable summer weather patterns. Suddenly, a loud thunder rumbled overhead- a deep growl that echoed across their neighborhood - and within moments, rain began to pour down in heavy sheets. Digger lept up from his nap at once, barking excitedly at what seemed like an unexpected invitation to play. "Digger! No" Cheryl called out just as he dashed toward the rain - soaked grass beyond their patio area. Running in crasy circles. Realizing that staying outside was no longer safe or comfortable due to both rain and potential nearby lightening strikes, Jack quickly ushered Digger back inside while Cheryl gathered towels and secured loose items around their yard that could be projectiles in strong winds. Once inside, they dried Digger with an old blanket before settling down together on their gray livingroom couch - Digger nestled comfortably between them on his blanket with his head resting in Jack's lap. "I guess our relaxing pool day turned into a stormy day," Jack said with a wry smile as he stroked Diggers soft fur soothingly. Cheryl laughed lightly but remained concerned about how quickly things had changed: "At least we're all safe inside," As thunder continued rumbling outside like nature's own percussion section playing an ominous symphony against windows fogged with humidity, they found solace in each other's company - and knowing that despite Mother Nature's whims that day, they still had each other - and Digger - to keep spirits high even when temperatures dropped unexpectedly due to the storms rolling through the California skies. The storm eventually passed after several hours however chaotic it may have been initially - it brought them closer together as they shared stories about past summers spent outdoors under sunny skies, or rainy ones spent huddled together indoors playing board games, or watching movies instead. Reflecting on how unpredictable life can be - much like Californias weather - they realized it didn't matter wether it was hot or cold outside; what trully mattered was making memories together regardless of circumstances - with laughter echoing through every moment shared alongside beloved companions like Digger who made every day brighter simply by being there beside them through thick and thin.


The five cent coin found himself in a dark void, the light of the living room shone in the distance of every direction. But the coin could not reach for it for he was just that. “Welcome,” whispered a gentle voice from above. The coin turned to the direction of the voice to see an unshapen mass, a shadow in the dark looming above. Rock solid and grey, the mass had surely been here since before the coin was minted. “Who are you and where have I fallen to?” Said the coin. He had never seen a place so hollow of life and light. “You have fallen behind the sofa, where all useless and unwanted things go. I was once gum, and you were once a coin.” The coin was aware that he was a coin, but the gum didn’t look like the pristine, powdered sticks of gum he had spoken to in the many pockets of jeans it had seen over the years. And she definitely lacked the fresh spearmint scent the coin had come to recognise. In fact, the wad of gum glued stuck to the underside of the couch smelt of nothing at all. The gum recognised the coin’s confusion and spoke; “I was once pristine like yourself, how I was created to be. Now, misshapen, and ugly, I have been extracted of any flavour I once held. I now spend my days here, with you.” The coin became a little duller after hearing this. To be created for a single use a single time is a most unfortunate fate to be handed. “With me?” Said the coin. “I may have fallen just as you, but my falling was not from a purposeful discarding but a small setback. An accident,” touted the coin, trying his best to conceal a wobble pushing its way into his words. The coin looked at the gum and then his own tainted, but otherwise acceptable sheen. Flecks of sand and animal hair jutted out from her bulbous skin like scabs, she was inedible. If anyone was to see her, or God forbid, accidentally feel her, they’d recoil away in utter disgust. He thought himself lucky. They sat in silence for a time, with no concept of day or night. The living room light was always on, always teasing in the distance. Any day now he would be found. Someone would find him under the couch in a desperate search for spare change and he would return to the coin purse again. He would change hands countless times, always with a handful of other, heavier coins than himself. Time went on and the coin’s grooves grew thick with muck and dust. Green oxidised flecks began to form around his rim that spread, plaguing his entire body with irreversible scars. There came a time when his numbered value was no longer decipherable. Occasionally something new would be lost behind the couch, the company was appreciated, though the Lindor wrappers weren’t much for conversation. The coin could hardly blame them, they of course were far less worldly than himself. And so the coin spent his time reminiscing on a life of travel and wonder that now felt so far away. He had been to many places, Before, he longed to be more, to hold the weight of a two dollar coin, the breadth of a fifty cent. Now he only wished to be spent at all. “Do you miss it?” “Sometimes.” She breathed a tender chuckle. “I am simply grateful not to be the dust bunny. He was created only of neglect.” The gum’s voice rasped, for she had not spoken much in a long while. “At least for a moment, fleeting as a poppy’s bloom, I was sweet.” “But you were so small?” “And you were not? I am not so sure of the price of gum nowadays, but it must surely be more than that of a five cent coin.” The coin had nearly forgotten just how unimportant he was. He was surprised at how seen this made him feel. A miniscule piece of a far greater whole, he realised that he had been *something.* And that *something* was small, and essentially obsolete. But a coin will always be a coin.