“I came as quickly as I could. I’m really sorry.” Cotton Clayborne looks up at Kirk Chapman, his eyes hollow with worry and fear. Clayborne hooks his thumbs in his bib overalls, shifting his oil-stained CAT cap. “You know I want to help, Kirk. I’m a patriot and a veteran like you, and I want to win the war against Zirconia. But she’s a threat to the safety of my family, and that goes beyond the call of duty.” “Where is she?” Clayborne grimaces as if he’s reliving a horrific memory. “In the barn.” “Again, I’m sorry. I know she didn’t mean for this to happen,” Kirk says, putting his hands on Clayborne’s shoulders. Looking up at Kirk’s angelic features, Clayborne feels a sense of reassurance. “You know, I used to feel like I was taking the government’s money, but not now. What my son saw will stay with him forever. He saw her change shape. The last coherent thing he said before he went mute was, ‘I was swallowed up by hell.’ No one should see that.” “Well pay for his therapy,” Kirk offers. “Don’t bring her here anymore.” Kirk enters Clayborne’s spacious barn. Freya is sitting on a haystack, looking forlorn. Wearing a brightly colored floral sundress, her dark hair cascading down her shoulders, and with her light blue eyes pointed toward the floor, Freya looks like a pouting twenty-something with a lot on her mind. “I screwed up.” Kirk sits down beside her, putting a comforting arm around her. “You don’t have eyes in the back of your head.” “Not according to Dr. Mortel. He thinks I’m part insect anyway. I was in a hurry. I could feel the change coming on. I had no idea the boy was in the loft… Last night I was reading him Grimms Fairy Tales. Today I became one of the monsters in their stories. How is he?” “In a state of shock,” Kirk replies. “We’ll take care of him, and we’ll find you another place you can rest between missions. You'll have to stay at the lab for now. I know it’s like a jail, but the director of security doesn’t think you should be wandering around…” “So, I’m going to be guarded, just as if I was in jail.” “You’ll get plenty of tuna, Friskies, whatever you want.” “Then you’ll send me out to spy on someone, or demand I do something worse. I’m just a tool to you.” “No, not to me.” “When is this arrangement of ours going to end?” Freya asks. “When will I be free?” “It’s difficult to say. There’s a war going on…” “It’s becoming harder to control my transformations. I need to be someplace where I can be alone when they happen. I’m the last of my kind, an abomination,” Freya says, leaning her head against Kirk’s shoulder. “Don’t think that way.” “Before I die, I want to know who killed my brother, Talgo.” Picking up a strand of hay, she adds, “But I suppose that would be like finding a needle in this haystack.” “When this next assignment is over, I’m going to use all of the department’s resources to find out.” “You’ve said that before,” Freya replies. “No more assignments until we find out, okay? And I promise you’ll have more freedom.” “…All right… What do you want me to do?” “Win the war.” “Thanks to your brother, we know the Zirconians are planning to build a revolutionary submarine that will turn the tide of the war in their favor,” Kirk says. “My brother gave his life for that information. I’m much more reluctant to do the same.” Dr. Mantel Mortel holds up a cat collar. Pasty, with thick glasses, acne, and greasy hair, the head researcher for Aldoria’s secret service division, prides himself on having traded good looks for an abundance of intelligence. “This will adjust in size whether you’re a cat or in human form. It has a miniature camera and recorder in it. We’ll be able to hear and see what’s going on.” “But your main mission is to get one of the three flash drives,” Kirk says. “Have you memorized the route?” “Yes, of course.” “Then it’s time for you to change.” Freya rises from her stool, trudging toward the bathroom. “Just once, I’d like to see how she does it,” Dr. Mortel says. “It’ll cost you your sanity,” Kirk replies. Dr. Mortel notices Kirk’s dejected expression. “Those pretty blue eyes have got you feeling bad for her, haven’t they? “She doesn’t deserve this kind of life.” “She’s not human, Kirk. She’s a cat on two legs.” “Well, we treat our pets better than we treat Freya. She’s alone in the world. The Zirconians promised her people safety, then slaughtered them for sport. We promised them sanctuary, then turned them into spies and lab rats. Have you come up with a formula that can stop her from morphing and keep her human?” “You might as well ask me to come up with a way to beat the house at a casino. She hasn’t been helpful. We know about as much about her kind as we did when they surfaced six years ago. She’s hiding something. Freya has the ability to change her shape, yet a simple thing like a panic attack can stop her from being able to morph. She won’t tell me if her civilization came from here or another planet, or why her x-rays are virtually identical to ours, instead of those of a cat. Freya won’t even tell us how old she is. We estimate she’s at least three hundred years old. Still want to have a hot date with her?” “Stop it, Mantel. I just want to make sure she’s looked after and treated with respect.” “You’re in way too deep, Kirk. I didn’t want to be the one to tell you this, but when she comes back from this mission, we’re going to study her more closely.” “What exactly does that mean?” “A quick death, then dissection.” “You can’t do that! She’s the last of her kind!” “Have you seen any woolly mammoths lately?” Dr. Mortel retorts. “We can duplicate her body. Thanks to our examination of her body functions, we’re on the verge of making it possible for humans to live as long as her kind. What we haven’t figured out is how she’s able to morph from human form into a feline.” “And you need to kill her in order to find out?” Dr. Mortel slides his fingers through his greasy hair. “It’s not my call, Kirk. We recently discovered two other species that can alter their appearances. She’s obsolete.” The bathroom door creaks open. A black cat pads into the room. Kirk picks up the cat, stroking her fur. Freya purrs contentedly. “You’re too close to this,” Dr. Mortel repeats. Freya sits near the backdoor of the Zirconian military headquarters. She meows loudly when the door opens. A kitchen worker out for a smoke notices her. “You’re a cute kitty,” he says, picking her up. He looks at her collar. “Freya. My name’s Marcel. Nice to meet you.” Freya purrs loudly. “Would you like some milk, kitty? I only have lactose free until the delivery truck gets here, but it tastes the same.” Marcel takes Freya into the kitchen, placing a bowl of milk in a corner for her. The dishwasher looks over at Freya. “Another stray, Marcel? You know how General LaCroix feels about cats, especially black ones. He thinks they’re witches. Remember what he did to the last one?” “…Tortured it… Then strangled it,” Marcel says sadly. “Someone should do that to General LaCroix.” “….Sssh. Shut up.” Freya’s ears perk up. “…General LaCroix…,” she says to herself. Freya laps at the bowl. A tiny field mouse peeks out from behind the nearby refrigerator at her. “Go away, Micky.” Frightened by Freya’s whispered threat, the mouse’s eyes bulge and it scurries away, Freya sneaks through the kitchen and out into the hallway. Passing disinterested guards, Freya climbs the steps to the second floor. Passing gold-framed portraits of heroes, generals, and admirals, she enters the war room. Half a dozen of Zirconia’s highest-ranking military leaders are gathered around a massive conference table, staring at a series of plans. Placing his monocle over his eye, Admiral Brice Berne says, “The X-15 cobalt-powered submarine is the perfect innovative weapon to bring Aldoria to its knees. “It had better,” President Francoise Picardy harrumphs. The heavyset, double-chinned leader of Zirconia glances at Freya, picking her up. “Please put it down, Mister President. Black cats are witches in disguise,” a tall General with a long scar on his left cheek protests. “That’s old-world nonsense, General LaCroix. You’re so superstitious.” Freya’s ears perk up and she hisses at General LaCroix. “Relax, puss,” President Picardy says, stroking Freya’s fur. “It’s strange, General. Cats can sense fear, anger, or happiness in humans. What do you think this cat is sensing in you?” “That I’m the baddest mother…” “GENERAL!” “Forgive me, Mister President.” “Save your anger for the fight against Aldoria. How quickly will the new submarines be ready, Admiral Berne?” “Three are under construction now. They’ll be finished in three months.” “And you say they carry missiles that can reach the Aldorian capital city?” Admiral Berne replies, “Yes, sir!” with boyish glee. President Picardy puts Freya down in a nearby chair. “We have three flash drives with the plans on them,” he says.  “General LaCroix, as my most trusted commander, I’m passing my flash drive onto you, and I trust you will destroy these plans after our meeting. I will say this candidly, gentlemen, we are losing the war. But a submarine that carries twice as many missiles as anything Aldoria has, is twice as fast, and can stay submerged for two years can bring us victory. We will sink their convoys without the fear of retaliation, then bottle their fleets up in their harbors and lay siege to their cities. I think a celebration is in order. I have champagne and caviar down the hall in the library.” Laughing and patting each other on the back, the president and his staff file out of the room. General LaCroix quickly returns. Leaning over the table, he glares at Freya threateningly. “I get rid of one black cat and three months later another one shows up. Soul stealer! I’ll choke you to death and gut you just like the last one. You can’t fool me, witch. I know you’re the devil’s mercenary. I’ll take great pleasure in sending your empty husk back to hell.” Freya hisses at General LaCroix, swiping at him. General LaCroix recoils. “Witch! You scratched me!” He tears the collar off Freya’s neck, tossing it on the floor. “I’m going to take all nine of your lives, witch!” Picking Freya up by the nape of her neck, General LaCroix moves toward the window. Freya meows loudly in protest, fighting his grip. General LaCroix is about to throw Freya out of the window when he hears someone clear his throat. Turning, he smiles weakly at President Picardy, dropping Freya. “Sometimes it’s hard to tell who the real animals are around here,” President Picardy says. Pushing the door open to the bathroom, Freya begins to change. She comes out of the bathroom with her hair up, wearing a tight blouse and a short skirt. Sashaying down the hallway, she passes an admiring young captain who arches his eyebrows approvingly. Entering General LaCroix’s office, she confidently marches toward his assistant’s desk. The woman lowers her glasses, eyeing Freya like a rival. The women exchange icy pleasantries. “I’m here to spell you for this afternoon,” Freya says. “Happy anniversary to you and your husband from General LaCroix!” “I knew he would remember!” Grabbing her coat and pocketbook, the woman speeds out of the office. Freya is studying sensitive information about troop movements on the computer when General LaCroix bounds into the office. His look of surprise quickly turns into a lecherous leer. Rubbing his scar, he removes his hat, tossing it on a chair as if he were hurling a Frisbee. “Well, who are you?” “Your assistant for the rest of the day. Jackie had an emergency and had to leave.” “I think we’ll work well together. Come into my office with me.” General LaCroix sits down in his plush chair. Looking up at Freya he smirks, patting his knee. “…Why, General…” “I can make you a commissioned officer tomorrow if you want.” Freya sits on his lap. Wrapping her hands around his neck, she draws him closer. “I think you can sense how I feel about you,” he says breathlessly. “…Such eyes…” “Almost like a cat’s eyes, eh?” General LaCroix gasps for air as Freya’s hands tighten around his throat. “You killed my brother.” “What? I haven’t killed anyone,” he gasps. “You strangled him, cut him open.” “I did that to a cat…A witch…,” he whispers as Freya crushes his windpipe. “Let me show you how I feel about you!” Freya’s beauty begins to melt away. Her fair skin turns into a gelatinous mass, her arms into claws, and her peerless smile into dozens of hungry fangs. Her silky hair morphs into poisonous hissing snakes that peck and bite at General LaCroix’s flesh. Freya takes the flash drive out of General LaCroix’s jacket pocket. She passes the boyish-looking captain in the hallway again. He pauses to take in her beauty, smiling to himself. Remembering he has a dispatch for General LaCroix, he enters his office. General LaCroix’s once-dark hair has faded to snow white. His chest, arms, and legs are torn open. What’s left of his ravaged face is frozen in a silent scream. Written in his blood on the wall are the words “For Talgo.” Freya quickens her pace, her heels click-clacking against the sizzling summer pavement. Ducking into an alley behind a garbage bin, Freya tries to will herself back into the form of a cat. “…Calm down… Calm down…,” she says to herself, but the more she speaks, the more nervous she gets. Wringing her hands, she heads back into the street. “There she is!” the captain yells. A detail of four other men charges after her. Shucking her heels, Freya races down the street, dodging bewildered onlookers. The men follow haphazardly, knocking down bystanders and barely avoiding groups of curious children. Scampering down an alley, Freya scales a fence, putting some distance between herself and her less agile pursuers. She tries to ignore the glass cutting the bottoms of her feet as she crosses an old football field. Crossing the street, she enters a bodega. The elderly man behind the counter tries to smile at her but can only manage a slack-jawed expression as he watches Freya tread blood across his linoleum floor. Heading out the back door, Freya pauses to catch her breath and get her bearings. A tabby cat rubs up against her leg. “Hello, fella. Can you help a fellow feline get home?” The cat purrs, looking up at her. He begins to walk away, then pauses to look back at Freya. “Really? You want me to follow you? What have I got to lose?” The cat leads her through a maze of alleys, stopping at what appears to be an abandoned apartment building. Freya follows the cat inside. She watches in fascination as the cat morphs into a sandy-haired young man. A group of men, women, and children appear out of the shadows, greeting her. “Where am I?’ “A sanctuary for changelings like us,” the man replies. “How did you know I was one of you?” “Your eyes. They tell a story. Your brother, Talgo, described you to us. He said you were fighting for the Aldorians against the Zirconians like he was. He told us that you were as disillusioned as he was to be involved in a war that had nothing to do with us. He found this sanctuary for us, a home for our civilization to grow while the humans destroy each other. It’s your home too, Freya.” “Who is this?” Kirk asks, looking at the sandy-haired man. “Hoffen. He’s a good friend.” “I thought we were good friends, Freya.” “I’ll always be your friend. But I’m also a changeling, and so is Hoffen. I have to go where I belong.” “This sounds like goodbye.” “It is,” Freya replies, handing Kirk the flash drive. “I know I promised to help you find Talgo’s killer and to give you more freedom…” “I found those things on my own.” “Just as well. Dr. Mortel wanted to dissect you.” “I know. I think he changed his mind. Go ask him.” Kirk is surprised to find the door to Dr. Mortel’s lab open. Broken glass and destroyed files line the floor. “Mantel? Are you here?” Seated in a chair is Dr. Mortel’s shredded, white-haired, moldering corpse. His mouth is frozen open in a silent scream.


Everything started with her. She invited me to one of the biggest nights of the year, for a nerd anyway. It was N7, a convention where all of the biggest game developers came together to announce their upcoming games. There were giveaways and demos and specials, and it was especially difficult to get passes. Somehow, it doesn’t matter now; she got the passes for us to go. I was to go to her house, pick her up, and drive us there and have a good time. When I got to her house, I immediately noticed the shape it was in. broken down, gloomy, and just plain creepy. I decided to not mention it. She came outside, and I was stunned. She only wore her normal, everyday clothes, so did I, but she still looked beautiful. We went there, and I immediately saw a theater room for one of my favorite developers. I rushed inside, dragging her along beside me. The lights dimmed, and I saw a familiar face. It was the main protagonist of my favorite game as a kid. The name doesn’t really matter now, but I was excited. They were going to make another game! Throughout the rest of the night, I marveled at the new gaming systems and games that were coming out, but my mind still went back to that one game. I then took her home, and that is when it all started. I insisted on bringing her to the door, and saw her in. What’s important is what I saw. I decided to step in, maybe meet her parents. One step and I was knee-deep in water. I was paralyzed. I felt weaker and weaker at the moment, as if my life force was being drained away. Then, I felt tendrils of seaweed brushing against my legs. You know the feeling of touching seaweed in the water? It was like that, but I couldn’t move. I fell into the water, sinking as the last bit of my life was draining away. Then, one powerful tendril of seaweed shot up and knocked me out of the water and onto the front porch. I sat up, and saw her. But it wasn’t her; it was her, covered in seaweed, with a strange green aura around her. She was almost floating in the air. I sat there for quite a while, and she hovered there for quite a while, and then, for the first time all night, I built up the courage to speak to her. “So,” I said, “You’re seaweed.” She nodded, and came over to sit by me. She explained it all to me, and I understood. She fell in here as a little girl, and drowned. The magical properties of the swamp gave her life again, but as seaweed. The other human-seaweed hybrids took care of her, nurtured her, and protected her from predators. She was their child, in a way. Eventually she learned to morph between human and seaweed forms, but she had to be careful. The magic of the swamp was strong, and would pull her back to her seaweed form if she was gone too long. It was never explained to her why the swamp was in the house, or how the magic came to be, so don’t come asking for that. “It’s alright,” I said, still not sure what was real anymore, but I decided to just go with it, “I understand.” She pushed herself away from me and sobbed, “No, you don’t understand! I could die any day! I could get eaten by some fish or just of old age! I won’t know what life will be like! I won’t know love!” And she was right. I didn’t understand a bit. But I decided to try to make it better. I pulled her in my arms and just held her there, stayed throughout the night. I did not say a word. Neither did she. When day came, she whispered “thank you” before letting herself drop into the swamp. I went home, told no one about it. The next morning, I saw everything differently. There were fairies in the trees and music in the air. It was either my mind was opened to how the world really was, or the swamp water gave me hallucinations. Either way, I kept seeing them, and I talked to them now and then. Every day afterward, I went to the house. I looked in, relieved to find the swamp still there. I sat down, dipped my feet in. I felt my life draining instantly, but kept them there until I felt too weak. I looked down into the swamp, among the seaweed, and found one. I was certain it was her. I could always tell. After I was too weak, there was always a gentle nudge, pushing me back on to the porch. After my many other adventures, when I was old and grey and saw everything the world had to offer, I went back to the house. It was gone. Demolished. In front of me stood a large plain house. I knocked, and a man and his wife came to the door. I explained that an old friend used to live there and asked if I could come in. They accepted. The house was obviously new, and as I walked down the hall I saw a room. I peeked in, the owners of the house looked cautious, but they decided what could an old man like me do? There, in a crib, was a little baby girl, I looked at her, and saw her face. Her face. I told them she was beautiful, and then walked out without a word.


It was on glum and gloomy, thunderous nights like this that I sat by the grand marble fireplace and reflected on my life to the rhythm of the rain. The chandeliers, the glare of the grand piano and ivory centrepieces of the penthouse dimly glistened in the room as I had requested, being the first lady of the Sapphire Hotel sure had its perks. I lit a few more chandeliers so I could look at the people on the sidewalk of the busy yet opulent left wing of the city. Some were businessmen, stockbrokers and private bankers in suits; others were valets tending to their rich (or posing) masters. Despite their varying positions, they all looked up at me with similar reactions, some envious, a little resentful and always a wistful longing. At times, I felt akin to the posers on the street because unbeknownst to anybody; my life was teetering on the edge of a knife…. The smell of firewood and hot cocoa wafted into my nostrils, these days sharp smells like garlic and aged cheese just would not do. I could not bring myself to stomach them, much to my relief; the penthouse was always filled with clean, natural smells. The wood burning in the fireplace, the mahogany from the ever polished hardwood floors and fresh flowers from our florist. I walked to the large, antique, gilt-framed mirror, sashaying this way and that way, I could be vain, like a peacock preening its feathers for all to see, not that I cared what any onlooker would think. With my dark thick hair, my green-brown eyes, naturally full, pouty lips, high cheekbones and Spanish heritage, my late mother had often joked that I was a mash up of Salma Hayek and the Kardashians. Even the slightly thicker curves of my Spanish flair seemed to make any male jaw drop. There was never really much to be said about modesty when women wanted to be you like a pampered pooch and men wanted to be with you at you every beck and call to appease their fancies, even if only to stare. Despite having a “husband” of my own, I can’t begin to tally the number of women who didn’t want me around theirs, merely as a precaution. I had married two years into my law degree, forsaking a life of deadlines and stress for one of wealthy and refinement. I had married a hotel tycoon, who tended to my every financial need and desire. No one seemed to care about my smarts (just my exotic beauty), as long as my skin was supple, polished and perfumed and my bosom curved in all the right places, no one gave a hoot what the Supreme Court ruling should be on anything from a cushioned trophy wife.  I barely saw my ‘husband’, except in the festive season where he hosted wholesome family-style office parties for his executives, or charity balls for whatever orphanage was in need. I had to make appearances with him, so that together we graced the covers of the Business Daily   and he remained a firm front runner in the hotel industry. Whenever we stood together, Charles and I, some would say we looked more like father and daughter rather than husband and wife. There was never any real affection in my marriage, everything was rather cold and transactional, he bought me anything I wanted and I gave him “one over on the boys” in his midlife crisis. My life was glamorous and flashy, but also loveless and lonely. That was until I met Henry… Henry added depth to my life; he listened to me, played chess with me and cured my aching loneliness by staying up with me to talk about everything and absolutely nothing as I doodled circles on his coffee coloured skin with my bare hands. I oftentimes felt guilty for keeping him up late with my whining when he had to wake up early and tend to his duties as my driver.

During the summer, he’d drive me to Tiffany’s, so we could pretend the 20-carat rings were from him and not the American Express card from my husband. We’d have picnics in secluded parks, go on long walks and sometimes skip town in places where nobody knew us for a few weeks at a time, so we could just be lovers and I would sit in passenger seat so he wouldn’t feel like” the help”.

He often stressed about how little he had to offer financially, I was not having it, he was the best thing I had going on in my life, and I actually preferred that he was the pauper yet my own Prince Charming, as though he stepped right out of a soppy novel. Henry represented what my life would have been had I not been too keen to chase the money and having spent time around the elite, I knew money made them shallow, superficial and even a little underhanded. For months now there had been talk of my husband’s shady business dealings and further whispers of the police being hot on his trail. Words like fraud and racketeering were up in the air and even with his overpriced legal team, I wasn’t waiting for the entire White Collar crimes unit to bust down my door before I made a plan. I was selling all of my jewelry, in cold, hard cash. I wasn’t leaving this god-forsaken marriage with nothing but I was also not taking the fall. Henry and I would buy a quaint, secluded farm somewhere and raise our child in peace. I just needed the puzzle pieces to fall into place… I had to think hard and fast, as much as I resented my pretentious husband, deceiving him would be no easy feat; he had not gotten rich by being foolish, so I had to plan carefully. My timing had to be right on the money. In between the business dinners, galas and soirees of the festive season, I needed an escape plan that would guarantee my husband never caught wind of my pregnancy or my affair with Henry or we would surely be goners.

In this town, it was not going to be easy, the money he had afforded him many privileges that were denied to ordinary civilians, business deals among his rivals and stock tips often came faster than he could grab them. Simply put, he owned this town and all those he didn’t own, he could do so with the flash of his cheque book. Mine and Henry’s plan was about to come to fruition, we had enough to live off for a very long time. As Charles was in town we had been talking only in the car when we needed to speak as a matter of urgency. Lately, we had been sloppy, meeting even in the sauna when he missed talking to his ‘little one’ through the veil of my stomach. I was tired of walking on eggshells in this place, big as it was, filled to the brim with all the best money could buy and yet, a cold, empty house, even with the fireplace in the corner. I would not miss this place, it had too many bad memories, I wanted this new life with Henry so bad, I could taste it. Tonight was the night, come hell or high water, my love and I were making a break for it. It would be do or die given the circumstances, but the promise of our emancipation was well worth the risk…


Captain Rogers has finally found what will lead him to the treasure he’s been trying to find since his whole crew of pirates came in contact with him. ‘Trying to find’ is an understatement, he has been obsessed with finding it. He had been contacted by a man claiming to own a map that would lead him to the Well of Wishes. And, after seeing the map, Captain Rogers was willing to believe that it was legit. The Captain had met the man at a tavern close to the shore and had paid him most of what he and his crew owned. He knew that would make them angry, but he also knew they wouldn’t have the courage to say it to his face. Captain Rogers gets back to his ship and can see the anger in his crew’s faces. They must have figured out by now that the Captain took almost all their valuable belongings. All the treasures they had looted recently, all the gold and riches they fought to have. However, just like he expected, no one voices their displeasure. “I have the map.” The Captain announces. “I can tell from your faces that you’re not happy about how much I have paid to get it, but I assure you all it will be worth it. The Well of Wishes can grant you whatever you ask of it. You can all get much more than what we had.” Even though he says that, the other pirates’ faces don’t change. None of them believe they will actually get to the Well of Wishes, and, if they do get there, they don’t believe it will work. “We will leave at first light tomorrow.” Captain Rogers, carrying his map, heads to his cabin for the night. He walks up to his dark wooden desk, topped with small wooden boxes, knives and a cast iron lantern with a candle inside. There are other lanterns hanging on the walls of the cabin, but it’s still dark because there is no moonlight coming from the window and the stars seem to be covered by dark clouds that don’t let them shine through. He lays the map on his desk and looks at it. They have a long way to go – days and nights of sailing – until the reach the spot marked with an ‘X’. But that doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter how far it is, it only matters that he finally has a way to get there. On the next morning, as soon as the first sunrays become visible, they set sail. Captain Rogers has the map in his hands and isn’t letting anyone else touch it. It’s the only thing that will make it possible for them to get there, but it’s also the only thing that proves it is real. It’s the only thing that gives him hope to have what he has wanted for so many years. They sail for days and nights, without stopping. The Captain divided his crew into two teams, one to sail during the day and another during the night. The closer they get to the location marked on the map, the worst weather they find. The waves on the sea get bigger and stronger as they sail, and the sky is almost black, announcing that a storm is about to hit them. After a while, as expected, a flash of light is seen on the sky above them, and they hear the rumble of thunder almost immediately. The storm is right on top of them. “Captain, we should get inside until the storm is over.” One of the pirates tells his captain. “It won’t be over.” Captain Rogers says, and it starts raining heavily. “It won’t be over until we get there. We need to keep going.” “Water and lighting are not a good mix. If one of those lightning bolts hit us…” “We just need to move forward. This isn’t a normal storm.” The Captain looks at the map on his hand and tightens his grip on it. “This storm is trying to make us back away so we don’t get to the Well of Wishes. Did you think it would be easy for us to get to a mythical treasure that can grant us wishes? Of course there will be tests. Now, let’s keep moving. I don’t want to hear any more whining.” The crew isn’t happy about the decision, but they do what their captain is telling them to do. More lightning flashes on the sky, and the sound of thunder keeps getting louder and scarier. Some lighting bolts fall on the sea around the ship, making the spread of electricity visible for a couple seconds. They keep moving forward, fighting against the wind that is also getting stronger and stronger. Some men have to hold on to the masts to be able to stand up. “We need to start getting this water out!” Someone yells, and a few men run to get buckets and start to throw the water overboard. One of them is hit with a strong gust of wind and isn’t able to hold on to anything. He’s pushed away from the ship and falls into the big black sea, which engulfs him mercilessly. The others stop and look at where their crewmate disappeared into the sea. No one moves, except for the Captain, who keeps barking orders. “We need to move! Keep going! Move!” His last order is loud enough to bring the pirates back to the moment, and they start moving again. The lightning flashes are getting more and more frequent and the rain is getting heavier. The only positive side of the lighting is that without it they would be sailing in complete darkness. This way, they still get flashes of light. More and more often now. One lighting bolt comes down into the ship and strikes one of the men. He starts convulsing violently, and another one runs to him. He touches the first one, and starts convulsing all the same. “Don’t touch them!” Captain Rogers orders. “Nobody touches them!” The pirates look at their captain, and then at their friends dying. They don’t move. The two men convulsing quickly stop moving and their lifeless bodies fall to the floor. There is nothing that can be done for them now, and the others still need to figure out a way to survive this storm and get wherever they need to go. The more time they spend looking for that damn Well of Wishes, the more they think it won’t be worth it. They keep filling buckets with water and throwing it overboard, trying to keep the ship steadily moving forward with the waves pushing it in all directions and, especially, doing everything in their power to survive. As the first rays of sunshine start coming through the thick clouds hovering over them, the storm also starts getting more tamed. Eventually, there’s no more lightning or thunder, and the rain is barely more than a drizzle. And, on the horizon, there is land in sight. “Captain…” “I see it.” Captain Rogers doesn’t let him finish, because he’s looking at the island they’re approaching. He looks at the map and this is the place where they’re supposed to get to. “This is it.” They keep moving forward and drop the anchor when they’re close enough to the shore. Then, they leave the ship, heading straight for the island. It seems deserted, as an island with a mythical treasure should be. The sand is white, and the sea is very clear. It looks nothing like the sea they sailed on during the night. “Are we supposed to get in there?” One of the pirates asks, pointing toward the trees in front of them. “We are.” Captain Rogers answers and starts walking in that direction. They reach the first trees and keep moving forward, entering a dense forest. “Something feels wrong.” Someone comments. “It’s too silent.” And he’s right. The only sounds are coming from them walking and moving branches and vines away from their path. There are no birds singing, or other animals walking around them. There doesn’t seem to be any sign of life on the island. One of them men in the front starts coughing violently. He turns around to look at the others and they see that his face is swollen and red. He keeps coughing until he loses strength in his legs and falls to the floor. Then, on the floor, he continues to cough, but this time blood comes out of his mouth. And others start coughing too. More than half a dozen of the men are coughing violently. “What is going on?” Captain Rogers asks and, for the first time, he seems to be panicking as much as the others. One of the men coughing tries to speak, but only choking sounds come out of his mouth. So, he raises his left hand. It’s covered in lines of red blisters. Then, with the same hand, he points to the vines swirling around the tree branches and falling almost to the floor. “It’s the vines, Captain. They’ve been touching them to move them out of the way.” The Captain looks at his own hands, because he has been moving the vines out of the way as well, and he is very thankful for his leather gloves. The first man who started to cough is not moving anymore, and there’s a small puddle of blood on the dirt under his mouth. And the others who touched the vines soon stop moving as well, on top of their own puddles of blood. “Captain, we should turn back.” “We can’t. Not now that we’re so close.” Captain Rogers says. “We have to keep going.” He tells his men, and then whispers to himself. “I have to keep going.” “What if there are other dangers that will kill us?” “We have to keep going.” The Captain turns around from his men and starts to walk, moving deeper and deeper into the center of the island. His men aren’t happy about it, but they follow him. They get to a clearing. There are trees all around them, but there are none growing there. The only thing present is an entrance to a cave. Looking from outside, there seems to be light coming from inside the cave. “Do we have to go down there? That doesn’t look good.” “It’s the only way.” Captain Rogers says and leads the way into the cave. They enter and follow the way down, stepping on the stone stairs. And they were right, there is light inside the cave. Along the dark rock walls, torches are hanging. But the flames coming out of these torches isn’t normal fire, it’s bright blue. The men look around at the torches surrounding them amazed. None of them has ever seen blue fire and, now, they’re sure there is something magical about this place. Maybe the Well of Wishes is real after all. As they go deeper and deeper into the cave, they start seeing water. And, very soon, they’re inside of it. Even after being inside of the water, it gets deeper, until it is at their chests. One of the men gasps and starts moving around. “Did you see that?” He asks the others, but no one seems to have seen anything. “Just keep moving.” “There!” He exclaims and points. The others follow the direction his finger is pointing at and they see movement under the water. Even with the blue light coming from the torches, it’s still too dark inside the cave to be able to tell what that movement was. But they’re on high alert now. “Something touched me!” Another man exclaims and starts to get away from whatever is under the water. But, he’s not fast enough, and something pulls him under water. “What the hell?” “What was that?” “We should just leave.” The man who went under water, manages to raise his head and yells for help. He is pulled under again and, even in the dim blue light of the cave, the others can see blood in the water where he was. “No, no, no. We need to get out of here.” “We need to keep going.” Captain Rogers says but, before he can take another step forward, something moves in the water in front of him. He tightens the grip on his sword and waits for whatever it was to get closer to him again. “Come on! I’m right here.” He taunts it. There is movement in the water again, approaching him, and he pushes down his sword in front of him. He hits something that feels like flesh, and he definitely knows what it feels like to drive a sword through flesh. A high-pitched shriek comes out of the creature in front of him, and some of the men cover their ears. Captain Rogers raises his sword, pulling it from the creature to be able to stab it again. But, before he manages to, the creature comes out of the water and jumps toward him. The man beside him hits it on its side before it can hurt the Captain, and the same shriek is heard again. Captain Rogers drives his sword through the creature’s head and it stops moving. He catches it before it can go under water and looks at it. “It’s a siren.” He says, still looking at it wide-eyed. While his men are getting closer to him to see the siren, more surround them and start pulling them under water. The others raise their swords and attack the sirens killing their friends. After they manage to kill them all, seven men have lost their lives. They’re all panting, leaning against one of the walls of the cave. Even the Captain himself is wondering if the Well of Wishes is worth losing the lives of all these men. If he was a selfless man he would say that it isn’t, but he knows he’s not a selfless man. Once they have caught their breath, the men keep moving forward. They walk upward and get to a place where there is no more water. It’s a roughly circular chamber, and there is a stone well in the center of it. “Is that it?” A man asks with disappointment in his voice. “We went through all of that for… this?” “This is what will grant you your wishes.” Captain Rogers tells him and moves forward. He is the first one to get to the well and looks down. He doesn’t see the end of it, only darkness. The Captain places both hands on the edge of the well and closes his eyes. He thinks about his wish and then whispers it to the inside of the well. Captain Rogers steps away from the well and his men run to it. They also start whispering their wishes inside. Chests filled with jewels and gold start appearing around them. Then, piles of gold, weapons and women materialize themselves there too. But, the Captain’s wish isn’t anywhere to be found. While his men are cheering and run toward their wishes, Captain Rogers walks around the chamber, looking for the one thing he has been wanting for years. “Where am I?” A woman’s voice comes from behind Captain Rogers. He turns around and sees a young woman standing there. Her hair is light brown and very long, just like her mother’s was, but her eyes are just like her father’s. They’re a very light blue, just like the Captain’s. He hasn’t seen her in almost twenty years, but he knows it’s her. “Bella?” He asks anyway. “Yes… Where am I?” “You don’t remember me, do you?” He tries to hide the sadness in his voice, but he’s not successful. “I…” She looks at him more closely. She was only four years old when she was taken from him. Captain Rogers’ ship was attacked by a rival pirate captain, and her mother was killed and Bella was taken by him. But, just like he knew her eyes, she knows his. “Father!” He smiles and walks closely to her. “I’ve been trying to find you for so long.” She runs to his arms and he wraps them around her. “You found me.” “I have. I found the only treasure worth finding.”


I couldn't sleep. Her angel hair, falling over her gentle face. She gave me a quizzical look, studying my emotions. I loved her. I loved her with all I had. All emotions drained from my body for her. "What are you thinking?" She asked. I stared into her face of elegance like a child seeing a toy he so desperately wanted. She didn't know. My love was like a tall oak, each leaf holding a piece of my heart, slowly swaying in the autumn wind. Each leaf falls as she stomps carelessly on my fallen affection, a crisp crunch from every crack in my heart she creates. I moved my head left to right and forced a smile onto my lips. She smiled back. Her eyes gave a light that lit the dim room. She wouldn't be mine, not now, not tomorrow, not ever. She placed her soft lips onto my forehead, her warmth coursing through my body, leaving me in Nirvana. I watched as she got off the bed. Slowly pulling a veil over her immaculate figure. How I wish she would never wear anything. "I Love You" I said She turned, "I love you too", grabbed the money off the table and left. Until next week. This is my first time posting anything.


I had been waiting for what seemed like an eternity. Looking around, the car was immaculate to the point of obsession. Each item in its appropriate place was just begging to be disturbed. My sister sat beside me, silent and restless, as I fought off an intensifying urge to do something irrational. Our cassette tape had ended long ago and the resulting silence tormented my already listless mind. The cloying smell of antiquated perfume hung stagnant in the air, and the skin on my right arm was baking in the sun and making my blue jeans begin to burn my leg. For the hundredth time, my eyes scanned the familiar house looming before me. The paint that now peeled and bubbled off the crudely built wooden frame had been pure white at one time, but was now a defiled mushroom beige. Two gaping curtainless windows gazed down at me with an air of secrecy and disgrace. The garage was an open mouth, inviting me to enter and learn its mysteries. I stared and imagined what it would be like inside, having only familiarized myself with its outer shell. And I waited. My sister and I visited our grandmother, Amma, about once a week. Our usually monotonous visits would sometimes be interrupted by a spontaneous trip to Uncle George’s house. Uncle George was Amma’s brother only by marriage. His wife had recently passed away, however, leaving Uncle George incapable of doing even the most insignificant of domestic undertakings. Amma quickly and readily stepped in to assist the incompetent man at his every request. My sister and I were taken along at instances like these and were given explicit instructions to remain in the car. “I’ll only be a second,” Amma would tell us in an uncharacteristically hurried manner. “Just wait here and I’ll be right back.” My sister’s foot kept tapping the back of the driver side seat in front of her. Up and down it went, as if this one extremity of hers was the only part of her body that remained alive. Tap, tap, tap, tap it went. My arm seared in the heat. That house was staring, taunting. Tap, tap. The sickly sweet fragrance made it difficult to concentrate. Tap, tap, tap. My overactive seven year old mind was an explosion of troubled anxiety. It had been too long. This was getting ridiculous. How can she expect this from us? Tap, Tap, tap, tap… I turned to my sister and immediately she saw the resolution on my face. She stared open mouthed as I gently opened the car door and stepped out onto the cracked gray driveway. “Don’t worry, I’ll be right back.” My stomach was a rock within me and at each step my feet felt like lead. I stopped and took one last look up at that grotesque staring face with the gaping mouth, then I entered the garage. I walked slowly, unsurely. Each common object I encountered seemed exotic to my nervous eyes. There was a doorway in the shadows up ahead, painted with the same sour yellowed paint. The entrance into the very bowels of the house. My hand was sweaty on the gold doorknob, but I quietly turned it and entered. Immediately the odor of dust, unwashed linen, and old age filled my nostrils. Fingers still on the doorknob, my first instinct was to recoil in fear and repulsion. I took a deep, putrid breath. I needed to know what was going on. At the end of the long hallway I saw a thin sliver of harsh florescent light cast onto the wall from the adjacent room. I could hear someone inside. As I walked along the wall, a growing sense of trepidation filled my small body. I shouldn’t be in here. I was going to get caught. I neared the opening from which the glaring light was coming, and hesitantly peered in. What I saw was a standard laundry room. Lint covered button-down shirts hung from hangers on a clothesline to dry, while neat stacks of folded slacks lined the top of the dingy grey dryer. A blue plastic hamper sat on the cement floor holding a jumble of clothes that I assumed were unclean. The air was moist and smelled of mold and powder detergent. Standing in the middle of the room, however, was the most alarming sight that I had ever witnessed. My Uncle George was stooped beneath the glaring light, putting on a pair of rumpled black dress socks. Those were the only item of clothing he was wearing. His ghost-white skin was a stark contrast to the bleak surroundings. With a naive terror, I looked up the long, gangly legs and over the flat, drooping buttocks. The backbone protruded under loose skin and my gaze involuntarily traveled upward as if on some skeletal highway. His extended neck was crowned with a mop of disheveled grey hair that sprung greasy from the pale veined scalp. He was arched over, translucent flesh sagging off the wiry frame like some prehistoric amphibious human being. Claw-like hands were ferociously pulling at the sock on his left foot as he struggled to maintain balance. He had not seen me. With my heart pounding so ferociously that I was sure I’d be caught, I bolted. Shaking with unadulterated horror, I retraced my steps as soundlessly as possible. Safely back in the car, I waited. My sister questioned, but I couldn’t tell her. When Amma finally returned, I hysterically relayed what I had seen. All at once a look came over her worn face that I couldn’t identify. Fear? Insecurity? Anger? She quickly told me that I had seen nothing and warned me never to tell my mother what I had just described to her. She told me that it was going to be alright. That it would be our little secret. And that we were going for ice cream. Sixteen years later, the story once again surfaced in my memory. As I relayed it to my astonished mother, the truth was deciphered. Unbeknownst to their family, Amma and my Uncle George were having an affair. What seemed like a considerate sister-in-law helping her less than capable brother was, in reality, a covert sexual escapade begging to be uncovered by the unassuming granddaughter. As the situation was discussed, the pieces fell into place like some sort of perverted relational puzzle. To this day, Amma doesn’t know that we’ve uncovered the disgraceful skeleton in her closet.


My dad said this to me as soon as I woke up. I'd once again fallen asleep to the TV screen flashing colours- waiting for my meds to dull them out. I suddenly felt worried; how long until I see the screen start to fade?  I sat up and ignored him. I grabbed my laptop, unwillingly ready to work. I wouldn’t brush until late afternoon- a norm in my passage of days. I’d sometimes look at my sister sitting opposite my bed with her table, laptop stand, and cup of coffee and get lost thinking about how we’d look to an outsider. One, barely in a normal position typing away at her laptop- and the other, as ready as she would be to go into the office.The day would pass by in a blink. Every second excruciating. 60,000 hours. 2,500 days. A little less than 7 years. The years seem to pass faster as you grow older- the end of those 60,000 hours seemed too close. Comfortably close.  It was night now, and everyone had gone to bed. I took my daily medication and lay down on the sofa and waited for the meds to kick in. The colours looked so lovely. So lovely… Soon they faded into darkness. It was just my eyes closing but it felt wonderful. I couldn’t feel a thing when asleep- perhaps the greatest feeling in the world. It expanded beyond my understanding of bliss and all things surrounding it. To not feel was to feel the most. It was finally time for the next 24 hours. I opened my eyes to a colourful television screen, mocking me in all its vibrancy. I turned it off before my dad saw. “60,000 hours only. Do you know how little that is?” It sounded like an eternity. It was an eternity- almost 7 years sounds tediously long. 7 years ago I was 14… I can barely remember it. The last 3 years seemed shorter than the 3 prior to it. Did I say this already? I think I did. What would I fall asleep to once the TV stopped flashing its colours at me? There would be nothing that would drift into darkness from radiance. I’d simply feel the same and sleep would come and I would wake up no longer looking forward to wasting those 60,000 hours. I was worried I wouldn’t have my beloved TV, my rainbow that would turn to grey clouds- in reverse but oddly comfortable. I wasn't actually worried about that though. But you probably caught onto that. My TV would never fade away in front of my eyes. Its bright colours would always be there to put me to sleep. I wasn’t worried my TV screen would fade away, dad. I was worried I wouldn't last another 60,000 hours to see it die with me.


I smell home. Everyplace I was held captive, the smell of the food reminded me of home. I dreamed of the day I would get to go home and see my Hope, see my home especially the food. The smell of American food, burgers, fries, hot dogs is making me itch to see my Hope. I close my eyes and I see my Hope smiling at me. My Hope has the most beautiful smile. During my captivity, I thought about my Hope. I fought hard to stay alive. I never gave up. The foods I ate during my captivity reminded me of the exotic foods me and my Hope always used to eat. Some was good. Others were terrible. But me and my Hope ate it regardless. My Hope always made the funniest faces when she tried something new. I laughed at her. My Hope, I hope you are still looking up a storm. You always loved cooking. Besides trying all the food New York has to offer, my Hope loves to try new recipes. I can't say where I am because it's a secret. What I can say is that my life was saved by some good people. I'm in a safe place getting medical treatment. I sent my Hope a letter telling her I'm alive but nothing more. My Hope is the most beautiful woman. She has a heart of gold. She cooks so much food that she always gives to the shelters. My Hope is also a very talented baker. Cookies, cakes, cupcakes and so much more. Chocolate chip peanut butter cookies, my Hope always bakes for me. Christmas is my Hope's busiest time of the year. I can just imagine my Hope in the kitchen cooking and dancing. I wish with all my heart that I am with her right now. Her long beautiful brown hair. Her hazel eyes and that smile that takes my breathe away. I can smell the food filling up my nose. It's almost dinner time. Steak and mash potatoes. My Hope cooked this exact meal for me the day I got back from my first deployment and the day I left for my last deployment. I love steak and the way my Hope cooks it always made my mouth water. The nurses bring the tray of foods to the patients who need the nourishment first. I'm in the middle of the pack when it comes to getting food. In the six months I've been here, I gained weight and been eating a lot better. I get my food. The steak and mash potatoes look and smell better then yesterday's food. I grab my knife and fork and cut the steak. The steak taste so good, mouth-watering good. I close my eyes savoring the steak. I'm transport back to a time full of memories. A life I miss and to the one woman who owns my heart. The day before I left for my fourth and final deployment. I never told my Hope it was going to be my last. It was going to be a surprise. Never the less, I see my beautiful Hope with her dazzling smile standing before me. My Hope is twirling in her red dress I love, the one that makes her eyes sparkle. Her smile is as infectious as ever. My Hope is telling me something. I can't understand what she is saying. I'm too busy watching my Hope. She smiles at me. I say okay to whatever my Hope wants. My Hope happily walks back to the kitchen. I remember this day. I smell the cookies baking. I see the wine is out. The music is on softly. The smell of the steak is hitting me. I get up from my chair and walk to the mirror. I look at myself. Today is the day I left for my final deployment. My last time with my Hope. "Baby, are you okay?" I nod. I turn to my Hope and give her a hug. She smells like cherry just the way I like it. "Food is ready my love." I grab my Hope's hand, together we walk to the table. We sit down. My Hope sits next to me. I love her so much. I tell her the food looks beautiful. My Hope is not looking at me. I take my hand, place it under my Hope's chin and lift it up. "Talk to me baby." With tears in her eyes my Hope tells me "I love you. Come home safe, please." How can I tell my Hope this deployment is going to be my toughest one to date. I simply tell my Hope "I will fight to come home." Me and my Hope eat in comfortable silence. I steal glances at my beautiful lady. I want to memorize every feature my Hope has. From her beautiful smile to her beautiful brown hair, to her amazing hazel eyes, to her stunning cheekbones and her luscious curves. I don't want to forget how my Hope looks. Did I mention the food taste amazing. I can eat my Hope's cooking every single day. "Did you like it?" I smile at my Hope. She giggles. "I can eat your food every day. It's that good." My Hope gives me her award-winning smile. My Hope gets up from the table and clears the dishes. I offer to help but she tells me no. I sit back and watch my Hope in her element. I love the way my Hope dances to the music. She's too beautiful not to look at. I get up from my seat, walk to my Hope, wrap my arms around her and together we dance to the music. "My Hope." I tell her. "You are my Hope because you give me the strength and hope to come home. Don't forget how much I love you." "I love you too, Jaxon." Me and my Hope kiss. It earth shattering. Me and My Hope smile after the kiss. "Want cookies?" I nod. My hope feeds me the best cookies I ever ate. I in turn feed my Hope the best cookies. Of course, who can have cookies without milk. Me and My Hope chug down a glass of milk, then we dance some more. We laugh some more. We kiss some more. We hug some more. By the time the sun goes down, the snow starts to fall. My last snowfall for a long time. I take it all in. My day and half my night with my Hope goes by in a flash. It's 9:30. It's time for me to say goodbye. My Hope begins to cry. I begin to cry. I grab my Hope. I hug her and kiss her. I tell her to be strong and I will come home. She simply nods. I grab my bags, open the door. I turn around and whisper "I love you." My Hope whisper's back "I love you too." I close the door. I walk to the staircase, walk down the steps and out of the building. I look back up and see my beautiful Hope looking at me. I wave to her. She waves back. Who would have thought this would be the last time I would see my Hope. "Mr. Jaxon. Are you finished?" I wave for a taxi. The taxi stops in front of me. I look at my Hope. She's still watching me. I look at her one last time. I get in the taxi. The taxi drives away. "Mr. Jaxon. Are you finished eating?" I hear someone calling me. I open my eyes and to my surprise, I'm in the same place I've been in for the last six months. What was in the food? I was back in my apartment I share with my Hope, four years ago. That was all too real for me. It was me and my Hope sharing our last meal together. Our last dance together. Our last hug together and our last kiss together. We ate steak and mash potatoes. The same meal as today. Every memory of that day is etched in my mind and heart. I promised my Hope I would fight to come home, that is a promise I kept for the last four years. My Hope I'm coming home for good. A promise is a promise I made. I honor my promises. I can't wait to see you my beautiful Hope. I can't wait to taste your cooking.


The attic—the place that was once blooming with genius—is now a pool of broken parts. It all started two months back, when she first spoke. “Hi, Lavender. My name is Selena Hendrick, but you can call me Mrs. Hendrick. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’ll be here to remind you that you can do anything.” “It’s even more of a pleasure to meet you.” It’s even more of a pleasure to meet you after all these years , I meant, but I would’ve confused the programmed woman. She was almost a doppelganger of her predecessor, with the exception of her upright posture. Mrs. Hendrick, I remembered, always had a slight slouch as if she was subtly peering over a cliff, like she would get shot if she got caught doing it. After hearing my interpretation of my late teacher’s slouch, Mrs. Tao, the front desk lady, said Mrs. Hendrick really did fall from a cliff. The White Cliffs, she said. “She coughed blood, snot, and looked like a scarecrow that summer. That’s what TB does to people. We all miss her.” I looked at the innocent, impressionable woman in front of me. The White Cliffs was the whole reason for her existence.

This new Mrs. Hendrick and I talked every day. Every five nights, she would sleep, sprawled out next to my laptop. I felt guilty for a while about introducing a new sibling to my trusty, old laptop so suddenly. But after a while, I began accustomed to seeing both outlets next to my dining table occupied and white wires overlapping. Change, after all, should be embraced , I thought. Back then, I said that whenever it benefitted me. One night, I was supervising New Mrs. Hendrick’s journey to the outlet. It was the same, perfunctory ritual. She would first bend her knees, thighs glued together, so that her blush-red pencil skirt would be at a perfect right angle from her waist. Then she would commit a feat of balance as she placed each individual knee on the polished wood, her thighs still glued together as before. Only after that would she rest her butt on her heels to begin the even more deliberate process of sprawling out her legs. But I always stayed with her until the white wire clicked into the back of her neck.

I had visited Jones Middle School about five years before that night. As I walked in, the tap-tap-tap-tap of Mrs. Tao’s typing struck an invisible roof a thousand of times per second. It had been striking like that since I attended it myself. “Lavender! How’ve you been?”

“Didn’t get the promotion. Boss said I was giving the food too slow. Went to Columbia only to end up broke like this. Stupid headmaster kicked me out because my hobbies were ‘too distracting.’ And then he said the future was computers.” “Oh, dear. They’re just bad at giving promotions. And that chap was a jerk himself. How ‘bout your colleagues? You got good colleagues, and you got a good life, Lavender. ” “They’re all right. They're nice as they can be to me.” My head drooped. I sighed. Mrs. Tao held my hands. Her eyes scanned the floor for any students within earshot of us. Jones had a lot of stragglers. “Listen, Lavender. We all miss Mrs. Hendrick. We’re all mad about what happened. No one chooses to get sick. Well, she didn’t.”

“Yeah, I know.”  “Well, feel free. Go right ahead. And please, try to say hello to the students. Please. Just because they didn’t know Selena when you were a student doesn’t mean they’re not worth talking to.” “I can’t promise anything. But, thanks. I really mean it.” “You’re very welcome, dear.”    I walked up the twenty-four stairs in my blush-red pencil skirt just like how New Mrs. Hendrick had been doing and Mrs. Hendrick had done. One boy in the halls in bright neon shorts yelled out “Teacher!” and a few others darted at the mention. I liked it, though. Mrs. Hendrick would’ve chuckled. Then came her classroom. The name on the white board disagreed, but it learned that there was no point in telling me that this room wasn’t Mrs. Hendrick’s. The bulky, black monitors from our computer class had disappeared long ago, and test tubes, pipettes, and beakers were in their place. It felt wrong, terribly wrong. This was not the place for test tubes or pipettes or beakers. And the class must have gone outside for the second time this year. Plain backpacks, elaborate backpacks, cheap backpacks, expensive backpacks line every one of the three—no, four— rows of the classroom. Terribly wrong. Our computer class had never stepped foot on the musty, outdoor steps leading out of the room. The classroom’s air was never empty. It had always been filled with and guided by Mrs. Hendrick’s lecture voice, and we never liked to change that. Now it was confused, chilling my every vein instead of warming it.

I sat at my old bench. It was right in front of Mrs. Hendrick’s desk. For a minute, I saw her standing next to it. She was smiling. She was shining. “Anyone can work with computers. You, my friends, can do anything,” she was saying in her blush-red pencil skirt. Computers, I once thought, were labyrinths. My parents had forced me to take a class on them. But it was Mrs. Hendrick’s constant use of the words “anyone” and “anything” that always melted my once indestructible worries. At home, it was always “anyone but you” and “anything but success,” especially when report cards came in. It was Mrs. Hendrick that had transformed the labyrinth that was my computer into a friend. A real friend. My computer, after all, always bore the same, expressionless screen. It couldn’t be proud of me. But it also couldn’t be upset with me. It couldn’t say I was smart. But it also couldn’t say I was “anything but success.” Mrs. Hendrick had introduced me to that friend. I tried to look into the empty air and say softly, “This is not my desk. This is not Mrs. Hendrick’s classroom.” But I just ended up staring. Staring, staring, and staring. Until my gaze turned to the clock. 2:45. It had been ten minutes already. Five more than what I normally stayed for. I was lucky that a teacher didn’t open up, the class didn’t rush in, the principal didn’t stop by. I got up with a start and looked back at the classroom eight times for the eight letters in Hendrick.

After I got home, I promised myself something. I promised that somehow, I would bring Mrs. Hendrick back. Her blush-red pencil skirt, her “anyone” and “anything.” With Mrs. Hendrick back, human or humanoid, I knew that I could get any promotion I wanted just by hearing her words. With Mrs. Hendrick back, I would be anything but failure. I could already hear her affirming words like chants ringing through my head as I envisioned the idea.

And there she was, five years later, right in front of my eyes. “Goodnight, Lavender. Remember your power.”  She would sleep without sound and without thought. But never without hope. Never without confidence in me. But her eyes were so vapid, her thoughts stolen from me. Her every word, nothing new to me. Every encouraging speech, I remembered feeding her like how a mother feeds antibodies to her child. It was as if I was talking to my reflection. It was as if she was mocking me. The only reason that Mrs. Hendrick’s words struck me so hard was because they didn’t come from a pathetic loser. A pathetic loser who couldn’t hide their report cards. A pathetic loser who couldn’t get a promotion at a fast food place. Mrs. Hendrick taught me the word “success”; New Mrs. Hendrick reminded me of the word “failure.”

I got sick of it. I couldn’t stand it. After a while, I even started to hear my own voice instead of hers. I detached her plug first and then her limbs, ever so carefully. Every wiry ligament seemed to remove itself, one by one.

And that’s why the attic—a place that was once blooming with genius—is now a pile of broken parts.


It was a pleasant night went I met her. There I was leaving another building the scent of blood heavy on my clothes. I wiped my knife off on my jacket, no need to hide stains when your already the most wanted criminal in the city. I turned the corner into an old alleyway a dunk old man was rummaging in a trash can. The sound of my footsteps startled him but it was my face that terrified him. I almost laughed at his haunted expression, the way he fell over into the garbage hopeing I wouldn’t see him. Part of me wanted to finish him off, but I was tired and already coated in blood. I turned the next corner ignoring the man. Reaching into my pocket I felt the list in my hand I pulled in out of my pocket used some of the wet blood and crossed out the top name. Then I said the next name aloud. “Kristopher Gray.” Immediately a red line appeared in my vision. It twisted around the corners and out of my sight. A new hunt was on, this was my power. By saying a mans name aloud I can track them any where I simply let the red line pull me closer. As time goes on the red line darkens and the pull becomes unbearable until I finally kill the mark. It was this skill that earned me my name blood hound, and my spot as Petersburg’s most feared supervillain. I was rounding a corner following the line when suddenly I felt a sharp sting in back. I stopped in my tracks, a smile grazed my lips; it had been a while sense anyone tried to take me out. I had been getting bored lately all my marks simply fell at my feet and begged for mercy no one had any spunk anymore. “Not a very wise move,” I said calmly the pressure of the blade increased, I could feel a small stream of blood going down my back. This excited me, finally someone brave. The pull of the red line tugged at me to countinue the hunt, but I ignored it. It had been to long sense I got to fight someone, It was time to have some fun. I quickly pivoted on my toe and in a fluid motion grabbed the gun from my holster and knocked the knife out of my assailants hand. In the next motion I fired my pistol directly in their chest, or at least where there chest should have been. But no one was there. I heard a scrapping noise and began to laugh. There was no attacker it was just a child, wrapped tightly in winter clothes, who was now chasing down their small knife that I had knocked against the wall. My laughter only grew as I watched them fumble to pick up the dagger their gloved hands struggling to get a grip. “Stop laughing at me” the child roared. “I am going to attack you and then when I win you will owe me a favor.” They finally got a grip on their knife and charged at me. I dodged easily stepping to the right and extending my foot. They failed to change directions in time and went sprawling. “Thanks for the laugh kid.” I said between chuckles. “It’s been a while sense anyone has managed to sneak up on me I’ll give you that.” Honestly the child’s ability to go unnoticed had impressed me maybe they were a super? If so in a few years they could become a threat, I wondered if I should kill them. I decided I would leave them alone see what the world made them. With one last glance I walked away, allowing the pull of the hunt to take over my senses. I thought that would be the end of it. A few days later I was walking the same alley way when I felt it again the pressure of a knife on my back. Using the same motion as before,minus the gun this time, I disarmed the tiny assailant. I was in a poor mood that day, my mark had jumped out a 15 story window befor I could kill them. I hated cowards. I waited for the child to get up and fetch their knife. It was so strange they couldn’t have been more than 70 pounds yet they held more courage in them then many of the men I had killed. But alas I couldn’t keep allowing this behavior to continue. The kid faced me again with the same knife in their hand. I could see the way they were eyeing me ready to pounce. With my right arm extended I lunged at them catching them off guard. I twisted them arm behind them and grabbed the knife out of their hand. “Stop this kid, it was funny the first time but now your starting to get on my nerves.” My voice grated with frustration as they pitifully fought against my hold. “ I’m going to beat you and then you will have to do me a favor.” The kid said, I could hear the desperation in their voice. “ What makes you think you can beat me and even if you did what makes you think I’d help you for it.” My curiosity was peaked what did a child need my skills for? I was the most wanted criminal in all of Petersburg. “ Cause you will owe me a life debt and that means you have to help. My friend jimmy says you have to!” The child still struggled in my grip. I tightened my hold until they Yelp in pain. “ What is would you use this life debt for? Taking out a bully? That’s beneath my work kid.” “I need you to kill someone.” The kids voice grew quite as they said it. “Iv tried but I can’t do it, I’m not big enough.” Their voice cracked in shame. What kid wanted to kill people I wondered? How demented must they be? “ Who might you want dead? Did someone steal your lunch money kid?” I asked as I turned them around to face me. It was then I noticed the kid was a girl, maybe 8 years old. Her face was covered in dirt and bruises but her clothes were surprisingly nice. “I’m not a kid, and I want you to kill my Dad!” The kid yelled indignantly. I never was the type of criminal with morals but something about the thought of this kid cowering in a corner made me enraged. Maybe I could pick up an extra mark tonight. “Why do you want him dead?” “Mom tries to hide me when he comes home, but he always finds me. I tried to kill him, I swear I did but I failed and now My mom can barely stand. Please just kill him.” The girl was finally starting to shake now. Her adrenaline was wearing out and fear was catching up. Yet she never broke eye contact with me. It was in that moment that I knew I was going to kill him. “ What’s your Dady’s name.” That was all I needed, just the name and in a matter of days the man would be dead. “Walter Mcgonald.” The girl whispered as though the name would bring him out of the shadows. “ Are you sure you want this? Once I say his name I can’t stop until he’s dead. Do you understand?” I looked at the child’s eyes, they needed to know that once I said his name he would be dead in a matter of days, that was the price of the hunt. After I spoke a name out loud the urge to follow the red line slowly consumed me. I tried to fight it once when I was younger. I ended up blacking out, when I came to I was covered in not just the marks blood but the blood of dozens of people. “I’m sure.” The child’s voice didn’t waiver. She was serious. “Walter Mcgonald” I said the name out loud. I watched the red line form and snake off out of view. The deed had been done Walter’s fate was sealed. “ So kid does your Dad have any powers so should know about?” Most folks had a small power, some could make any flower grow at will, others could summon small objects like keys to their hands. I once killed a man that could change the temperature of any room by 5 degrees. Most powers were small enough to be inconsequential but a few powers made killing someone a little trickier. The kid tensed up and looked away. For the first time I saw real fear in their eyes. She didn’t say a word. I began to get frustrated . “ Well I already agreed to kill them, so out with it.” I had a hunch that there power was not something as trivial as temperate changes. “ mind control, he has mind control.” The girl said. I couldn’t help but curse as my blood ran cold. What had I done I looked at the red line in front of me and for the first time in years wondered who’s blood would be shed when I reached the end of it. There was only one person in all the City with that power. The Whisper, Petersburg’s greatest superhero. I was now bound to kill him.


As Cycle 1 of Serial Saturday here on comes to a close, it's high time we get some spotlights posted. This spotlight has been a long time coming, but not for lack of enthusiasm or support for this next story. It’s been such a treat to watch people evolve their flash fiction serials with us and bring arcs to a close that for some have been with us for quite a while. For a good handful of writers on Serial Saturday, their stories are continuations of serials started on Theme Thursday weekly threads. One such story comes from /u/Lady_Oh (). Here at /r/ShortStories we thoroughly enjoyed LadyOh's dedication to telling a cozy fairytale style story in such a unique way. But don't take my word for it! Here's a small teaser from LadyOh:  >*The little girl Dot listens to lot of fairy tales from her Granny, but soon enough she finds out that not all of them are true. With her best friend Emma by her side, Dot heads into the forest and as it is with proper magical forests, the two friends get lost in it. On their desperate journey to find back home, they experience a night full of odd creatures, frightening magic, and a pinch of luck...*  For our first run of Serial Saturday at /r/shortstories it was important for us to get author impressions of how their experience went with us, and give readers a peek at the "behind the scenes" of creating a flash fiction serial. Here's LadyOh's take on that:  >I originally started this serial with the intention of writing only one story about giants, which was the theme for TT back then. To my surprise, I got not only a little fanfic for my story in the comments, but also a few people during the campfire session, who ~~demanded~~ asked if Dot would ever become more than just a listener to the tales, which was very motivating for me to send Dot on her own adventure. > >This serial often felt out of control, because I jumped into it without any kind of plan, relying solely on the theme of TT (and later SerSat), inventing the next part of the story on the spot. > >That's why I leaned a lot on the characters' simple but prominent traits, which connected the story parts and helped me in keeping the story grounded. At some point it felt more like the characters acted on their own, facing the challenges based on their personalities, than me writing them. I don't think that without the readers it would have ever become more than a simple story about giants, so I am really grateful to all who pushed me to write more, and left me comments and feedback. > >At first, I didn't have any other goal than finishing the story (which I did with pride and sadness when saying goodbye). However, I picked up a lot of knowledge along the way, found a balance between my own writing voice and the tone of fairytales, and learned to let go of unneeded words, even if they were beautiful. > >All in all, it was a great learning opportunity, that I would like to repeat in the future. Next time, I think I won't wing it as much and create at least a rough outline to follow, to have the story flow a bit better for the readers and make character development easier to write. With the tale of *Dot & Emma* at an end there is only one thing left to do: show off this newly finished story for obligatory bragging rights here on . Let the bragging begin! Lady\_Oh’s personal sub is and I highly recommend checking out her author notes and other stories written for . The *Dot & Emma* story in its entirety is compiled as a collection there, Without further ado, here's Lady's Table of Contents. Get ready for a comfy cozy tale that hits in all the right places! \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ You can check out more of /u/Lady_Oh's work by going to her subreddit, /r/Tattlewhale. Congrats on finishing your serial, Lady\_Oh, and we can’t wait to see what you do next. <3 from the team at r/ShortStories, r/WritingPrompts, and Serial Saturday. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ *For more information on the Serial Saturday program feel free to check out our* *.* We have members from all around the world and who have all kinds of schedules, so there’s usually someone awake to talk to. We also have scheduled readings, oration critiques, spur-of-the-moment story time, or even just random hangouts over voice chat.


One warm September afternoon, I gathered the courage to introduce myself. I scurried down the tall Oak, out of the woods, into your big backyard. I stood on my hind legs in the middle of the lawn and looked up at you. You stood alone on the deck, admiring the late summer scenery and said, “Hi, sweetheart! I’m Julie, the new tenant.” I thought you were pretty but wondered why your belly was so round. If you were forty, I’d wonder if you were having a boy or a girl. But at fifty, I wondered if you were having too much chocolate cheesecake. After dusk, I’d snoop through the trash to find out. A few days later, you began tossing peanuts throughout the perimeter of your backyard. I appreciated that they were unsalted and realized that you were thoughtful and kind. You didn’t refer to me as a pesky rodent, like the other neighbors did. I began to realize that you were special. And so, our courtship began. All was well until recently, when you carried a big, brown FAO Schwartz teddy bear into the house. Why cuddle a stinky bear that’s probably stuffed with dirty brown wet leaves and sports a tawdry gold bowtie, when you’ve got a handsome gymnast who flies through the Oaks, runs up to 20 miles per hour and performs incredible acrobatic stunts? Plus, my dapper gray and white suit is sporty and fashionable year-round. That's why my species has millions of followers on YouTube, which I see you watching all the time. I doubt you know that I peer through all the windows in your house, sometimes from far up in the Oaks and sometimes much closer. That’s how I know all about the tenants. The last tenant went missing, and you occupy her room. Have you noticed the wooden brown bat standing in the corner next to your bedroom door? Ever wonder what she used it for? I can tell you one thing. Although a sprightly seventy-two, she certainly wasn’t a baseball player. But I’m not saying she’s buried in your backyard or the attic (because I’ve been digging around both places). I’m just saying that I overheard the retired busy body with the binoculars across the street tell another neighbor that the last tenant in the house you occupy is missing. The missing tenant was a retired lady who allegedly didn’t get along well with the sixty-something guy living in your basement. I can understand why. The guy in your basement does more laundry than a murder suspect, and I can smell bleach way out into the woods. You never venture downstairs to do laundry or to chit chat with him. Who could blame you? What do you and Fred have in common? He works in a pharmacy, and you've taken aspirin. And the Peruvian guy who occupies the room next to yours on the main floor? He’s loud and rude, yelling into his cell phone all the time. I overhear too many of his conversations. Sure, he’s evading taxes in two countries. But he won’t harm you.  At least not physically. He may drive you crazy though. Don’t get me started on your next-door neighbors. They have more overnight guests than a brothel. What’s up with the massive trampoline that occupies their back yard? Are they planning to host a travelling circus? Why do all the neighbors park their cars on their front lawns, when they all have perfectly good driveways? This is not the wild west. You don't need to tether your car to your porch like a horse. Who knows what's up with these peeps. Perhaps they’re waiting for spaceships to land in their driveways and whisk them away to a suburban utopia. Your 2009 Corolla is your baby. You clean and shine it regularly and even gifted it with new plastic wheel covers. I confess that I am a bit jealous. The retired lady across the street drives a 2022 Corolla, but you don’t seem to notice her. She notices you though. In fact, she often watches you when you venture outside. At least she can’t see you through the closed blinds in your bedroom in front of the house, which faces her kitchen. And you can't see her. There’s not much to watch. It's not like she's Julia Child and Bobby Flay's love child, crafting a divine dish that's going to make you salivate and fly to the moon. She can barely make toast. And she's not missing anything either. It’s not like you’re spending late nights painting the next Mona Lisa or composing a symphony. I wish you’d stop watching so many horror movies. One night, you're going to scare yourself to death. Sure, there is a phrogger living in your attic. It’s December and it’s getting cold. My drey nest full of wet leaves is no longer habitable. Today I seized an opportunity to train you. While you were warming up your Corolla this morning, I scurried up the lonely, barren Oak on your front lawn and waved my thick gray tail at you. You spotted me right away, waved back, and did exactly what I’d hoped. You retrieved a big bag of unsalted peanuts from your trunk and deposited half of it under the Oak. Good girl. Because although I can find food buried beneath a foot of snow, I’d prefer not to freeze my ass off during the cold winter months if I don't have to. The nosy neighbor across the street was watching you with her binoculars. At least now she knows that you do not keep the last tenant in your trunk. Perhaps she keeps the last tenant in her trunk? The Christmas holidays are upon us. I can tell by the carnival of lights and obnoxious Santa Claus displays festooned throughout the neighborhood. Someone stuck a plastic Santa on their roof with a bunch of plastic reindeer. It’s a safety hazard for squirrels, and probably a scene from one of your favorite horror movies. The macabre display of superficial holiday cheer is blocking the chimney and access to the attic. Call 911. Our relationship is back on track. We’re living together. Although not a traditional pair, we understand and support each other better than most couples. I’m looking forward to celebrating our first Christmas together. I trust that you’ll bring me festive boxes filled with walnuts, pecans, macadamias and almonds. You like nuts, I like nuts and our neighbors are all, without a doubt, assorted nuts. Authors note: January 21 st is National Squirrel Appreciation Day in the United States.


^(Disclaimer: I did not personally come up with the general plot and storyline. This was created verbally between myself and a friend of mine, as we bounced ideas off each other. I decided to try and write it down.) It was her first day of Refinement, and although all the adults made it seem like a big deal, she wasn’t particularly worried or excited. Yes, it was a big deal, the time where she began the classes that would prepare her for her ideal place in society, but to her it was just another class. It was a little interesting that she’d been chosen so young, only six, four years younger than the standard Refinement age. But you didn’t question the Refiners, and although there were some strange looks when others saw her carry her bright blue schedule across the grounds, no one said anything. She had asked a few people if they knew what was usually taught in room 2285, but she only learned that it was just a standard science classroom that hadn’t been used for years. There wasn’t any specific career taught in room 2285. She couldn’t ask about her instructor, either. There wasn’t a name included in her Refinement request, which wasn’t really unusual in itself, but that was only because several careers were taught by multiple instructors, depending on the different subjects involved. She soon came to room 2285, at the end of a hall in a general education building, amidst many other nondescript, unremarkable classroom doors. Room 2285’s door was closed, so she knocked firmly as she had been taught. A calm, authoritative voice answered “Come in,” and she opened the door. She entered a plain room of off-white walls, office-style ceiling, white tile, and black chalkboard mounted on the opposite wall. There were about 20 desks on the floor, and all but one were pushed to either side of the room. The solitary remainder was positioned directly in front of a short black table that matched the height of the desk, behind which a 30-something man stood waiting. The girl walked purposefully up to the desk and sat down. She set a notepad and pen in front of her, then looked up to the man behind the table. “Hello, I’m--” “We will dispense with names in this room,” the man interrupted. “I do not know your name, and I do not need to. From now on in this classroom, we will stick with ‘Teacher’ and ‘Student’, understood?” His voice was soft and kind, but there was a hidden tone in it that screamed authority. The girl nodded. “Yes, Teacher,” she replied, intrigued. “And you will not be needing those,” Teacher replied, indicating the girl’s pen and paper. “In fact, don’t bring anything when you come to this class unless I instruct you otherwise.” She swept the notepad and pen into her bag, which was then deposited by her chair. “One more rule. You will not speak of, mention, or even hint at what goes on in this room to anyone. Your Refinement is between you and me alone.” The girl nodded her agreement. Teacher nodded back and produced a Bunsen burner, setting it on the table. He lit it and made adjustments until it produced a tall, bright orange flame. He then pulled out a piece of newspaper and held it over the flame, where it immediately caught fire. He casually set the still-burning paper on the table to the side, then fixed his gaze on Student. “What will happen if I put my hand in this flame?” “You’ll get burned,” she replied without any hesitation. Teacher raised his eyebrow in what looked like genuine surprise. “Will I? How do you know?” Student hesitated, but only barely. “That paper burned, and that’s what fire does. It burns things.” There was a moment of silence. “Do you want to test it yourself?” Student immediately shook her head. Teacher’s face was expressionless as he studied hers. It continued to remain expressionless as he set his hand over the flame, palm up. The flame touched his hand, lightly licking around the edges. The girl’s eyes widened in surprise, her hands flying up to cover her mouth as she looked back and forth between her teacher’s face and the flame, but she didn’t make any noise. One... two... three seconds passed, and without blinking, breaking eye contact, or giving any indication that he felt anything, Teacher calmly pulled his hand back and showed Student his palm. It was unmarked. “Class dismissed,” Teacher said, dropping his hands to his side. Student blinked and was about to question him, but his gaze was penetrating and final. She stood, grabbed her bag, and quickly walked to the door. She glanced over her shoulder at Teacher, who continued to watch her intently. She ducked out the door and closed it behind her. The next day at the scheduled time, the girl walked to room 2285 again. This time, though, there was a sign on the plain door. “No class today, come back tomorrow” it read. The girl read it twice before turning around and leaving the building. The next day revealed the same sign. When she saw the sign four days in a row, she started to worry. Did something happen to her teacher? Had she done something wrong? She had continued to return every day because the class had intrigued her; the sense of mystery surrounding her teacher and her Refinement was palpable. After a week of seeing the sign, the girl decided that she would knock and enter anyway the next time she came by. Maybe this was part of her class, some kind of test. But the next day, the sign was gone. She knocked tentatively and was relieved when she heard “Come in,” almost throwing the door open. The room looked exactly as it did when she had last left it, single desk in front of the large black table, with her teacher standing behind it. She took her seat at the desk. She didn’t have anything to set down. Teacher set the Bunsen burner back on the table, lit it, and made the adjustments. He started to burn another piece of newspaper, again setting it aside on the table. He locked eyes with Student. “What will happen if I put my hand in this flame?” Student was quiet for a moment, thinking. “I... I don’t know.” Teacher raised an eyebrow. “You don’t?” Student shook her head, but didn’t say anything. “Do you want to test it yourself?” Student shook her head again, but hesitantly. Teacher again held her gaze, his face blank. He set his left hand in the flickering flame, palm up for one... two... three... four... five seconds. Student watched with worry, completely uncertain. Teacher pulled his hand back and showed her his palm. Unmarred. “Class dismissed.” The next day, the girl found the sign on the door again. She returned every day for two weeks before the sign finally disappeared. “What will happen if I put my hand in this flame?” “Nothing.” Teacher raised both eyebrows. “Nothing? I won’t get burned?” Student shook her head with only an instant’s pause. “*You* won’t.” “*I* won’t?” Student said nothing. “Do you want to test it yourself?” A minute’s worth of silence passed between Teacher and Student. Slowly Teacher raised his left hand and placed it in the fire, palm up. Student met his eyes unflinchingly for a full ten seconds before Teacher again showed her his palm, perfectly healthy. “Class dismissed.” Student remained in her desk, looking at her Teacher for a few more moments, before she got up and left the room. The sign was on the door for a full month this time. “What will happen if I put my hand in this flame?” “Nothing.” “Do you want to test it yourself?” Student looked at Teacher for a long moment before standing and walking up to the table. She looked down at the Bunsen burner, its orange flame flickering soundlessly. She raised her hand and quickly thrust it into the flame, her palm facing the wall. The orange flame parted around her flesh, conforming to the shape of her hand perfectly, leaving a space of a half inch as it rose. She felt heat, but not enough to cause pain. Student stared at the flame, full of curious wonder, but showing no surprise. Teacher let the barest hint of a smile cross his lips. Student retrieved her hand from the flame after moving it around for thirty seconds, the flame never touching her skin. She examined her hand and found nothing out of the ordinary; no pain, no burns. “Doubt,” Teacher stated, reaching into the flame himself. The flame parted, meandering around his palm. He scooped at the base of the fire and lifted, and Student watched with fascination as he held the flame in the center of his palm. “Doubt is a powerful force. You are told that there are certain laws of the universe. You have even experienced some of them. But your mind is more powerful. Doubt everything. Nothing is absolute.” Teacher closed his hand into a fist and the flame was caught and extinguished. “Class dismissed.” The next day Student walked in and saw that all the desks in the room, save one, had been removed. The table remained, and Teacher was standing behind it. Student took her seat and Teacher procured a glass, setting it on the table. “Have you been practicing?” he asked. Before she could answer, he flung the glass off the table and into the wall. It shattered and Student let out a little yelp of surprise, her eyes wide. Teacher stared at the pile of glass on the floor, then looked back up at Student. “Why did you let that glass break?” he asked. “Wha...?” “That was an unbreakable glass. Why did you let it break?” Teacher shook his head and walked over to the shattered pile. “We’ll try again tomorrow,” he said as he bent and began to carefully pick up each individual shard. Student hurried out the door. “Have you been practicing?” asked Teacher as he set a glass on the table. Student didn’t answer, she just concentrated on the glass. Teacher smirked, then flung the glass against the wall. It rebounded with a chink and Student let out a gleeful gasp, but when it hit the ground, it shattered. Teacher shook his head. “Keep practicing. I’m running out of unbreakable glasses. We’ll try again tomorrow.” He bent and collected the shards as Student left the room. “Have you been practicing?” Student didn’t even sit down today. She just stood behind her desk chair, concentrating. Teacher hurled the glass. Teacher and Student watched as it hit off the wall and plummeted to the ground, where it bounced several times before settling into rest. Teacher looked up at Student. He pulled out a tin cup and put it on the table. “Trick question,” he announced, and immediately pitched it at the wall. The cup shattered as it impacted the wall, pieces of metal littering the ground. Teacher watched the tin rain to the floor and looked back up at Student, a small smile on his face. “Now we’re getting somewhere. I’ll see you tomorrow.


I’m walking to the local supermarket to grab dinner when I hear a scream from a distance to my right. “Eek! Roach!”, it goes. I turn to investigate. Apartment building, second floor, small window slightly ajar, light peeking through the curtains. Dead silence from that point on. I’m curious. Too curious. I try to suppress it, knowing the dark roads that very curiosity has taken me down. But in the end, it wins out. I walk toward the stairs and climb up. Perhaps, if I can save her from that cockroach she’s so afraid of, she’ll reward me for my efforts—if you know what I mean. I know what I mean. I try to push away the unsavory thoughts. Well, unsavory to the rational part of myself, that is. My primal mind finds the notion thrilling. And I suppose he’s the one calling the shots right now. I go up to a door—which could very well be the wrong one—and without knocking, attempt to turn the handle.  It’s not locked. The door squeaks open. I peek in. This isn’t the first time I’ve done this, but it sends chills down my spine all the same. You never know what’s going to happen with these things. Will they call the police on me? Grab a utensil to defend themselves? Cower in the corner, paralyzed? Perhaps it’s the novelty of each situation that keeps me coming back for more. Each and every person’s reaction is like a fingerprint, unique to only them. People reveal who they truly are in extremis.  The entrance hall is dark. Still, no sounds coming from deeper in. Is anyone even home? Perhaps the voice really had come from a different room, and someone here just thought they’d do a quick grocery run without locking up. I’d certainly do that if I lived this close to the supermarket.  I look for shoes by the entrance; people don’t wear shoes at home in this country. Honestly, I like it: a lot more sanitary—viruses being able to stick to your soles and all that. A single pair of size 22 women’s sneakers. White with pink accents, cheap brand. Someone's home.  I close the door as quietly as I can. My eyes adjust quickly to the dim light. No keyboard-typing or mouse-clicking sounds, so she’s not at the computer. It's a little too quiet, something seems off. I’m starting to get chills. I’m imagining a giant insect eating her in the living room, or her body lying limp and lifeless, perhaps from some sort of heart attack (though that could still prove entertaining for me). I feel alive.  The apartment is small and narrow; there's a tiny kitchen nook and a bathroom door on opposing sides of the short corridor. The hallway terminates with a closed sliding door; slivers of light shoot out from the gaps between door and wall. On the other side is likely the only other room in the home.  I creep past the mini-kitchen, grabbing a knife just in case I need to be more persuasive. Or perhaps I really do need to fend off a giant man-eating insect, heh. I reach for the door and slide it open.  I see a man in a far corner of the empty room. He has a gun pointed directly at me. I hear a voice coming from the other corner—a woman, also pointing an old-school revolver in my direction.  “Tokyo PD. Drop the weapon and put your hands in the air, you sick fuck.