I had spent an entire afternoon weeping over Kavan Rathore’s death, for the eleventh time in a week. It was disorienting to see him outside the grocery store, that very evening, smiling his heart-wrenching, lopsided smile. It had all started with the flu. The one I caught by getting wet in the rain and jumping into puddles like a lunatic. Why did I do all of the above mentioned things? There is no dignified answer to that, I am afraid, so I’ll come out clean. It was a desperate performance of the manic-pixie dream girl, for a boyfriend who was to click a bunch of incredible photos and share them with #mygirlsosweet (he did not, eventually). Three days later, I was sneezing out most of my body fluids and crying out the rest of them, covered in snot and slime. When I rang up my knight in shining armour, to complain, it was mostly crickets chirping on the other side. “Babe, I feel like my head is splitting into two. Also, my throat feels like someone scrubbed it with sandpaper. Catching a cold is the worst thing, and that too right near the end of the second quarter. I am already trembling from the pending workload of missed deadlines and harrowing data presentations.” “Hmm, that sounds bad.” Obviously, it was meant to. Why else would I be complaining about a headache, to a relative stranger at two in the night? “What do you suggest? The medicines I’ve got are not proving to be that effective. Do you know about any other doctor I can go to?” “Yeah, sure.” The phone pinged, I received a forwarded number and he hung up.That was when I decided to call someone useful, someone who felt like a real human being at the other end of the phone, not some brainless, gutless answering machine at a hospital help desk. It was my elder sister, Anisha. She listened to me patiently, agreed that everything should feel like crap when you have the flu and fixed up an appointment at a reasonably priced hospital, quite close to my flat. And just because we share the same DNA, she also joined me in trashing my boyfriend, and suggested a really good web series that would lift my mood till the time I felt better. If it hadn't been for her, I wouldn't even have started watching what I now realize is the worst romantic comedy/horror/supernatural thriller ever. Since I recovered, I have tried to go back to the show, trying to find something that might have made it watchable, but every time it just makes my head swim. I was able to make it through 5 reruns only because I slept through half of them and had my eyes tearing up,clouding my visibility for the rest half.

The female lead was a barbie doll, the male lead was a misogynistic, baby faced idiot and the plot was so convoluted and gnarled that if you tried to understand one end of it, you would probably find yourself in some other universe by the other end. Then I remembered what had made my cold-blocked sinuses open-up and glue themselves to the screen.

It was the antihero, Kavan Rathore. Best friend to hero, plenty of hidden motives, wrapped in intriguing shades of grey and romantically aloof (by the second rerun, I definitely wanted to be his romantic interest). If the male lead was being pampered by his servants and had women fawning over him, Kavan was putting his life on line for a mysterious, dangerous mission. He was silent, broody and his deep dark eyes swirled with danger and charisma. I almost hadn’t noticed him at first, amidst all the grand gestures of love and supernatural snakes turning into humans. Just as the show became so droll that even my virus infected brain couldn't take it in, the makers zoomed in on his role. Suddenly, Kavan was the one making decisions, carrying out underhand deals, mixing with the bad guys. But my heart knew from the very beginning that this was only a charade, he was probably just misunderstood. Because look at that face! The perfect angled jaw that is chiselled but still is soft near the chin, the curved-bow like mouth and those droopy, black eyes. I knew this character had to have a redemption arc, he was just too good to be bad. This was day no. 3 of the flu. With only a few episodes left, the show was almost inching close to my all time favourite list.Life was good, Kavan had been shown to be a secret protector of the male lead and he would probably walk into the sunset, alone, but looking for love.

And then they killed him. Maybe such a delightful heartthrob was fated to die anyway, but I hadn't expected the plot to

sacrifice him just for the sake of the male lead delivering an elaborate, useless monologue. My fever and choked throat were nowhere close to the pain of watching him bleed out, gasping and sobbing and pledging his life and friendship to the hero. If someone had been in the same room that day, watching me watch the episode, they would have seen a 24 year old adult woman, sitting among a pile of used handkerchiefs and crumpled tissues, shake and tremble as if her life was coming to an end. Luckily, no one did. But I woke up the next morning with a burning fever and only half aware of where I was. I vaguely remember calling out to my mother, iny empty flat, near noon and then falling asleep on an empty stomach. The doctor looked visibly grim when I turned up for a second check-up. The next phase of the flu began as I walked home after the checkup, clutching a paper bag brimming with shiny silver foils of all sorts of colourful pills and taste-bud-burning cough syrups. Anisha had spoken to my neighbour, a middle-aged banker named Mrs. Sinha and she kindly consented to share her meals with me. The rest of the week is a blur--I remember waking up in the morning to greet Mrs. Sinha, waiting desperately for the dabba of food and trying to snivel back into my flat as soon as possible. The rest of the day I would drift in and out of very garbled childhood dreams.

Sometimes I would see my grandmother scolding Anisha and me and in the middle of that I would see the supervisor in my office join in, and add to the steadily growing list of my faults. To ease my mind of this pain I traded in a different kind of torture. I went back to a rerun of the aforementioned web series. This time I skipped most of the introduction, breezed through the meet-cute between the lead pair and finally reached the part of Kavan Rathore’s entry when he saved the female lead and let her think the hero did it, by melting into the shadows. Having a weakness for underdogs in general, I went to sleep holding a bowl of rice and curry, dreaming of the million ways I would have definitely noticed him in the same situation. When the bell rang the next morning, it shattered my nerves and I tipped out of the couch, bowl, rice and curry. This was day 5 and I had stopped bothering about appearances. If Mrs. Sinha was going to see me groggy-eyed, speaking like a zombie in an oil-stained T-shirt, there was nothing much I could do. When I opened the door, craning out my face and trying to hide the rest of the mess I was, she did not appear to be very disturbed. “Good morning, Beta . How are you?” My cheeks burned when I put in the effort to smile. “Much better, Aunty. I would have invited you in but the house is a bit of a mess.” She reached into her bag and I already started extending my arm for my packed lunch. Instead of her usual steel tiffin boxes, she pulled out a crumpled roll of aluminium foil and placed it in my hands. It was disastrously light. My lost appetite made a comeback and rumbled sadly in my stomach. “My maid is on a holiday today, so I packed your lunch in a hurry and didn’t bring the box. You already look much better than yesterday. I think by tomorrow, you will be back on your feet. Take care, bye.” “Bye, Aunty.” My voice floated off weakly, and I didn’t even wait to reach the dinner-table. Closing the door behind me, I unpacked the foil, gulped down the dry aloo paratha she had made, then lumbered off to sleep again. Mrs Sinha's words turned out to be mysteriously prophetic as I woke up in the evening, feeling more aware of the world and slightly less numbed. I decided to walk to the nearest grocery store and stock up the fridge, in a burst of optimism.

Near the bread and dairy aisle, my world stopped spinning as I spotted Kavan outside, surveying the store. Beautiful, brave, Kavan Rathore, who sacrificed himself, blood spilling out from his mouth and dove-eyes tearing up before going still. We locked eyes and he smiled--the sad, cynical, drop-dead gorgeous smile I had memorized by now. But something moved behind him and my eyes shifted focus.

A huge cargo trolley, squeaked and groaned on its rusty wheels as it made its way towards the grocery store. The boxes on the top swayed dangerously and I bounded out of the store. I already knew that those boxes contained something heavy that would fall on my heartthrob just like they had fallen on the female lead in the show. I would not let him die, I would be the savior's savior. Unfortunately, my depleted stores of energy could not keep up with the run that I had broken into. My legs trembled and collapsed before I could reach the grey checked shirt that I loved so much on Kavan’s broad, athletic figure. The next thing I remember is waking up to Anisha’s powerful eyebrows knitted together in intense focus as she studied my face.

“You are in big trouble.” “Did I save Kavan? Is he alright?” “Who?” Anisha’s eyebrows shot into her hairline and her nose curved up viciously. “Kavan, Kavan Rathore. Arrey, the one in that web series, he was standing outside the grocery store.” I tried to move and saw that I was on drip, on a hospital bed. “You mean the actor who plays him? And which grocery store? I brought you to the hospital straight from your flat and Mrs. Sinha told me you hadn’t left your flat in the last 3 days.”

“What happened to me? Is the flu getting bad?” Anisha smacked the hospital case file shut. “Yeah, it did get bad. That tends to happen when you starve a sick, weakened body and forget to take most of your medicines.” Things had gone too far for me to be indignant at being scolded like a 5 year old. “It wasn’t me, just the delirium--it knocked me completely out of my senses.” It has been a year since the Week of the Flu. I have broken up with my pre-flu boyfriend (no drama at all--he calmly told me to pay my half of the bill as we left the eatery where we broke up.) Nowadays I only watch non-fiction--documentaries, travel shows--you know, mature adult stuff. I have given up on all--just a second, my phone is ringing, it's Anisha. “Have you watched the actor who played Kavan Rathore, in his recent interview?” She wasn’t going to let me forget this so easily, was she? “No, because I’m not interested, thank you very much.” “I’m sending the link. Watch it right now. He is talking about a paranormal experience he has had last year.” I wasted 5 minutes, trying to convince myself I was not interested, before tuning into the interview. The host asked him whether he believed in ghosts, being a part of such a hugely popular supernatural show.

He looked a bit different, almost like a twin. Same features, same voice but I felt nothing like watching my Kavan Rathore. “Not in ghosts,” he replied, “but I did have a very strange experience last year. I had a minor head injury, and initially I used to have nonsensical dreams. I would see this 5-feet-4 woman smiling at me from a grocery store I have never been to. I kept having the same dream again and again. It almost felt like she was someone I had met.” I stopped watching, locked down my phone and went back to work. THE END


Four narrow walls frame the room, every visible surface covered by cheap, plastic padding. A compact screen sits embedded in the far end of the room. There was barely enough room to sleep, let alone stand. But, the Coffin House was all I could afford. At least until I could find work. Five weeks ago, I'd escaped a dead end job as a security guard at Locust corp. Fled was more accurate, I suppose. Though in retrospect, leaving was liberating. Leaving with 500k worth of installed, unpaid corporate augmentations was even better. Not that anyone ever really managed to pay their debts to Locust Corp. No, you paid until you died, and then they'd rip out your ware and slap it into the next schmuck. Better to live as a free man. Still, the streets had proven more dangerous than I'd expected. Especially with Locust mercenaries hot on my heels. But, I hadn't had any run ins for a couple days. Not since I found a hole in the Combat Zone, outside the Sprawl. And I'd dug in like a tick. I hadn't left the room in days, not outside of using the bathroom down the hall. Now, all that was left was to wait on Dennis' call. In a couple days, I'd have a new I.D., a passport, and be halfway across the globe. I'd met Dennis the day I escaped. He'd been beat half to death, and had one foot in the grave, surrounded by cheap gangers. My security training had overtaken me, and in my haste I'd forgotten about my new ware. I remembered when the first goons skull cracked open like a grape in a vice. Dennis was the one who set me up, helped me get some cash in my pockets. In return, I'd ventilated a couple of his debtors, sent a message. Finally, the notification pings in my HUD. Before I can finish reading Dennis' message I'm halfway out the door. The smell cigarettes clings to the peeling wallpaper, the hallway just barely wide enough to walk through. The receptionist, a petite young woman with extensive dermal mods, shoots a glance. "Checking out, Nico?" "Nah, just a quick run. I'll be back for my shit. Have a nice day, Akari." She grins, revealing a neon smile, her eyes shifting colors in time with her grill. "Be safe!" A frigid palor hangs above the city, as gusts of wind rip through the streets. Droves of beligerent citizens prowl the streets, gunshots ringing out in the distance. I turn up my collar, trying to hustle through Black Powder Alley as fast as I discretely can. My head on a swivel, I pass through the alley and into the Bowels. Dennis' shop shouldn't be far now. A group of gangers eyes me from across the way, and sparks flicker along my cyber arm. 'Don't fuck with me', a message I do my best to project. They stare on, unflinching. I recognize their leathers:Black Powder Angels. The same punks I'd ghosted my first night in town. Fuck. I'd been planning on picking up ammo at Dennis'. The last of it had been spent on a would be mugger, last week. Our eyes lock for a moment, and I can see it. Smell it. They think I'm prey, a mark to be defiled and burgled. I slide into an alley, and take off. Before long I hear them behind me. Bullets tear through the air, and I do my best to weave. Pain shoots through my body, as one lands in my shoulder. "Slow down, chrome dome, we just wanna talk, maybe take a look at all those fancy augs!" I rip a brick from the wall, spinning into the throw. It connects, embedding itself one of the gangers chests. With a wet squelch he slumps over, and I dive for his gun. His body spasms as I rip the cheap assault rifle from his hand, and launch his soon to be corpse into his allies. The trigger compresses beneath my finger and I fill the alley with hot lead, sprinting away from the crowd. Within fifteen minutes, I lose the crowd. Ahead, I spot Dennis' shop. A small, ramshackle building constructed of refuse and detritus. A neon sign atop the door reads "General Store", flickering in and out. Relics of the 21st century fill the room, tapes and CD's filling display shelves alongside busts of retro celebrities. The scent of mildew and console duster hangs heavy in the air, mingling with the stench of oil and sweat. I spot Dennis behind the counter, forty something, balding and rotund, he's clad in high fashion from several seasons ago. He looks nervous. "Nico! You made it." His eyes dart to the closet, then to me. I can hear it in his voice, he's afraid. "You got my new identity facilitated, then?" As I ask, I move nonchalantly towards the closet. I click on my thermal vision, and immediately pick up a heat signature, jammed inside. "Of-ofcourse, Nico." A stream of lead, pours across the room. I catch two bullets in the shoulder before I pivot away from the closet, ducking behind a shelf full of ancient electronics. I poke my head out, and there the son of a bitch is. Seven feet tall, and chromed to the gills. The kind of bastard that would make the most eccentric augger blush. He sends another volley, and I dart to another shelf, hands fumbling for something of use. Finally, I find it. An industrial pry bar that looks more like a gangland sword than a mechanic's tool. My left hand snatches a stack of buzz saw blades, chipped and pitted. Two blades find purchase in his rib cage. He sprays the assault rifle again, and this time he catches my leg. I see Dennis out of the corner of my eye, running to the door. The buzzsaw blade nearly tears his leg off, and soon the floors are slick with blood. He cries out. I force a chuckle. Soon I'm darting through the isle, and trying to pretend like I'm not running head on into my death. He catches me again, twice more in the leg. The last buzzsaw blade takes his hand off. He scrambles, trying to shift his cover. But it's too late. The pry bar finds a home between his ribs. I leave him there, slipping in a pool of his own blood. "You fucked me, Dennis." "I had no choice Nico! They were gonna-" His hand breaks beneath my boot, and a glob of spit finds his forehead. I grab an oily rag from the counter and stuff it inside his mouth. "Who's in the fucking closet, Dennis?" "Some random street punk, he.... He found him out there, cut out his tongue so he couldn't scream." I can barely understand him with the gag in his mouth. With a quick poke, the rag is lodged in his throat. I watch him struggle for air, turning blue while I douse the place in accelerant. The punk in the closet takes off, non verbally thanking me for his life. The flames dance beneath the night sky, flickering in the breeze. I try to ignore the stench of burnt flesh as I head back to Coffin House.


Hello! I'm a young writer looking for feedback on a short story I wrote a year ago in the spirit of Halloween. Any input would be greatly appreciated, especially with word choice. Thank you!  The little girl’s lemonade stand was set up in her driveway. The house behind her was covered in ivy and was losing its shutters. The girl in question? Well, she too seemed to be rather in bad shape. Her hair was splitting at the ends and could probably use a good wash. Her skin was a pale, pasty white. The dress she was wearing appeared to be made of an old bedsheet. A sign laid out in front of the table read, “Lemonade 15 cents.” “Hello,” Henry said to her. “How are you this morning?” The girl said nothing. “I’ll take a glass of lemonade,” he continued. The poor girl seemed in need of a morale boost, and what better way to do that than to buy her product? The girl still said nothing. She grasped the handle of the pitcher and dumped a small amount of the contents into a plastic cup. Henry passed her a dime and a nickel. She fingered the dime and held it up to her wide eyes. It was a strange sight. 15 cents couldn’t even buy her a gumball. He shook the thought away and grabbed his cup. The lemonade in the cup was a light yellow with a tint of pink. He swallowed. There wasn’t any food coloring around. There also was not a pepper shaker or an opium bottle, he thought to himself. It’s certainly safe. It must be. Henry took a nice, deep sip. It was the most delicious lemonade he had tasted in years. “Not bad,” he said aloud. The girl smiled. It was a noticably sad smile. It made him even more apprehensive to finishing the glass, but he was so thirsty, and the lemonade was quite good. What was the worst that could happen? He thumbed through his wallet. How could it be that he only had dollar bills? He sighed. Oh well. He passed the girl a dollar bill and told her, “This is all I have. Can you make change?” The girl shook her head. “I’ll take whatever that can buy.” It wasn’t like he had anywhere to be. Did he? He tried to think back to his daily calendar reading. He couldn’t recall anything on it. What would it hurt to stay a bit longer? The girl’s face lit up once more. She counted a little on her fingers and removed seven cups from the stack. Henry placed his hand on hers. It was surprisingly cold. “I don’t need the 7th cup. I can deal with just the 6.” The girl shook her head. “Free,” she muttered, filling the cups one by one. He downed the cups as she poured them. They were once again delicious, and the girl’s smile only grew wider as he continued to drink. He finished the seventh cup and licked his lips. “This is delicious,” he told the girl. She nodded. “More?” He shrugged. Passing over his wallet, he said, “Take what you want,” his words slurring. She nodded, emtying the wallet. She grabbed another stack of cups and another pitcher. She filled a cup, which he then drank, then the process repeated itself. He watched as she poured the last drops of the second pitcher into one of the cups. She looked up at him. “Follow me.” He cocked his head. Her blurry little face stared at him sadly. “What?” “Need to make more,” she whispered. He nodded. “Okay.” She made her way to the door, Henry, dizzy and confused, following close behind. As they got inside, the door swung closed behind them. He jumped. Something was wrong. Why would he be so scared of a sound he heard every day, likely more than once? The girl grabbed his arm and pulled him up to the kitchen. She made her way up to the counter. He watched as she prepared more lemonade. There was one difference, however. The pink color was gone. He looked at her. “Put the pink in!”, he told her, his words stringing together and slurring once more. She looked at him, thinking, and passed him the pitcher. She then turned back to a small door in the back of the room. She pulled on the doorknob and looked inside. She grinned. She led him up to the entrance. “Pantry?”, he guessed. She shook her head. “Look?” He nodded. “Sure.” She swung the door open wider. He looked inside and saw nothing but darkness. Before he could say anything, the girl shoved him in with force that he could scarcely believe had come from her. The door slammed shut behind him. Blinding bright stadium lights shot on on either side of him. He looked down at the pitcher. It had sprung several small leaks on the side, causing some of it to spill out onto the floor. He gasped and placed his hands to the holes, desperate to save the delicious substance. He lapped up some of the lemonade on the floor. It was not, however, the same as it had been before, it seemed. The heavenly flavor was replaced by the inherent sourness of pure lemon juice. He spat it out. The pink, he thought to himself. It had never been added. What could it have been to disuise the bitter, acidic taste that now lingered in his mouth? He suddenly heard a moan from the other side of the room. He stood up and ventured over to the source of the sound. More lights shot on as he moved into darkness. When he reached the wall, he saw a young woman facing towards the wall, banging on the metal surface. She turned to him. He shrieked. The skin on her face had started to dissolve and fall off. She moaned again and grabbed his leg. He felt a burning sensation there and looked down to see her hand, dripping with acid, removing itself from a patch of melting skin. “Don’t drink the lemonade,” she forced, her voice raspy, like her throat was dissolving too. He screamed and ran back to the door where he had been thrown in from, the skin on his leg peeling down. He banged on the door. He shouted for help, the same raspy sound echoing back to him. He felt like he had swallowed several razor blades. He reached for his neck, swallowing. As he removed his hand, he saw the same acid dripping from both his hand and his throat. He sat down. The pink was some sort of drug, he thought to himself. It must have been. The lemonade was, what? Just pure acid? Some chemical cocktail? He shuddered. Glancing back at his reflection, he saw what he had seen on the woman’s face. Instead of screaming, he got to his feet. He stumbled into a crawling position and once again made his way across the room. The young woman sat in the same position, wailing for help in her raspy, strangled voice. She noticed his reflection beside hers and murmured, “You drank the lemonade, didn’t you?” He nodded. “It was delicious until I got in here.” She coughed. “Acid.” So he had been correct. “What happens now?” She opened her mouth to speak, but before she could say anything, she started another coughing fit. After a few seconds of racuous coughing, she spat out a large mass of blood and thick chunks of tissue, all of which were melting into puddles. Her eyes glazed over. Henry swallowed. It had become clear what was going to happen to him. The woman’s body collapsed onto him, spreading the acid along his legs and stomach. He yelped in shock and pain. That was the next step. Death. What was there to do but wait? The sound of a door opening and slamming shut shook him out of his fancy. He looked back to see a boy about the girl’s age fall into the room. Henry screamed to alert him that he was not alone. His pitcher had also cracked, but he was wise enough to leave it there. He ventured out to the middle of the room, taking up all of his aching body’s strength. The boy too had set out to find the source of the noise. He stopped, seeing the mass of Henry’s body in the dark. As he took another step, the lights shot on, revealing the grotesque view that Henry had seen on the woman’s face. He screamed, louder and louder still as the last of the skin on Henry’s neck began to dribble off. Only a small amount of skin remained on his face. The boy turned and screeched louder than Henry had heard in anything in his life. He banged on the wall, desperate to get away from the pile of Henry. Forcing out the words, Henry rasped, “How much did you have?” The boy screamed again at the fact that the lump of skin and bones in front of him could talk. It took him a while, but he gathered the courage to yell back, “One cup.” Henry smiled. “I don’t know what happens to you,” he whispered as the last ounce of skin on his leg bubbled out of existence.. The boy turned and ran to the place where he had come in, kicking at the door. And though he could barely hear himself over the screams, Henry was delighted when at that moment he began to cough.


[MF] The Quilt The sound of the air conditioning was a soft hum and gentle breeze rolling across the skin of my cheeks as I laid in bed. Not quite powerful enough to really cover me in cool air, but not a disappointment either. My apartment is old, and the building is older. Boasting oddly narrow archways that once housed actual doors, I always found it mind blowing that this place was still standing. There’s no way it’s up to code. I close my eyes in the dark for a second, completely exhausted but unable to sleep, and reach out for the picture frame on my nightstand. It holds a picture of me and a man. Not just any man, but my love. We took it the first night we spent here, snuggled into our bed on a mattress on the floor with a flip cellphone. It’s amazing the picture even came out, those things were archaic even when they were brand new technology. My fingers trace the cool glass over the printed image of his body, and smile. Snuggled up under the thin quilt I fought to buy even though we had no money at the time, because I liked it so much. “What in gods name is so fucking great about a damn piece of fabric? I don’t get it.” “Just let me live. I can’t explain it. This needs to be on our bed. Please?” I remember flashing him my sweetest smile. He let me buy it. And it hasn’t left our bed since. Plain and soft and grey, there was just something about it. Kind of like how I felt about him. Simple but special, and so comforting. That’s the thing about a good blanket though. I would assume it’s why a lot of children opt to have one for security purposes. Something so innocuous can provide so much safety, in ways you can’t even imagine, until they come To pass. I suppose the same can be said about almost anything we develop a sentimental attachment to. I knew a girl once who had a lucky cup; took it everywhere with her. To me, it was just a cup, but to her it held liquid happiness. I’m not judging. It’s just funny what we develop attachments to. I reach down to pull it up higher as the air conditioning sends a chill down my spine. The clock reads 3:15 and I know I have to get some sleep. I put the picture back down and sink into the bedding. Languishing in it’s washed and worn cotton, it’s imaginary arms wrapped around me, and I felt my eyelids get heavy finally. Sometimes, on a good day, it still smells like him, and tonight luck is in my favor. Maybe that’s why I like it so much. I bring it firmly up to my nose, inhaling deeply, and whisper a goodnight to the other half of my bed. A bed now occupied only by me, and my quilt.


The gate was large and magnificent. It’s shining, gold-bronze arches at the top had a regal design that seemed Heavenly. For David and Meghan, it was almost frightening to walk through. What if they weren’t worthy? What if they were burned by fire upon entrance? It had started with a map, but not just any map. Meghan and David had been neighbors as children, and when the time called for quarantining at home, Meghan had returned. She’d only lived at the large home for three years from ages 8-11. But she and David had been best friends, always riding bikes and scooters together, going on imaginary adventures, writing stories together, and sword-fighting in the backyard. She also remembered folks saying her house was haunted.

 	Maybe that’s why they left after only three years. She couldn’t remember anything strange happening off the top of her head but she was also just a kid. Nevertheless, her family owned the property, as it had been in their possession for centuries. They had never sold it to an outsider, which Meghan thought strange. Why was it so special? It didn’t matter though. Meghan figured if she was going to be forced to stay inside for an indefinite amount of time, she might as well do it somewhere memorable. Of course, the house came to mind right away. She had packed her bags, jumped on a plane, and made her way to sunny and peaceful Texas. She hadn’t been back since being 11.

David had always lived next door but in Texas, that could mean a solid 10-minute walk, at least. Meghan was surprised to find that her favorite childhood friend had also returned to be at home with his family during these uncertain times. She hadn’t gone looking for him but he had shown up at her door, curious as to who could possibly be staying at the estate after it’d been empty all these years. She greeted him with a pleasant surprise and he hugged her equally as pleasantly. It was going to be fun to catch up. Not to mention, David was cute! He’d grown up to be quite the man and little did Meghan know, that David thought she looked just as beautiful. Fortunately, for them, both were single at the time. Meghan invited David to stay over if he wanted, as there was plenty of space for the multitudes. He obliged to stay for a few nights and they decided what better way to waste time than look for treasure! Meghan’s mom had stopped the kids from ravaging around the house when they were younger, as “The house had Noble history not to be tampered with,” in her words. Consequently, the two had mainly played outside but were also forbidden from journeying deep into the woods that surrounded the home. Now, they were going to do both! Day three seemed to be the magical day, as, after hours and hours of investigating the house, David found something unusual: a large, old, crumply-folded piece of paper. It was blank though! But Meghan knew there was something about that piece of paper, as it’d been discovered in a hidden spot. In the movies, they would hold the paper up to fire to reveal secret messages. And it actually worked! Day 4, they followed the mysterious map all the way out to the woods behind the house. And this, my friends, is where our story begins. A whole other story of a whole other world but let me not get ahead of myself! Meghan and David stared dramatically at the top of the incredible, double-doored gate that stood mighty and tall. It was breathtakingly beautiful and yet, otherworldly. “Meg, are you seeing this?!” “With both my eyes.” “How is this possible?” “I don’t think it is.” The map had led the two, old friends to the deep, center of the dark woods and had pointed specifically to two, slender but incredibly tall, trees. Trees that had strange markings on them and seemed in surprisingly good shape to be so ancient.  When they had approached the trees, close enough to touch them, suddenly a blinding-bright gate appeared out of nowhere, right in between the trees! This was impossible. “The map…” “What?” “The map,” Meghan repeated, “Turn it over.” On the back, there were riddles and phrases that they didn’t quite understand. Meghan continued, “It says: “ To the worthy, come through.”” David looked at the map. “It also says: “ The Chosen hold the map but now is no time to nap. Go forward before you can go back.”” “Are we worthy?” Meghan asked. David gulped, “I guess there is only one way to find out.” As he approached the gate, the entryway flashed back and forth between intimidating flames of fire and a sheetlike, translucent, wavering light. He looked back at Meghan, “Pray I am worthy!” And he stepped through. “David! No!” But he was gone. Great , thought Meghan. I was beginning to remember why I liked David so much as a kid. Now I’ve lost him again, unless… But could she? Could she find the courage to step through the gate too? What if he was gone forever and she would be too? But what if he was simply on the other side, waiting for her? “The map says to go forward; it led us here. It chose us. We have to be worthy.” With a deep breath, she neared the entryway. She stuck her hand through the portal and nothing happened. Well, okay, that’s a good sign. She then put one foot through the portal and no pain. She looked up and saw the fire disappear and the translucent light shimmering in front of her. Guess I’m worthy .  “David!” She called before she realized what she was looking at. She quickly turned around but the portal gate was gone! In front of her appeared to be a city, a very large one at that. But not just any city, it was, it was, it was splendid! Sparkling, tall buildings that appeared to radiantly shine in the bright sun were scattered throughout. People walked all around her and they all appeared to be smiling. The roads were paved in, was that, gold?! Animals of all kinds of colors, that she’d never seen before, leaped about joyfully. And the colors, yes the colors, everything seemed so pretty! She pinched herself. Am I alive? She slowly took one step forward and paused to watch a bright, lavender bird bounce across the path in front of her whistling a delightful melody. The bird seemed almost... human. She looked up in the fluffy, proud green trees and they seemed to almost wave at her in the gentle breeze. The weather couldn’t be more perfect and the animals seemed to agree. Peculiar looking creatures, almost like teddy bears mixed with squirrels, seemed to giggle in the trees as she walked by. Was this real life? No matter, I have to find David, she thought. She found him staring up in amazement at the grand city unfolded in front of them, at yet another gate, equally as dazzling. “Meghan,” he said without even looking at her, “Where are we?” “If we were dead, I’d say Heaven but we aren’t dead, are we?”

“I’ve never felt so alive!” He exclaimed and grabbed her hand. “Come on, let’s go!” He sounded as playful and free as a child. Meghan couldn’t help but laugh, as she realized how happy she herself felt. This felt like perfection, at its finest. The two skipped down the gold road, which turned into silver, and then rainbow, and then like stars sparkling in the night sky. They were headed towards the tallest, most bedazzling building that they could see, the Castle! As they approached the snowy-white Castle, they began to hear the most enchanting, angelic sound they’d ever heard, like angels singing in another octave all around them! It felt like a dream come true and Disney World was nothing compared to this. Meghan knocked on the front doors of the Castle. Immediately, they opened, and tall men dressed almost like British soldiers in those tall, fluffy hats (or perhaps more like Nutcrackers dressed in white and sparkling silver uniforms), opened the doors smiling. “Welcome to the Home of the High King!” They proudly announced. Meghan and David looked at each other in amazement and smiled. This was awesome! Suddenly, a short, chubby little man scurried up to them. “Oh, I’m so glad you’re here!” He cheerfully exclaimed. “Come on, this way! The King will be so happy to meet you!” He led them around the fancily decorated hallways, as people of all ages, sizes, shapes, and colors looked onward and cheered. “Why are they so happy?” Meghan asked. “Well, you are our newest arrivals of course! We love visitors!” The kind man led the two up turning hallways that were like ramps taking them higher, all around the Castle to the very center, middle of the entire place. “One second,” he said, and just as fast, he was back with two, white, regal-looking, cushioned chairs.

“Have a seat and the King will be right with you.” And he was right, just as soon as the two had a seat, there was the King, even more radiant than all they’d seen so far, seeming to smile at them straight through his Emerald eyes. “Hello.” His voice seemed to boom and echo throughout the whole room and beyond. He stood up and he was tall, like the men outside, but he was dressed in all white, except for golden slippers and a gold crown that seemed to shimmer perfectly. There was a glow about him that seemed not of this world. Meghan and David just stared in amazement, once more. He was the most beautiful, living being they had ever seen and yet he felt more powerful too, beyond anything they’d ever experienced. The two had also found themselves suddenly standing straight up, as he had walked in the room, without even realizing they had done that. “Please friends, do have a seat,” he smiled so big. They snapped out of it and plopped back down in the chairs. “What is this place?” David asked. The King laughed with a chuckle so deep and sudden, the whole Castle seemed to respond. “Come, let me show you.” The King walked closer and extended his hand. The two slowly rose and as if in slow-motion, approached the King, never taking their eyes off of him and his glory. Meghan touched his hand and a wave of something shot through her body and seemed to wake up her senses. David touched him and suddenly felt light as a feather, like he could float away. “Whoa, what was that?” Meghan exclaimed. “I’m the King of Heaven,” the wonderful man gently responded, almost in a whisper. “This is...is...is Heaven?” asked David. Laughing, the King responded simply, “It is.” “Are we dead then?” Meghan asked. Still chuckling, the King said, “No, only in a different place.” “But how?” asked David. The King sat down on the step leading up to his glorious, majestic throne. The two sat right beside him like curious children. “David McEntire and Meghan Carter,” he gazed intently at each of them, “Your families are important to me.” “I’m sorry?” “Your ancestors lived to know me and trust me. I did incredible and magnificent things through their lives. They were my friends and now they get to live here with me, in my Royal Kingdom, forever.” “Our families are here?” “Oh, indeed. And one day, if you find my words pleasing and acceptable, you will join them here in Paradise when the time comes.” “I would like that,” said Meghan. “Yeah,” agreed David, “Me too! This place is AMAZING.” “I hope we can get to know each other better,” The King said with a pure warmth and tenderness in his eyes Meghan had never seen. “Not to seem weird,” she began, “But I, I feel like I know you.” “I know you,” said the King, “And I have great plans for the both of you.” “You do?” “I do. You found the map in your home, a home filled with my angels and dedicated to my work, long ago.” “Wow…” said David. “You were chosen, both of you, for such a time as this. Your ancestors prayed bold prayers and now you are reaping the benefits. It is no accident you are here, my children.” The two looked at each other and smiled. “Now, please let me have your hands. I will place them in my bowl of anointed oil and show you things you have never seen. You will see the future and you will know what you must do when you return.” And so, our story goes on...


They say that we are all the heroes of our own stories, but I'd beg to differ. What if we were made to be the sidekick for other's success stories? I thought this was kind of stupid too, until I began to really think about it and reflect on my life. I began to find similarities between my story and Joey's from Yugioh or Brock from Pokémon; yes, I had my own accomplishments but ultimately, I couldn’t see the direction I needed to go in to complete my story, I just seem to be floating around hopping from story to story helping others on their quest with no clear end game for me. My name is Caleb Dudley, I'm a 20-year-old Male living in Florida and this is the story of how I became a sidekick. I started my life as most American kids do; going to school, making friends and not caring about anything except when P.E was. I went to multiple nice schools, not really fitting in anywhere, I was always the outsider, the expendable kid. Not only was I aggressive to my teachers/school staff, there were very few people I really trusted. Looking back at it now I’d say it was because my father wasn’t there much, and my step dad influenced my mother to create a abusive household- hell on earth in the middle of a suburb. I think the only thing that kept me from truly snapping was my childhood best friend Vikram. I can’t thank him enough for keeping me grounded in some of the hardest times of my life. I can see that he was the first hero I became the sidekick for. He was the brains and I was the brawn, we were unstoppable in anything we did. In 4th grade my mother moved us to San Antonio Texas for her work, away from my friends and from my dad I had nothing. This is where I had to develop myself; something snapped in me and I suddenly stopped being aggressive and I stopped crying but I still felt alone. I did find new friends but I knew they only befriended me because I was an outsider and an outsider I would continue to be. 5th grade we moved back to Florida where I attended my old elementary school and was accepted into a International Baccalaureate middle school. This school was supposed to be a government implemented program where they take “gifted” kids from all over the city and put them in a school in the middle of bad neighborhoods. To me things were looking up, we moved back into our old house, I had my friends again and I had my hero again to help me through my shitty living situation. This all came crashing down when I started middle school. See because I had to go to this neighborhood for school I spent about 4 hours of my day on a bus with other kids, both in middle school and high school, in my situation. I thought everything was going great; the same kids who knew about my troubled elementary school years were going to the local middle school, so this was a clean slate. My feelings were affirmed when I started school, for reasons unknown I became the class clown and everyone knew me as such. By 8th grade I was on top of the school, I even became close with most of the cliques in the school; being the glue that made our class so close. This, unfortunately, became the only happiness I had in my life at the time. My best friend, being 2 years older than me and having strict parents, was busy making the most of his high school years, destined to do great things as any hero should. The 4 hours I spent on the bus everyday became my 2nd hell but was also where I met my 2nd hero. My bus ride was where I was bullied almost every single day, they couldn’t make fun of my clothes because there was a uniform requirement at my school but they made fun of everything else they could, sometimes even resorting to physical violence. To this day I hate thinking about my time on that bus. I was ultimately the damsel in distress, which is where my hero came into play. In 8th grade a new high schooler rode our bus named Valarie, just by talking to her you could tell she was a social outcast, just the person to not give a fuck about others opinions. She became my new hero, someone who would help me through 8th grade and protect me from the kids on the bus while I became her sidekick, someone who would be there to talk to her and make her laugh. You probably get the point by now: I remain a social outcast, I get bullied some more, I find a new hero, I move, repeat. You’re probably bored with this post by now and I don’t blame you. This looks like one big sob story to be honest. I guess the only reason I made this was to warn everyone to not be a sidekick like me. I need help, I need a new hero.


The devil has a girlfriend. A human. Every night when he comes home, she’s there waiting. And every night when he comes home the devil’s anxiety starts to act up. He doesn’t know why. Maybe it’s the neighbors. They’ve been asking a lot of questions here lately. That must be it. His hands shake as he turns the key in the lock. His heart pounds and his vision blurs. He takes a deep breath. His nose twitches as he opens the door. God, she smells good. “Babe.” “Babe.” He walks past her into the bedroom to take his coat and shoes off. “How was work?” “Not much to tell. Demon got a wing clipped today.” “Just the one?” “No, I mean on accident. In the revolving door.” “Oh.” They make spaghetti for dinner. Or rather, the devil makes it while his girlfriend sits at the table and asks him questions. “How’s your new secretary doing? She’s awful pretty, isn’t she?” “Is the wisteria tree I gave you still alive? I bet it’s not.” “Did you stop by to pay the rent this morning, pet?” With every question the devil hears the voice in his head whispering and muttering. *Don’t let it happen tonight.* He struggles to keep up with her, as usual. “She’s doing great. I suppose. It’s thriving, actually; it’s in bloom. I got it paid on my way home.” That last one was what got him. It happened as he was putting her plate down in front of her. “On your way home?” “Yes.” *No. No. No.* The devil secretly loves cooking for people. He can’t admit it. He has an image to keep up, after all. For guests he sets the table with subtle flourishes and grace. But he flinches and swallows as he puts his girlfriend’s plate down. His ears lay back along his head. “You were supposed to pay it this morning, Satan. You know the office closes at six. You cut it way too close *again.*” “I know–I’m sorry, babe–” “Don’t ‘I’m sorry, babe’ me!” “Honey, please–” “Please *what?* You’ve done this the last three times I’ve asked you to pay something. This is unacceptable behavior!” Her chest heaves as she seems to struggle for breath. “What do you have to say for yourself?” “I…I…it wasn’t a big deal, the office was open for thirty minutes after I got off work, honey, and–and it’s not a big deal if I pay it a day late–” “Not a big *deal?* It’s a big deal to me, you absolute jackass!” He feels himself recoil and has to stop. *Keep your teeth in your mouth, for fuck’s sake.* The pop on his snout stings, but the next words sting worse. “You’re a bad dog.” She storms into the bedroom and slams the door. The devil sits down at the table. His spaghetti gets cold as he stares at it, whimpers trying to force themselves out of his throat. He swallows them down. He’s a man; a wolf; the devil himself. He can’t be crying. Ridiculous. But when she calls him a bad dog, he has to admit it hurts. And the worst part is, he almost bit her this time when she hit him. How could he stoop so low? *She wouldn’t be hurting me unless I did something wrong. She’s such a sweet person. I have to be better. I can’t turn abusive.


The air creaked and reeked of sweat and death. Fifteen of them where chained up against the inside wall of the barge, hands and feet bound, with collars holding their necks for good measure. Four of them were already dead, a few more not far behind. The strongest kept their silence and looked straight ahead, trying not to breathe too deeply. Jimenez was the third man along from the only door to the stinking, foetid room they were being kept in. Had he been able to move his arms, he could have touched the opposite wall with only a mild stretch. He *was* able to move his feet slightly, back and forth. It helped keep the pain alive, reminded him that his feet were still there. They’d chopped one of the men off at the knees a few days ago for crying; he was quiet soon after, bled out on the floor. His rotting feet, along with this blood and shit and tears were part of the mixed stench permeating the room. The barge hadn’t stopped for the sixteen, maybe seventeen days they’d been aboard. There were no windows, but a light permanently filtered through cracks in the door frame. It didn’t grow stronger or fade, so it wasn’t the sun. Jimenez had tried to keep track of time by listening for changes of the watch on deck. Sometimes it was muffled, weather depending. Sometimes he had heard it clear. Other times, he was sure he’d missed it, asleep or unconscious. He couldn’t remember why he’d what he’d did. He wasn’t sure if he was a murderer or not. Might have been self-defence. Might have been straight up evil. He didn't know anymore. He only knew he had to be quiet and keep looking straight ahead. Thirty days in the dark without a word, and he’d be free. Fourteen days to go. Maybe thirteen. Footsteps, something thumping along the corridor and then keys jangled outside the door. Time for water, and torture. The guards weren’t allowed to touch the prisoners as long as the prisoners kept silent, but there was nothing in the law to say the guards had to be silent themselves. “YOU FUCKING SCUM! WAKE UP! WAKE UP, YOU SCUM!” The screams of the Water Carrier were accompanied by his fist, banging on the outside of the door frame. The creaking of the barge was drowned out briefly, but the smell remained. Keys jangled again, then dull light invaded the room, quickly followed by more enthusiastic screaming. “You murderous fuckpigs! You evil wastes of skin! You wake up! You wake up! You wake up and you talk to me! You tell me your names and apologise for your fucking crimes and I will give you water! Water is freedom! Water is life! Silence is death for you bastards, so you tell me your fucking names!” The Water Carrier slithered into the room, doing his honest best not to touch any of the prisoners. He held the end of a hose in one calloused hand, the coils of it in his other. His lackey remained in the corridor, poised over the water barrel the hose was connected to, ready to pump. Jimenez opened his mouth, stayed silent. The Water Carrier was wrong; silence was life. He came into the room twice a day with the hose and the water. The prisoners were allowed to drink their fill each time, although they had had no food since the night before they were chained to the wall, one after the other. They would have no food unless they disembarked alive at the end of the journey. Thirteen, maybe fourteen days. The Water Carrier walked to the end of thin room, loosing the hose as he went and carrying on his demands to be spoken to. The last man in the row, the first to walk in, was still alive. He had his head up, mouth open, eyes shut. The Water Carrier raised the hose, nodded to his lackey, and water flowed into the prisoner’s mouth. The man swallowed, spat some up, while the Water Carrier continued to speak to him, softly. The prisoner moved his head around as best he could to wash some of the accumulated sweat and blood and grime off. Kept his eyes closed, then, when he had had enough, closed his mouth. The Water Carrier lowered the hose and turned back the way he came. Smiled. “Come on you fucking bastards! Speak! Speak! Hold your piece and I will hold the water! You will get nothing from me! SCUM!” The last word was spat into the face of the first dead man, number two in the row. The ship had barely made it out of port before he’d broken, yelled “I want out, this was a mistake, I want out!” It was always rumoured that the guards laid money down to be the First Executioner. That each one chose a prisoner, threw some gold into a pot, and whichever one picked the first prisoner to break pocketed the lot. Oh, and had the right to execute that prisoner in whichever way they saw fit. Whichever way it worked, a long dark streak of piss in a guard uniform had ghosted into the room and used a spoon to pry out the yelling prisoner’s eyes. He’d poured something, not much of something, but *something*, into the open sockets and set a light to them, a fucking stupid thing to do on a boat, river barge or not - it was a deep river and an old boat. Whatever the guard had used, the prisoner’s head lit up. His throat broke on the first scream, and his rasping cries continued for another few minutes, until the guard decided he’d had enough fun and ended it with a knife across the throat. The other fourteen of them had looked ahead, or kept their eyes shut. They didn’t say a word. A few of them pissed themselves from fear. Jimenez shat his last meal down his legs and onto the floor, clamped his teeth down on his lips and a whimper. Short, sharp breaths erupted from the remaining men as they struggled to control themselves. Breathing was fine, no matter how loudly; but they were prisoners and had no voice, symbolically. If they challenged that symbolism, spoke or gasped or cried out or mumbled or sang or made any noise from their throat, then they died. And justice prevailed. The Water Carrier reached the body of a man he’d been able to kill himself. Two days into the voyage, the prisoner had calmly said, as the Water Carrier raised the hose to his mouth, “My name is Alberto and I killed my three sons and their mother and I think I should die now.” The Water Carrier had dropped the hose, taken a leather glove studded with metal spikes and hooks from his robes, put it on, and then he had punched Alberto’s head against the wall of the barge until it broke, and then just punched harder. When the hose had come to Jimenez it still tasted of blood from Alberto. He’d drank his fill, and felt better for it. The Water Carrier looked almost fondly at Alberto’s corpse, a smile on his face like a child gazing in awe at a particularly impressive shit. “This man! This man is free! This man told me his name, and now he is free! You, bastards! You bastards are not free and if you do not tell me your name, I will not give you water! Speak your crimes to me! The hose came up, and water spilled down the face of the man to Jimenez’ left. Jimenez held his pose, mouth open, eyes watching the wall ahead. He could see the lackey, from the corner of his eye, pumping up and down at the barrel. Despite the Water Carrier’s words, they were duty and oath bound to ensure the prisoners were watered. Jimenez felt water on his face, in his mouth. He gulped some of it down, tried to spray some out and up, over his cheeks and chin, shaking his head and trying to spit some down his chest towards his aching feet. The Water Carrier leaned in close, never touching, but still speaking. “You evil fucking pig, I know what you did, I know what you *all* did and you’re all going to burn, you’re all going to burn slowly. There’s no freedom for you. Keep your fucking silence, the first thing I’ll do when you get off this boat is tie you to a fucking tree and ram a fire-heated sword blade into your fucking arsehole. Think that’ll hurt? Huh, think that’ll hurt? Best bit is, if I keep the sword there, the heat will cauterise your wound, you won’t bleed out for days. For fucking *days*. You keep your silence. They’ll be warming the coals now, you evil scum fuck.” Jimenez closed his mouth. The Water Carrier moved on. Jimenez leant his head back on the wall, licked his lips. He looked straight ahead, at the wall opposite. A man’s image hung there. The man he had killed. He looked the same as he had when Jimenez had last saw him: eyes bruised, jaw broken. A knife in his stomach. His eyes were open, hard and cold, staring at Jimenez, full of hate and anger. Jimenez knew that only he could see the dead man, just like he knew that the other men were seeing different images, of the people they’d killed. Some would be seeing their families, like Alberto had. Some would be seeing strangers, like he was. This was their punishment, their justice, their guilt trip. Thirty days in the dark to look at the people they’d murdered. To look them in the eyes and see what they’d done. To reflect, to repent. Or to break. The survivors, the hardest of them, would be freed at the end of the journey. They’d be fed and allowed to rest and then there’d be a place for them in the King’s Guard. Maybe they’d be above decks, one day, as another batch of murderers came down the river for a quiet sail. Fourteen days to go. Maybe thirteen.


Pandi struggled to fall asleep. The mosquito net his parents had given him when they packed him off to the monastery was riddled with holes. A mosquito landed on his arm; he lifted the net and shooed the insect away. After surviving a month in the monastery, he felt other things calling him. It was time to leave.

Pandi left his quarters quietly and walked down the trail to where he had hidden his lay clothes. After changing out of his saffron kasaya robes into jeans and a t-shirt, he began winding his way down the mountain trail. It was a long walk to Kathmandu, and difficult to navigate in the dim light of dawn, but at least it was all downhill. Several times along the way, stones came tumbling down the scree slopes behind him. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being followed, yet there were no signs of goats or people. As Pandi descended, he thought about a talk that abbot Batsa had given the young monks about straying from the monastery. ‘The city is full of temptations. Temptations fuel desire. Desire is the cause of suffering. It is a counterproductive place to be for one who wishes to follow the eightfold path. If you are in any doubt, ask yourself—do you want to be free of Samsara, or not?’ Life is imperfect and involves suffering , Pandi thought to himself. If my journey through Samsara takes longer, I do not mind. I need to see what I am missing. After journeying down the mountainside for several hours, Pandi arrived in Kathmandu by mid afternoon; feet coated in fine brown dust. He began searching for work right away, hoping for a job with food and board like the monastery had provided. He was a cook at the monastery, but none of the city's eateries had an appropriate vacancy.

Pandi was drawn to Kathmandu by the experiences that were available to him now that he was of age; cigarettes, strip clubs, and drinking. He longed to be around lively and interesting people that were the polar opposite of the humdrum hill-folk he grew up around. When he came across a neon sign in a quiet back street, he felt excited at its prospects. The sign read: ‘Lord of the Drinks—The 52nd best nightclub in the world’.

Pandi found the entrance to the club and stood outside, psyching himself up by puffing out his cheeks and slapping the air out of them. He pushed his weight against the door, but it held fast. The club would not be open for another few hours. He was about to leave when a voice from a window on the first floor shouted down. ‘Are you the drinks man?’ Pandi hesitated. ‘Umm, yes.’ He had never touched a drop of alcohol in his life. ‘Just a second. I’ll be right down.’ When the club owner opened the door, she appeared terribly beautiful to Pandi. He hadn’t so much as laid eyes on a woman during his month as a monk and women in the city were very sophisticated . ‘Where’s your truck?’ She asked. ‘Um, I don’t have one.’ She sighed and flicked her long black hair back. ‘So you’re not a delivery driver. Why are you impersonating one then?’ ‘Do you have any jobs available?’ Pandi asked. The club owner looked Pandi up and down. She seemed impressed by his sturdy stature. ‘One of our bouncers left last week. Are you any good with security?’ ‘I’ve guarded a monastery,’ Pandi said confidently.

‘Well, you’re a good size. Maybe a bit young, but you look strong. Come in and I’ll show you around.’ The 52nd best nightclub in the world was bigger than the monastery's temple. Pandi marvelled at the domed ceiling, criss-crossed with disco lights. Onstage there was a DJ booth and a smoke machine with built in lasers. As Pandi followed the owner to the bar, his sandals got stuck to the sticky floor. He shuddered at what Batsa would say if the monastery floors were allowed to get as filthy as these were. The owner cracked open a cold bottle of beer and handed it to Pandi. ‘I’m Bhavi, by the way.’ He took a big gulp; it almost fizzed out of his nose. ‘Pandi.’ He said, coughing up froth into his mouth. Bhavi smirked. ‘We need security in the basement club. Come on.’ She beckoned Pandi and led him down a staircase to a club named Medusa. It was far more chic than the boilerplate nightclub upstairs. Curved booths encircled several pole-dancing podiums, and the lack of sticky laminate flooring was pleasing; the deep pile carpeting could have been considered a trip hazard.

Bhavi, with her slender fingers, drew Pandi’s attention to a gold plaque on the wall. ‘Before I consider you for the role, you must read and understand the club rules.’ Pandi craned his head forwards and read aloud. ‘Please refrain from making eye contact with the dancers. Anyone found to be doing so will be ejected from the premises.’ This was familiar etiquette to Pandi; monasterial rules stated that there was to be no eye contact before noon. ‘That’s something I know how to uphold,’ he said. Bhavi looked pleased. ‘It’s been our ethos for years, and the girls prefer it this way. It works best for the customers, too; it adds a layer of novelty and mystique.' Bhavi placed her palms flat on Pandi’s chest, as if reading him. Having never had a job interview before, he wondered if this was standard practice. Bhavi closed her eyes and took a deep breath. ‘I think you’ll fit right in, Pandi. Can you start tonight?’

Entranced by Bhavi, he said, ‘yes.’ *** With an advance from Club Medusa, Pandi purchased a crisp new suit. When he arrived ready to bounce, the edges of the podiums glowed neon pink, and the freshly cleaned poles sparkled.

For Pandi, the anticipation of seeing a naked woman for the first time made him sick with excitement. When he was introduced to the dancers, they adored his kind and chubby face. Lola ran her fingers over the stubble on his head. ‘Don’t worry, you’re a bouncer. You can make eye contact with us,’ she said, ‘it’s essential for things to run smoothly. You’ll enjoy it here. Men always do.’ Pandi was in paradise; happily watching the girls get ready in their dressing room. If there were women in the monastery wearing these kinds of outfits, no chores would ever get done , he thought. Lola explained to Pandi how she would alert him of any rule breakers with a signal. ‘If I want rid of someone, I’ll point to my eyes, then to the man, okay?’ Pandi was well aware that he had been treated like a king after coming in off the street. But once the doors of the club opened and a group of brash, half-cut men arrived, it changed the easy-going feel of the place. As Lola walked to the podium, her face hardened like a fossil. Her happy-go-lucky energy subsided when she began writhing urgently. Pandi thought that years of crude remarks must have taken their toll on her and he felt guilty for enabling the interaction. But he didn’t need to feel sorry for her; she knew what she was doing. She had donned her armour and was conducting a business transaction; even though the men were becoming increasingly unpleasant, Lola performed perfunctorily. Pandi’s excitement about seeing his first pair of breasts in an erotic context had reached geriatric flaccidity. He’d become a cog in a machine that benefited no one. It dawned on him that the strippers, the patrons, and anyone who had ever dreamed of visiting a club like this—including himself—were all disgraceful. He began to feel ashamed that he had acted on his wanton impulse to visit the city. What would Batsa say if he knew he was here? At midnight, the obnoxious group of men were still going strong. To Pandi’s surprise, they hadn’t broken any rules and had avoided making eye contact with the dancers. When each of the girls had done a stint on the podium, Lola returned with her desperate gyrations. Pandi was trying to avoid looking at her body by gazing into the middle distance. She began pointing her chin in his direction and giving him the signal. As he walked cooly over to the table of steaming drunk men, Lola repeated the signal, pointing at the man with the shaved head. Pandi put his hand on the back of the man’s shoulder. ‘Sir. Come with me,’ he said firmly.

The man refused to budge. ‘Oh please . Come on. Who can resist those eyes?’ ‘It's time to leave,’ Pandi asserted. The rest of the men were in hysterics. ‘There’s plenty else to look at, Batsa,’ one of them said. ‘Why bother with the eyes?’ The ocular transgressor stood up, pressed his palms together and bowed at Lola. ‘You have a beautiful soul. I saw it through your windows.’

Lola frowned as she slid down the pole, upside down; she was unable to hear the man’s compliments over the loud music. It wasn’t until Pandi had herded the man upstairs to the quiet of the cloakroom that he realised exactly who he was. By the green glow of the fire escape light, Batsa smiled shyly.

‘Batsa?’ Pandi asked. A four-to-the-floor disco beat bled through the wall from the club next door. Batsa lowered his head and placed his palms together in greeting to Pandi. ‘Evidently, my talk didn’t dissuade you from leaving,’ he said. ‘Now we have both strayed.’ ‘My mentor,’ Pandi said, pushing the fire exit open, ‘you have to leave.’ ‘Wait; my bag.’

Batsa took his canvas bag from the cloakroom and followed Pandi out of the air-conditioned club into the alley; the night was hot. ‘Tell me, what benefits has your excursion provided you?’ Batsa asked.

‘None, that I can think of,’ Pandi said. ‘It wasn’t what I thought it would be. These false fixes don’t bring me happiness. I don’t think I would have been satisfied with any amount of pleasure.’ ‘Very wise,' Batsa said. 'Please, do not tell anyone at the monastery of my behaviour. I would be embarrassed.’ ‘I understand,’ Pandi said. In the darkness above the city skyline, Pandi tried to pick out the mountains and the monastery, but the light pollution was too strong. ‘I think I’ve seen all I need to see. Shall we get out of here?’ ‘Yes, let’s get a taxi,’ Batsa said, as they began walking down the street. ‘If we hold each other accountable, we’ll never return to places like these.’ ‘Ah! My suit,’ Pandi said, grabbing his lapels. ‘I have to return it.’ He thought of the jeans and t-shirt he had left in the dressing room among the stripper’s g-strings and stockings, but didn’t want to face going back. He wasn’t supposed to have kept his lay clothes when he joined the monastery and didn't want Batsa to see them. As if reading Pandi’s mind, Batsa unzipped his bag and handed him a set of kasaya robes. Pandi noticed that they didn’t smell any different than his own robes; in fact, they fit so perfectly that he was convinced they were his own. As he brushed a dusty mud patch off the robes, he had the notion that Batsa was the invisible goat that had followed him down the mountain. Batsa took out a packet of cigarettes and lit one up. ‘Care for a smoke?’ He asked, as if tempting Pandi with one final test. ‘No,’ Pandi said. ‘I’ve gone off the idea. They smell awful . Can you put that out, please?’ The corners of Batsa’s eyes creased when he smiled. ‘Of course. They taste horrible. Come on, let's walk to the taxi rank.’ *** Pandi wisely decided to keep his dalliance with Club Medusa secret from his parents. He and Batsa entered a pact of secrecy. When they disembarked outside the monastery by the faint light of dawn, Pandi left Batsa and went to look for the kasaya robes he had hidden a day earlier. The robes were nowhere to be seen; Batsa must have collected them in his bag and followed Pandi. At sunrise, Pandi joined the fresh-faced monks in the temple as Batsa took to the altar and began incanting. Pandi tried to atone for his setback by concentrating deeply on the words and meaning of the prayers, but the familiar feeling that he was being watched returned. He dared to glance up fleetingly, and saw Batsa watching him. As the room of monks chanted, mentor and mentee locked eyes—the only heads upright in a sea of bowed ones. They exchanged a smile with a sentiment known only to the two of them; ‘No more bending of the four noble truths’. Pandi bowed his head and focused.


“Yes thank you, you have a great day as well.”

I hung up the phone and ran my fingers through my hair. Feeling the scabs left behind by the chemicals and my own incessant scrubbing, I was so damn grateful that the lice had finally vacated my head.

When you’re a parent, you become used to the dirty little things that get passed around classrooms. Chicken pox, the flu, the common cold, pink eye. But Maria had never brought home lice until her 3rd grade year, and I would pay one MILLION dollars if it meant never having to deal with the disgusting little blood suckers again.

Did you know that lice actually prefer a clean head to a dirty one? I didn’t.

In fact, I had spent the last 3 months learning exactly what lice are, what they like, and how the hell to get rid of them. Over the counter treatments hadn’t worked. Old wives tales like coconut oil hadn’t worked. What did finally work? Mayonnaise.

Yep, I slathered mine and my daughter’s thick, dark Turkish hair with a chunky layer of mayonnaise. The online instructions said to leave it on for 8 hours, and by the end all of the lice and their eggs had been suffocated.

It had been over 2 weeks since the last spotting, thank GOD. Sure, we winced every time we got the slightest smell of mayonnaise, but a small price to pay. If I had to get down on my hands and knees one more time to clean our small 2 bedroom 1 bathroom house from top to bottom, I was going to lose my mind.

My phone rang, pulling me out of my grossed out haze, and Travis’ sweet face popped up on the screen. I smiled. Tonight was our big date.

“Hey you.” “Hey sexy.”

“What’s going on?” “Oh, I just wanted to call and triple check that you have seen NO lice in your hair today and we are clear to keep our reservation for tonight.”

I laughed. Yes, we had been waiting a while for this very rare date night. But Travis had been more exasperated at the thought of missing our date due to the lice than I was. I just wanted the damn bugs gone. Romance was the furthest thing from my mind when I was pulling little fat creatures from my hair. He had it easy, as soon as he saw the first bug, he shaved his head, and had kept it short ever since.

“Yes Travis, no lice I promise. I’m very much looking forward to our date.” “Me too, me too. I can’t wait for the food, it’s gonna be DELICIOUS.”

“Yeah, I can think of other delicious things too… if you know what I mean.” Rare date nights also meant other forms of intimacy were… rare. I took every chance I got.

“Yeah yeah, I know what you mean. Don’t get me too excited.” Can you hear someone blush? I felt like I could. “More than anything, i’m looking forward to quality time with you. No parenting, no responsibilities.” “You could say that again!” My office phone rang and I rolled my eyes. “Speaking of responsibilities... that’s my line, so very sadly, I have to let you go.”

“Hey, absence makes the heart grow fonder. I’ll see you tonight.”

“It’s a date!” I thought I was so clever.

We giggled and got off the phone, and I promptly picked up the landline.

“Thank you for calling Sky High Balloon Adventures, this is Ariana, how can I help?”

Most days I loved my job. How many people can say they get to work for a hot air balloon company for a living? I knew how lucky I was and I cherished every moment.

Except for that day. That day I was watching the minutes on the analog clock slowly tick by. My night out couldn't come soon enough. Hours crawled by, and I answered phone call after phone call. Some were people who had 100 questions about hot air balloons.

“How high does it go?” “How many people are in the basket?” “Do I get to choose where I land?” “Are there parachutes?”

Some were people who just wanted someone to fight with.

“I have called 5 times and you never answer the phone. I shouldn’t have to leave a message, a successful business should be available!” Or

“What do you mean the weather isn’t safe to fly? How much do I have to pay you to fly? I don’t mind a little rain.” And then there were just the people who were so happy to be checking a cool adventure off of their bucket list. Those, of course, were my favorite calls.

It was decently busy, and I breathed a sigh of relief when the clock finally struck 5pm and it was time for me to hit the road. I had meant to leave a little early so I could take my time doing my makeup, but time had gotten away from me. That’s all right I’ll just put on a little mascara and blush, I thought to myself.

Travis was not one of the guys who needed me to be all done up to see me as beautiful. He had a way of making me feel confident even when I was sitting on the couch in the same dumpy t-shirt from the day before with my hair in matted tangles.

“You’re so hot,” he’d say with widened eyes. One of the many reasons I knew I had a good one.

By 6:30pm I had made it home, gotten ready, and we were heading out the door. Plenty of time to make our 7pm reservation, the restaurant was only 15 minutes away.

“Damn… rainclouds. I guess we won’t be sitting on the patio.” Travis winced and gripped the steering wheel a little tighter.

“It’s the middle of February,” I chuckled. “I have to say I wouldn’t want to sit outside anyways.”

He looked at me and smiled, slightly relieved, and he grabbed my hand in his. I sighed, something so simple could feel so loving.

We parked in the overflowing lot and made our way inside.

A young blonde hostess in a black, v-neck cocktail dress greeted us.

“Welcome! How can I help you?” Travis stepped forward. “I have a reservation for 2 at 7.” “The Fraser party?”

“Yes ma’am.” She looked down at her screen, then looked at Travis pensively.

“I apologize but we overbooked ourselves on reservations and have had to add a 30 minute wait to all reservation times. You’re welcome to go wait at our bar and we’ll call you over as soon as your table is ready.” Travis huffed. “Seriously? You couldn’t have called us ahead of time and told us that?” The hostess closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Sir, I know this is a special occasion for you, I promise we’ll do everything we can to make it right.” “You better,” he muttered under his breath as we made our way over to the busy bar area. “Travis, it’s fine. We’re out without Maria! So rare.” He flagged down the bartender. “2 shots of Jack please, with 2 glasses of water. Thanks.” A burly man with tattoos poking out from underneath his pressed suit's sleeves nodded. I put my hand on his arm. "At least we’re together.”

He looked at me and smiled sheepishly. “You’re right. I’m sorry, I just want tonight to be perfect.” He paused. “Like you said, this time is so rare.”

Reaching up on tip toes, I kissed his cheek. The bearded man returned with our drinks, and we took our shots of Jack like pros. We spent the next 30 minutes talking about our day, sipping our water, sharing funny anecdotes from our experiences in customer service. We were swapping stories and laughing when the hostess timidly approached us. “Mr. Fraser? Your table is ready.”

His whole disposition had changed. Maybe it was the Jack. “Fantastic! Lead the way.”

She lead us to a small circular table set in the middle of the dining room, red and black booths lining the taupe walls.

“Is this okay?” Travis looked at me expectantly.

Damn he is so thoughtful . After years of living with me and my social anxiety disorder, most of the time he knew how to meet what I needed in the moment. This was one of those times. I was so grateful.

“It’s perfect.” Something I would have said even if it wasn’t.

“Just like you,” he quickly came around to pull my seat out for me.

I hung my purse on the back of the chair and took in all the surroundings. Tables were full of couples, young and old, mixmatched and twinning, kissing and flirting and laughing amongst themselves, tabletop candles flickering gently in front of them. Romance was certainly in the air, and the vibe alone made me swoon.

I was lost in my own love cloud when the waiter came to the table. "Good evening! My name is Seth and I’ll be taking care of you. Our specials tonight are….” He went on to describe the Surf and Turf, the Valentine’s Day special: a lobster tail paired with filet mignon and their signature sauce. My stomach growled and I was thankful no one but me noticed. We gave our drink orders and in a moment he was gone.

“I’m so glad we could make this work,” Travis seemed relaxed, finally. “Me too, I’m SO glad those lice boogers didn’t ruin our once in a blue moon date.” “EW. Don’t bring those little shits up. I could go the rest of the year without hearing that word and I would be just fine.” “No kidding… me too. I’ve never cleaned so much in my life.” “Well, if there’s one thing for sure, our home would be in shambles without you.” I blushed as Seth returned with our drinks. He placed a Bloody Mary in front of me and I winced. Just from the smell I knew that it was full of Vodka. “Come on man, she said virgin. She’s sober!” Seth looked at me in horror. “Oh I am so sorry ma’am. Let me get you a new one. It'll be on the house. I’m so sorry!” He quickly took the drink off the table.

“It’s okay, really. He gets protective. Mistakes happen, no rush.” I gave my most reassuring smile. He nodded gratefully and hurried off with the incorrect drink.

Travis looked into his lap and clenched his hands together. Why was he so tense? “Did something happen at work today?”

“No, why do you ask?” “Just asking…you seem off.” “No, I’m fine! Actually I’m great.”

A longer than comfortable moment of silence stretched between us. I had to switch it up.

“Can you believe this is our 10th Valentine’s Day together?” “Man.. it has been that long.” He smiled to himself. “Time flies with you.” “Do you remember the one where we left Maria with my dad and snuck out for a midnight showing of Deadpool?” “Ah yes, the perfect romance movie.”

“For real, what more could you want? Action, comedy, hot steamy romance. Endless buttered popcorn.” “What about when I surprised you with a Broncos Super Bowl jersey a few weeks before so you could have it for the game?” “Ugh, I LOVED that jersey. Now the Broncos starting the Super Bowl with a safety… that I didn’t love so much.” “God, I remember how inconsolable you were in the bathroom afterwards. I couldn’t get you to stop crying!" “What can I say, I love my team.” “Maybe a little too much.” “Maybe.” We both laughed and Seth returned with the virgin Bloody Mary I ordered.

“Here you are miss. Again I express my deepest apologies.” “It’s really no problem, we’re having a great time, aren’t we Travis?” “Yes we are, thanks for making it right man.” Seth quickly took our order, but he didn’t write anything down. I ordered the special and he just nodded, he asked me how I wanted my potatoes prepared and he just nodded at my response. I have always been amazed at wait staff that can remember everything like that. Meanwhile I can’t even remember if I turned the straightener off at home. He hurried off with our orders, without writing a single thing down.

“You know, I have to say my favorite Valentine’s with you are the ones at home on our couch with a bowl of chips watching episodes of Survivor.”

I brought my hand to my mouth, blushing again. “Me too babe. It really is the simple things I love the most.”

“I agree. Dating apps and profiles and all that other riff raff, life can be as simple as meeting your person in high school gym class.”

“I still can’t understand what you saw in me. I was angry to be there, angry my mom made me change schools. My black hood pulled over my head, scowl on my face, I was definitely giving off a ‘leave me alone’ vibe. ” “But that was the last thing I wanted to do. ‘Leave you alone’. You know what vibe I thought you were giving off? Moody, complex, and downright beautiful. I had to talk to you.”

“Who knew that would lead here?” “I had a hunch,” he giggled. “To us,” he held up his drink for a toast.

Our glasses clinked and as we made eyes, taking sips from our respective beverages, I couldn’t help but to think how lucky I was.

I certainly didn’t know from that day in gym class that we would end up here, living in a different state and parents to our beautiful daughter. Celebrating 10 years of Valentine’s together. What we have is one in a million.

My thoughts were interrupted when the most beautiful lobster tail was placed in front of me. We didn’t speak as we eagerly ate our delicious meal, occasionally looking up and smiling at each other, or offering our fork for the other to try.

The night ended too quickly, and in a flash we were walking out the front door. Time with Travis felt so special, and as parents it was not often that we got to feel like humans outside of our roles as ‘mom’ and ‘dad’.

It was my turn to grab his hand this time, and I looked at him and smiled. He didn’t meet my gaze, and began messing with the tie around his neck. The rain gently sprinkled above our heads, leaving dark marks on my long, lavender dress, but I didn’t mind. We reached the middle of the parking lot when he stopped. He dropped my hand and took a deep breath. He pulled a navy blue  jewelry box from his pocket. My stomach sank. Is he about to do what I think he’s going to do?

No, he knew how much this scared me.

He knew that the only relationships I’d seen growing up were my mother’s 4 divorces and my absent dad I saw twice a year.

Why does anything have to change? Things are good the way they are!

I could feel my hands shaking.

Put down the walls Ariana , my therapist’s voice rang in my head.

He got down on one knee, black slacks dipping in the water streaking the parking lot, looking up at me. He popped open the box, revealing a glistening silver diamond ring.

“I know this scares you. I know the only example you’ve ever had of marriage is destruction. But I was raised by 2 people who love each other deeply. Who were dating for a month and knew they wanted to be together forever. And are now celebrating over 30 years as husband and wife! I’ve seen how beautiful marriage can be when it’s right.” He paused to emphasize his words. “And I know we’re right. I so wanted tonight to be perfect to prove it to you. But you made me see that we don’t need perfect. We never have. In fact, it’s simple. I know you’re my person. There is no one else, there will never be anyone else. Ariana, will you marry me?”

All the fear that had been making my heart race melted out of my fingertips. I could feel tears in the corners of my eyes. No one had ever loved me like this. This man was kneeling in a rain puddle and dealing with all my baggage and insecurities and he STILL wanted to marry me?

It seemed pretty silly now that I’d ever been afraid at all. That I’d ever thought we were anything like my parents.

The answer was obvious.

“Yes, yes, a thousand times YES.” He picked me up and spun me around as he let out a triumphant ‘YES!’.

The rain was coming down harder, crawling its way down our cheeks as we kissed. Thunder boomed and we laughed. I looked into his eyes.

He began to babble. "Wow, so we don't have to get married right away, we can take as long as you want. It can be whatever you want! Hell, we can go to city hall. We can have the longest engagement ever! I'm just so happy you said yes and..." I put my finger to his lips and smiled. “Perfect is so overrated. We'll figure it out. All I know was this night was everything I could’ve asked for.”


| “Now!” screamed the lute-playing assailant, who changed the song’s key. The adventurer with the spear thrust a lucky strike into Benvolio’s belly. Blood splattered on the cavern floor. Walter covered his mouth, suppressing a gasp. Benvolio swaggered back and forth for a few minutes, smoke spilling forth from his nostrils. His eyes rolled up into the back of his head, and then, with a mighty crash, he collapsed onto the ground. “Huzzah!” the adventurers cheered. Walter’s eyes widened. Did they just kill Benvolio? Walter debated jumping out from hiding, doing something to avenge the friendly dragon. But what could he do? They were armed and the best “weapon” he had available was an industrial-grade flashlight. The spear and sword would both do him in before he could land a single hit. He sank to the ground feeling helpless. Benvolio’s body was limp, unmoving on the ground. “Friends, let us commence grabbing the loot!” The leader pointed to the large piles of gold. They grabbed handfuls of gold and gems, filling their sacks to the brim. The group laughed and made jokes, singing their praises for defeating such a wicked foe. Walter clenched his fists and his jaw as he watched them, tears of rage filling his eyes. After the party had taken all the riches they could carry, they dragged their heavy sacks of treasure out of the cave. After a few minutes of silence, Walter emerged from hiding and approached Benvolio’s unmoving form. Walter knelt beside Benvolio’s snout, patting it lightly. He could taste the bile that had risen from his throat. Tears rolled down his cheek and his body heaved with sobs. Perhaps he didn’t know Benvolio well, but he had just witnessed a senseless murder. There was also the matter of how he would get home. Sure, he had the book, but he didn’t have magic. He was just an accountant from the Midwest. His greatest skills were itemizing deductions and singing Aerosmith songs karaoke. No matter how passionately he sang “Dream On” it wasn’t likely to conjure a portal back to Earth. Did he just lose his only chance to get home? How would Beth pay the mortgage, how would his grandson feel about having another family member walk out of his life? “Oh no, I am so sorry.” Benvolio’s voice spoke softly. Walter jumped back with a shriek of surprise. “I should have been clearer earlier,” Benvolio admitted, “that I might need to fake my death.” The tip of his wing gently tapped Walter’s shoulder. “There, there, my friend, there, there.” “What the hell just happened?!” Walter screeched. “Oh, that.” Benvolio stretched his wings a bit, then turned his neck from side to side. There is an ancient rumor that all red dragons are evil, and that we hoard gold. It is a most vexing falsehood. As a result, it seems at least once a fortnight I am confronted by some foolish knight or adventurer wishing to end my so-called reign of terror.” “That’s awful,” Walter replied. “Indeed, I try to dissuade them, but usually it results in me having to pretend I am attacking them without causing harm until they give up. Sometimes if there is anyone nearby who could get hurt, or a potentially unreasonable amount of collateral damage, sometimes its easiest to fake my death.” Benvolio looked back at the shelves, “They could have set this entire place ablaze, and I would be the only one able to survive the fire. I thought it best to hasten my ‘demise’ before they got someone killed and destroyed my collection in the process.” “They stole your gold.” Walter noted, his head tilting toward the piles of gold and gems. Benvolio only laughed in reply, then rapped his claws rhythmically against the cavern floor. There was a shimmer of light, and where the gold and gems had been there was only a pile of ordinary rocks. “The illusion for them will wear off in about two hours. By the time they make it back to town they will realize they have been bamboozled. The townsfolk get a good laugh at it, explaining to the latest group of adventurers that the alleged treasure is a fake. I hope word will eventually get around enough that I can finally end these tiresome charades.” Walter looked back to the pile of rocks, suddenly relieved he had ignored temptation. As an accountant, he dealt with far too many clients caught up in the latest get-quick-rich scam. He was glad to have narrowly avoided this realm’s version of that. “Now then, shall we get back to the matter at hand?” Benvolio asked. Walter nodded, pulling out the book.


Humans have always been judgmental beings. That is why they have assigned me the role of a ceiling fan.

My only job is to look down on people because I cannot control the speed at which I turn. It is all in their hands. Those knob heads control me with a knob. And for the past ten years, I have been judging them as the ceiling fan of the Government Utility Bill Payment Office.

Last March, I heaved a sigh of relief. For some reason, they were shutting down the world. This meant that the household ceiling fans had to work overtime, while I can rest until they reopen the world. But as luck would have it, the maintenance man forgot to switch me off before he left. I've been turning slowly and slowly for the past year, without any rest. It would've been better if they kept the knob at full speed, but no I wasn't lucky enough for that. If I ran at full speed for a few days, I would probably fall off the ceiling. And we all know ground fans are worthless. But the knob was turned to the slowest speed setting. A ten-year-old ceiling fan that hasn't been maintained by incompetent government officials and it is moving really slow. That's when time stands still. I have never left the ceiling for ten years. But turning above an empty room, without any people to pass judgments on, I would beg for hell than stay here. But as days passed, March marched slowly into April after almost a year. It was during April that I came close to freedom. Since most people stayed back home, the electrical appliances outside residential areas got a fluctuating power supply. Don't ask me how I know all that technical jargon, electricity literally keeps me alive.

Those fluctuations caused my speed to increase. Instead of moving at five revolutions per minute, I would rotate at six the next minute. Then seven the next. I expected eight the next minute, but the power fluctuation fell, and I began to move at two or three per minute.

Every time I felt a glimmer of hope, I would slow down. This kept happening long enough that I ceased to care. Death as freedom is too much wishful thinking for someone like me. Gradually, my condition worsened. Dust began to cover my blades. Rust began to slowly creep up on me, but I wouldn't stop turning.

At that point, I began to lose a sense of myself. I wasn't able to judge humans anymore. All I did was slowly turn, get covered in rust and dust, and stare at the blank floor.

But working in a poorly maintained government office has its perks. A few weeks later, probably during the early monsoon in July, a few rats came in. With no one around to shoo them away, with large paper stacks of government records lying for them to chew on, this became a heaven for them. But surprisingly enough, when it became a heaven for them, it did so too for me. I got to watch the rats. And very soon, within a few weeks, the whole place was sprawling with rats.

Apparently, rats don't care much for siblings. They just have a go when they feel like it. So it gave me enough room to judge them. Promiscuous and incestuous rats, I was back to my old self again.

But in September, the rats slowly began to disappear. They had eaten away all the paperwork. And didn't have anything else to eat but themselves. The rats which turned to cannibalism survived. They gave me another reason to judge them. But soon enough, that too became boring. Somewhere in October, I could hear the voices of people outside the room. Apparently, they were going to reopen the world again in phases. You can bet that I had been waiting for this. Imagine the sight when the maintenance man comes in and gets greeted by chewed records and cannibal rats. But they didn't open the office door. During the time when they shut down the world, people began to pay their utility bills without leaving their homes. So now they could pay their utility bills from home rather than come all the way here. Judging the antics of the cannibal rats soon became boring to me. So I began to ignore them. As winter approached, hell began to creep back on me. The rats ceased to fight themselves and began to fight the cold. But the cold didn't affect me, I am just a ceiling fan stuck on top.

But why did I start feeling like this? When did I gain the capacity to feel?

Where did all the emotions come from?

I'm an inanimate ceiling fan. A mass-produced capitalist commodity that will not work past its warranty period. If I can remember correctly, around March of this year, I started feeling this way. Just before they shut down the world. So for the next two months, I had something to do: think. I began to ponder why a fan could get emotional. Those days passed by, and it was March again, exactly a year since they shut down the world. They still weren't going to reopen the world. But something expected happened with the door of the office. During the winter, the door edges shrunk. And when summer came, the door became loose and bolted open. So basically, the door was open for anyone to come in. I waited for a few days, no one came. Some day, probably during the end of March, a young couple came in. They just needed a place to fool around. But the minute they entered, their faces were smeared with shock. The boy began to scream and ran away without the girl. The girl was initially frightened at what she saw, but that fright turned into anger as she slowly walked off to find that boy.

Until now, I hadn't realized it, but a corpse had been hanging off the ceiling fan. The noose which I had used still held my decomposed body. I remembered everything now.

Working as a maintenance man in the government utility office was almost worthless. I was invisible. But that didn't really matter to me. That is how my job has always been and, I had learned to accept it. What I hated was that people judged me for being a cleaner. If I don't clean their place, they will live like pigs. But when I clean their mess, all I get is filthy stares of condescension. I never expected gratitude. But I never expected judgment either. After I hung myself, I had left the fan switched on. My body hung from the fan for three days before they shut down the world. And no one noticed a decaying corpse. That was when I became the ceiling fan. It was the only object which hadn't judged me for the past ten years. The rats had eaten parts of me. So now I became a few rats also. The world is full of filth, and now I'm only going to add more.