Darren Wolf is the kind of man that runs in routines. He wakes up at precisely 6:30 in the morning, and the first thing he does after opening his eyes is fixing his bed. How he knows it is precisely 6:30 in the morning isn’t because of some alarm clock on his phone (his phone can only call his only daughter who lives a city away from him and when absolutely pressed, an ambulance when he needs it), but because of the sounds of his neighborhood that immediately tells his mind to wake up when he hears it. There’s the two high-pitched barks of the terrier monster his neighbor Matt arduously walks in the morning before heading to work because Cyril sleeps in, and the incessant beeping of some other neighbor’s hand-me-down car because they can’t handle parallel parking after a graveyard shift at work. Younger folks who just moved in like his neighbors Matt and Cyril like to stay in this district because of the quaint rural landscape it boasts as an escape to the metropolitan city, but what they’re really doing is dictating Darren’s schedule. Basically, he doesn’t have a choice but to wake up, because his house doesn’t really sound-proof well, considering it was built back in the 1940s. The next order of business would be breakfast: rolled oats and a hard-boiled egg. Completely bland and yet entirely satisfying. His doctors warned him against coffee in his age, but he knew that the thing that will get him in the end will be his smoking history. Younger Darren thought it was cool to smoke a fag but while he doesn’t regret the experience, he’s an idiot to continue his habit well after his 50s. Even now, his chest needs a few pounds directly to the lungs to remind them their integral role to Darren’s continued life on Earth. The house doesn’t bear any marks of his precious cigarettes anymore, his ash trays he let his daughter sell in her garage sale. These days, he just follows his routine. By eight, he’s itching for a walk, and he makes sure to leave food and water for his cat, Basil. Darren doesn’t care for that tall, curly-haired twat in BBC calling himself Sherlock, Basil Rathbone is the only Sherlock Holmes that matters. He leaves with his running shoes meticulously tied, his knitted cable jumper fresh from the fancy laundry machine he got over the holidays, and nice pressed trousers. In spring, the sun hits the sleepy rural town with just the right amount of sunlight, and the air feels light as it breezes by on his weathered cheeks. Living riverside, there’s just enough boats that it’s considered charming, but the tourists do get on Darren’s nerves. He’s more of a fan of autumn walks where time seems to halt every time a golden leaf flutter to the ground, but Eleanor loved spring and its gentle warmth that kisses their snowy town awake after winter. He does a quick circle around his street, sometimes he shops. He would pick a sandwich or maybe chips to eat for lunch and to save for dinner, but he’s had the habit of making extremely detailed groceries ingrained by his mother when he was younger, so spontaneous shopping isn’t in the daily routine. He’s known to be gruff and silent, and he could feel some schoolchildren staring at his back as they go to primary school when he ventures nearer to the more populated streets. He doesn’t mind It most of the time; Occasionally when he catches their eyes and they stop staring and reluctantly gives him a hesitant smile, it reminds him of his daughter Donna and simpler times. Most of the time, he’d finish his circuit and be back from his jaunt by late morning and Basil will be laying on his corner of sunshine by the hall. A book, shared in silence between a man and his cat, is slotted in the routine until he feels his stomach grumble for lunch. He takes his lunch outside in their porch, with an awning that makes the afternoon sun a bit more bearable. Today is a Wednesday, which means his neighbor, Cyril will be outside too. “Darren! Heard Basil meowing a bit earlier. Did you forget to feed him again?” Ever since his recent run in to the hospital, his neighbors have made the point to talk to Darren when they see him at least once a day. Maybe Donna has forced them to do it, fearing for her father’s self-imposed isolation after the death of her mother last year and the reoccurring nightmare of him dying without anyone noticing now that she’s gone ahead. Maybe Cyril’s decided to be neighborly after living next to each other for two months. They moved in and settled by winter, and were very courteous, but Darren’s not a fan of the cold and stayed indoors where the heat was reliable. Cyril’s what Eleanor would have called sweet if she was still around, and she would’ve given him an extra marmalade jar when she made them in batches. Luckily for Darren, Eleanor’s not around to swat him in the arm when he’s being rude to people who interrupt his lunch. He gestures at the empty easel in front of his neighbor, “Planning to finish this time?” This usually gets Darren the intended effect for the past week: Cyril’s embarrassed grimace and death of awkward conversation between two people defined by their generations. Cyril’s a painter, or he valiantly attempts to be one every day. Darren isn’t entirely sure what he actually does as an occupation, but on weekdays, Cyril paints quite erratically; unfinished portraits of the river, the little wildflowers dotting the edges of the riverbanks, even an incomplete portrait of his husband in front of the idyllic rural background. He starts with an empty white canvas, and when Darren peeks at his neighbor’s work (which if he’s asked, he’ll vehemently deny) he’s done some work that somehow vanishes the next day. This time however, Cyril smiles. “Actually, I’d like it if I could maybe paint you,” he eyes Darren up and down, as if sizing him and placing him already as the subject of his painting. Darren gets a sinking feeling in his stomach, which can’t possibly be the pudding he’s eating. “And don’t worry, I hear your doubts. This time, definitely, I’ll finish painting, and you can even keep the end result for absolutely free.” “Why on earth would you paint someone like me?” Darren incredulously asks, his lunch forgotten beside him. “Surely, there’s better candidates for painting. Just wait for your husband when he gets home and paint him!” He could feel a dangerous flush of embarrassment tainting his usually gruff face. Eleanor has always said the he embarrasses easily and reddens like an angry tomato that just about to drop from the vegetable vine. He gestures uncomfortably and shrugs, “Paint the sky, or some car, or even Basil, for god’s sakes.” “I’ve painted those lot already, and Matt’s a terrible model. He moves around and isn’t at all interesting; He just frowns at his mobile and talks about the stock market. I know I married him, but he’s dreadfully boring,” Cyril amusedly says as he continues to regard Darren with continued interest. “You, on the other hand, are incredibly interesting. I’ve been trying to paint outside ever since spring made it easier to set up my easel and paints while every day without fail, you sit outside for lunch. When you stare at nothing and everything, I just want to capture the moment where you here and yet aren’t here at all and feel what you feel. I don’t know if you’ve noticed it, but you only ever smile during lunch time, and it can’t possibly be because of what you’re eating, “he stops suddenly and gives a sudden belly-aching laugh that startles Darren, “I realize I sound like a stalker, and I swear I’m not, I just really want to paint you.” Silence seems to have descended into the conversation, as Darren grapples with the fact that his neighbor is more astute than he realized which puts his self-taught inquisitiveness from his love for crime solving books to shame that had made him think he’s slightly more superior to his younger neighbors. His neighborhood has changed as the ties caught up on them, and Darren and his quiet corner has stayed intact. Maybe he has always felt that his age made him felt wiser and more enduring than his flighty neighbors who change as seasons come, but he’s never been caught off-guard like this from a conversation before. Worse, his ears betray him as they distinctly hear Eleanor’s amusement as if she’s right beside him as they would’ve been sitting together at lunchtime, look at you, making friends! Told you, you could do it. Cyril looks more and more uncomfortable as the silence stretches on to minutes than the seconds he had initially hoped for and Darren’s mouth remains locked and his whole-body tense, like a tightly coiled spring. “Listen, forget it, it was a stupid idea, I’m sorry to bother you--” “Alright then.” Darren interrupts what would have been a more embarrassing conversation for the two of them. He could pretend to himself that he’s only acquiescing to dodge another nuisance, but to be honest, he feels a bit curious to see how his neighbor sees him. Eleanor would’ve loved the idea, too. It would be something new to tell her when he visits her on Sunday after mass instead of recounting the same old routine he’s been telling her and which no doubt, makes boring conversation for her. Cyril’s face starts with to slight confusion to surprise and complete delight. “Wonderful! Absolutely—I don’t know what to say really, excellent!” Darren eyes him and he immediately stops his chatter but the happiness on his face remains. “Just… sit there and eat? I suppose? I haven’t really thought ahead after asking you really,” Cyril keeps his steady stream of chatter and while his neighbor fixes his painting things that looks unnecessarily complicated to Darren, he resumes his lunch and wonders if he’s too old to make a new friend and decides that if Eleanor were here, she would have told him in between Cyril’s chitchat to already invite the poor thing over for dinner, and that’s what he’s going to do.


# “Push! Push!” "It's not coming, call Dr. Sun." "Prep for C-section, make sure we keep the father out, I don't want another breech." "Sweety, everything is fine, we knew this was probably going to be the case and it's best for you and the baby.” “But, everything’s okay right? She’s going to be okay?” Sarah asked from the hospital bed, anxious but not worried. The nurse didn’t answer this time. Dr. Sun could be heard speed walking down the hall, yelling at someone, “I told you this was a bad idea, we can’t keep taking chances like this!” But the instant she rounded the corner to enter the room her face was the epitome of calm and focus. “Sarah, how are you doing?” She asked right away but didn’t wait for a verbal response, getting her answer by reading Sarah’s face. “This is gonna be like rolling out of bed in the morning. You just relax and Jackie will have you feeling nice and numb here.” Then to the nurse, “Why did you wait so long?” again not giving a chance to reply, “Doesn’t matter, she’s prepped? Were we able to get the *flavi* test back yet?” Jackie, “No, but, it’s pretty obvious isn’t it, I mean,” speaking quietly, “It’s 6 diviations above normal, I’ve never seen anything like this, have you?” “We’re gonna need to put Sarah under, the shock might be too much and I don’t want to have to foricalby sedate if it comes to that.” “Doctor, she’s, she’ll find out eventually,” but Dr. Sun cut the nurse off. “Just get Gabrial in here and make sure she's prepped in 5. I’m gonna check on that *flavi*.” Sarah strained to hear and was quickly moving from anxious to concerned, “Nurse, we okay right? She’s gonna be okay right?” Jackie spoke in her sweetest drawl, “Ah, sweety, you and baby are gonna be more than okay, you gonna be perfect. Now your **only** job is to get comfy and try to relax, the doctor is gonna have you under for this one, she thinks--” “Under? Like, like put under, why? I don’t need that, I need to be awake to, to see my baby. To make sure she’s okay.” Sarah pleaded. “Honey, it's for the best, doctor knows what she’s doing, it's just gonna feel like going to sleep and when you wake up your baby will be right here with you, just like magic.” Jackie tried. “That’s not what we talked about, that’s not what I want. Where’s Jim? I need to talk to my husband!” “Sweety, I’m sorry it’s too late, we already put the pento in your IV, you just need to try and take a deep breath--” “Jim! JIM!!! I need to see my husband. Jim!” Sarah’s breath was becoming larbord, her vision was going. On an exhale she managed to get out, in just above a whisper, “Evelyn.” She breathed in, then out, “Call.” In.


Ruth set her empty cup in the sink and walked toward the balcony. On the way, the bottle of wine they’d received for their anniversary beckoned to her from the table. She picked it up and scrutinized it as she recounted the meeting of the previous night. The people there were welcoming and genuinely expressed their interest in getting to know her and George. Though she’d only met Gloria a couple nights ago, she felt she could trust this leader of these people. This was despite the strange and alarming things that had been shared with her. Ruth’s mind flashed back to the meeting. Gloria held the old book open before her and read unrecognizable words. Periodically, there was a response from the listeners in the same tongue. Even though she couldn’t understand what was being spoken, Ruth sensed something strangely appealing about what she was watching. She didn’t feel bored or out-of-touch. After about five minutes, Gloria set the book down on the chair next to her. She raised her arms up and began singing. Her voice was pleasing. The other members joined in. Soon, the room was filled with the sound of their voices. The melody was intoxicating, with men and women’s voices blended in beautiful harmonies that came and went with the progression of the song. A feeling of warmth seemed to enter the room and one felt like the space was larger than it was. As she listened, Ruth realized that she no longer heard the noise of the ship’s engine room nearby. The voices of the singers were by no means louder than that of the engines, but rather, seemed to eclipse them. It was almost as if that sound was being replaced. Ruth began to think she’d never heard anything so beautiful in her life. Tears filled her eyes. An urge arose inside for her to stand to which she unconsciously responded. As the singing continued, wave after wave of warm feelings came over Ruth. At the same time, an unsettled feeling began to make its presence known. Ruth couldn’t put her finger on it. Soon it began to distract her from the peaceful sensations she was experiencing. She wanted it to go away, but it persisted. Something familiar about it haunted her thoughts. What was it? The peace she had felt before began to erode. She looked at the faces of those around. All seemed to be beaming with satisfaction, contentment. Was she the only one feeling this? Ruth was brought back to the present. That’s why she was here now. She couldn’t let that sensation go. She was unsure of what to think of everything she’d been told. She wanted to be open. George, however, was very skeptical. As she turned the wine bottle in her hand, she remembered Gloria’s warming from their first meeting. “I urge you to get rid of it. Do not drink it.”  Ruth had intentionally not mentioned any of that to George. It would have only added fuel to his objections. She knew the subject would have to be broached, if and when they ever opened it up. It’s just a bottle of wine. What could be so bad? She set it back down and walked to the balcony. The overcast sky added to her somber mood. She thought about her family, about the things Gloria had said. Flashes of her past whizzed by and Ruth felt her knees buckling. She dropped into a chair. Again, her conversation with Gloria about this person called Eyah-sah and Kyrios, the being who sent him, came to mind. “Get alone. Get somewhere you can be without distractions, where nothing will be able to compete with your attention and talk to him.” “Talk to him? How do you talk to someone you can’t see?” “By acting as if he is there. I assure you; he will be. Don’t give up. Press on. What you’ve been fed your whole life is like a fog that has to be burned away. It can take some time, but it’s worth it.” “What happens?” asked Ruth. “He’ll make himself known to you.” Gloria touched Ruth’s breastbone. “Here. This is where you will see him, and he’ll show you what you need to see.” Now Ruth looked up and around. “I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know where to start or what to do. Is anybody really there? Is anyone even listening?” Ruth sat there for a few moments waiting for something. She didn’t know what that was. As time passed, she began to feel rather foolish about her solo conversation. “I should just get dressed.” As she rose to leave, she felt something restraining her. It wasn’t words per se, but more like her own consciousness telling her not to go. She stopped and turned back around. Stepping to the railing, she grabbed onto it and stared out over the water. “Is that you or is it me? Am I just imagining things?” Ruth stood silently for a few moments. Her head lifted upward. “E--Eyah-sah? Is that you?” Suddenly, a new sensation. It seemed she was not alone. There was a presence with her, not on the balcony, but all around her. Somehow, she perceived that it had been there all along but only now had she become aware of it. “Is that you? You’re here?” Again, it was not words, but she felt a confirmation in her that was an answer to her question. “Can you help me? I was told to seek you. I need to know what’s going on. I’m scared, and I don’t know what to do. Please, I need your help.” Tears began to fill her eyes. “Please, Eyah-sah, if you’re there.” Just then, she felt something calming her heart. She sensed understanding, compassion, even concern for her life. “You’re here, I know you’re here. Gloria said you would show me what I need to see. Please, show me.” At that, the calming began to fade. The same unsettling feelings she’d experienced in the meeting with Gloria and the group began to return. Only this time they were more pronounced, more pointed. Like they were trying to direct her thoughts to a specific place. She felt a wrenching of her emotions. “What? What is it? What is this I’m feeling? I’m so disturbed. What’s happening? What are you trying to tell me?” Ruth gripped the railing tightly as the sensation intensified. She could hardly stand it anymore. “Help! I’m in agony over this!” Glenda Harboro. That name suddenly popped into Ruth’s mind. Glenda had been a childhood friend. As young children they had been inseparable. Glenda was a rather clumsy girl and not particularly attractive, but she had a sweet personality. Ruth was her only real friend. That is, until they had gotten older, and Ruth had begun to date George. The time they spent together began to diminish in its frequency and duration. Ruth felt guilty about it at first, but as she spent more and more time with George and their circle of friends, that passed. Those guilty feelings now returned. Long buried memories arose in a slideshow of scenes that recalled how Ruth had specifically been distant, insensitive, even cruel in her treatment of her friend. One particular incident proved especially bothersome. Ruth and her girlfriends were seated together at lunch and Glenda came up in the conversation. The other girls made light of her, making all manner of disparaging remarks about her looks. Ruth recalled with horror now how she had laughed with them. Just as this was going on, Glenda walked by their table carrying a plate of food from the buffet. She stopped momentarily and looked at Ruth with sadness. The other girls shut up and looked at their plates with awkward expressions. The sinking feeling Ruth had felt at the time returned. As Glenda continued on, the other girls giggled and smirked among themselves. Ruth sat silently, awash in shameful guilt. Interaction between Glenda and Ruth became nothing more than occasional encounters at various activities on the ship. Ruth felt for the longest time the need to address the situation, but her guilt-ridden conscience wouldn’t let her. Eventually, she buried everything deep inside and carried on with her life. Now, a final memory of her old childhood friend came into focus. It was fifteen years ago; the day Glenda left the ship. A small gathering stood on the main deck with Glenda standing on the exit platform. Ruth hadn’t been able to bring herself to join the group. She, instead, was some distance away on a walkway facing the ceremony. Glenda turned to walk onto the catwalk but took one final look to the backdrop as if hoping to see someone. Ruth hadn’t realized it at the time, but now was fully aware that her old friend was looking for her. She watched Glenda step onto the catwalk and into the void of the Black Ship. Her old friend was gone. She had never had any children, had never even married. Not many had been there to see her go. As if someone had punched her in the stomach, Ruth collapsed onto the balcony deck and buried her head in her hands. “Oh, no, what have I done? What have I done? How could I?” She began to convulse in sobs. “Oh, Glenda, how could I? I’m so sorry. You were so nice, and I was so cruel. I wish you were here to tell you but you’re not and I’m so awfully sorry. I need your forgiveness, but I can’t get it. How can I live? How can I live?” The presence Ruth had felt before returned. She looked up in desperation. “Oh, Eyah-sah, help me! Please help me!” Instantly, the words Gloria had spoken before about Eyah-sah came to mind, but more than that. Ruth could visualize what had been spoken to her. She saw this man being beaten and strapped to the stern of the ship. She saw a man cry out and go limp. She saw a lifeless body get cut loose and tossed like a rag into the sea. She recalled Gloria’s words about Eyah-sah taking our guilt upon himself. That’s when Ruth realized that she had a part in it all. Her guilt was driving this selfless act. She bore responsibility. She cried out. “Oh, Eyah-sah, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for all of it. How could I have treated her like that? Poor, dear Glenda. I’m sorry for hurting you. Forgive me. Please, please forgive me.” Ruth curled up in a ball. She wept and wept, repeating “Forgive me” over and over. Then, as if a heavy burden had been lifted off her, Ruth felt a lightness in her heart. All at once, she became aware of an overwhelming presence that overshadowed her. It was like someone had stepped onto the balcony with her, though no one was visible. The oppressive guilt she had felt was totally gone. In its place she felt an indescribable warmth she’d never experienced in all her years. This presence was like what she felt from Eyah-sah but was different. It was unique to itself. Then it burst upon her in a flood as if someone had turned on a light and she could see for the first time. She rose to her knees. “Father!” she cried out. “You’re my father. It’s you. You’re my father. All this time and I never knew. It’s you, Kyrios.” Tears of comfort, relief, peace, and contentment poured from her eyes as she absorbed it all. A new awareness had become part of her. She sensed and realized things hidden for her entire life. Something had happened to Ruth deep in her core. She knew now that this Kyrios had always wanted to be that to her, a father. All those thousands of years ago, that was his intent from the beginning. More than a creature, she was now transformed into a child of this marvelous being. The plan and the intent of Kyrios was now manifesting itself in her heart. Now it became apparent to her that she had to see her need for forgiveness before she could realize it. It was Eyah-sah. He made it possible. She was free. Her guilt was gone. There was nothing in the way of or that could hide this new-found relationship. Not only was she forgiven. Ruth was loved. She was really loved. “Thank you. Oh, thank you, father. Thank you, Eyah-sah. Oh, Eyah-sah, dear Eyah-sah, how can I possibly thank you?” Ruth bent over with her knees on the balcony deck, repeating softly, “Thank you.” After a few minutes she quickly raised her head. Something new had just been revealed to her. “No!” she said with excitement. “Is that who you really are, Eyah-sah? I must tell Gloria. I must tell George. I must tell everyone.” She quickly rose to her feet. There was a new spring in her step, not at all like that of a seventy-something. “I must tell Gloria first.” As she headed for the door, the bottle on the table seemed to jump out at her. She picked it up and looked it over. The words Gloria had spoken echoed in her mind, but this time it was not her voice. That same impression from inside of her was now the source. She knew what she had to do. “We’re not having this.” Ruth marched out to the balcony and drew the bottle back. As she got ready to throw it out to sea, a thought occurred to her. What will George think? She hesitated, then recalled Gloria’s words regarding the Dark Ones and their influence. She looked at the bottle. “I don’t care anymore. There’s a lot of things I don’t care about anymore.” With a grunt, Ruth hurled the bottle over the railing, then turned and headed for the door. She opened it and stepped outside. “I must tell Gloria,” she said with a giggle as she closed the door. Then she turned and bounced down the hallway, still in her nightclothes.


Somewhere in this village is a Library – hidden, out of sight. No one knows where to find it because no one searches for it; no one have ever even heard of it. But in this Secret Library, hundreds of thousands of Books live. Their pages magically pulse with life – a heart beating in the chest of a hardcover – while their words speak volumes to those who wish to listen. Nobody listens; nobody hears them; nobody even knows they exist. Except. A man led his six-year-old son into an office-type building that looked inconspicuous to the rest of the world. But the man knew better, having been there so many times before, that the lobby led to a spiral staircase that wound up to one room upstairs, drenched in antiquity and riches – draped in gold curtains, dripping in crystals, smelling of ink and paper, and lined with rows and rows and rows of ornately-carved bookcases. The father’s face lit up with recognition while the son’s with wonder. “I’ve told you stories, but it’s not something to truly believe until you’ve actually seen it,” Henry told his son, who was tracing the swirls in the shelves, running his fingers over the old wood; a splinter jammed into his small hand and instantaneously healed itself – without a scratch or a drop of blood to account for it. Even Henry stopped in his tracks and stared. “So what exactly is this place?” the son asked, already forgetting about the injury. “The Secret Library,” Henry answered in a hushed voice. “The place that houses all the Books of Destinies. Everyone’s life story is written here and stored on these very shelves. It’s infinite, even though it’s contained in such a small space.” “The covers are really pretty,” the son said distractedly, picking out a pale blue Book with a silver-scratched spine. A name and date were engraved at the bottom:

Katya Adriana Melvina, March 14 . “So everyone’s destinies are in these Book?” Henry nodded. “Is yours here? Can I see it?” He showed his son to a corner, where he picked up a dark green leather Book with a scalloped cover. “This one is yours?” the son asked, amazed, taking the Book from him. “Have you read it?” “No one can read their own destinies, Dima. To me, it’s blank, like one of your sketchbooks.” “I guess that makes sense,” Dimitri contemplated. “I guess we’re not supposed to know the future when we want to makes choices right now, no matter if it’s already written what our choice will be. Destiny may know it, but we don’t.”  “You’re so intuitive for your age, Dima,” Henry looked at his son with a sad smile. He didn’t need to be psychic anymore to realize the disease would get to him before he saw Dimitri grow up to be the fine young man he knew he will be, before he would truly understand what this Library meant. Dimitri traced the date engraved in his father’s Book, hearing the thoughts in Henry’s mind.

February 17 .

By that point, he’d already found out his dad was sick and tried not to think about how many more of these birthdays he might still have left, tried not to think if this could have been his last one. He blinked back tears and carefully put the Book back onto the shelf. “What about my Book?” “Your Book is a little different, Dima,” he said with almost a sorrowful glaze in his eyes. Dimitri followed him to a side wall, a bookshelf right next to a lofty stained-glass window, each panel in a shade of violet or amber. Henry gazed through the Books but Dimitri instantly gravitated toward it – a telepathic tug. He took out a burgundy Book with a fanning geometric engraving in gold, resembling flower petals or ivy leaves. He traced the shimmering shapes, a deep and lonely longing filling him, and he could sense his father’s apprehension as he turned the Book over in his hands, shocked to find

Dimitri Rhanalrik, December 3. “That’s not right, that’s not my birthday. It’s supposed to be February 14 th ,” he argued, confused. He opened the Book and gasped: he saw words. It was supposed to be his destiny and he wasn’t supposed to be able to see it, but he did. He does. Supposed to, supposed to, everything about him was a long string of

supposed to . “If no one is supposed to see their destinies,” he told his father, “and I can see mine, then this isn’t my destiny. This is the one I was supposed to have had – if I weren’t psychic.” *** Present Day: Dimitri ***

The cloyingly sweet perfume of eternal flowers and the signature dusty scent of paper always hits me first whenever I step in here. Specks and sparkles scatter off the crystal chandelier as I step into the Secret Library. I’m never entirely sure why I come here. My Book is wrong, so it’s not like I can fast-forward a few chapters to read what happens next – it’s like an old friend every time I see it, familiar after all this time but still a complete stranger to me. I’ve never read it. I never will. I could and at times I’m even tempted to. But what good what it do? It would be like reading a fantasy novel – a story so close to reality that it could be nonfiction, but it isn’t; it’s an imaginary character living in an imaginary world in his imaginary life. It’s not me. And I wonder, which one of us is it that Katya really fell in love with? I have to hope that it is me, but I’m not sure if this really is me. So maybe that’s why I visit here often anyway, when I’m confused or unsure of what to do next – perhaps because this is where I most remember Dad, and he gave me more wisdom and guidance than my inaccurate destiny ever could.

The golden pixie dust in the air swirls around me in welcoming, recognizing my psychic presence, and I swat it away, annoyed as it tickles my nose. Instinctively, I go to my Book; it’s a habit – a magnetic pull and I’m the metal. On the shelf, under the violet and amber window, I find a burgundy cover with a petal-like engraving with the title

Dimitri Rhanalrik, December 3.

I open it with no intention of reading it, but notice a piece of paper slotted between the pages. Funny, I never noticed this before, as I unfold the page and am struck cold. Dear Dima, It’s Dad. What? Everything in me goes numb and my legs buckle under me as I slide down to the floor in disbelief. No, this can’t- this can’t be possible. But I read the words over and over and over again and they are real, and I read on, stunned. If you’re reading this, then it means that you’ve grown up to be a fine young man. And a strong psychic. It also means that I am no longer with you. Tears spring to my eyes but I blink them back, needing to see this clearly to be sure I’m not hallucinating.

I have a confession. I probably should have told you this a long time ago, but you were still so young. So young and innocent; you shouldn’t have to live with the consequences of my mistakes. But it seems like they have found you anyway. I couldn’t tell you back then and I know I won’t be there to tell you when you’re older. I was psychic too. “What?” I try to take deep breaths without hyperventilating. My dad. Was psychic? No, no, that’s impossible. It can’t – it can’t be possible. My hands shake so hard that I can barely hold on to the letter. I know this must come as quite a shock to you. There’s no easy way of explaining this and unfortunately, it just gets more complicated. I only hope that when you finish reading this, you won’t hate me. It all started long ago. Very long ago. I’ll spare you the exact date but let’s just say it’s been a few centuries. Some chemical reaction in the cosmos triggered Destiny to become the most powerful force in the Universe, even more so than gravity, able to align – or disrupt – the planets and life here on Earth. And it reached out to me with a proposal: the chance to understand more, know everything about how the Universe works, and the promise of immortality. I agreed. You must understand, Dima, I was young, in my 20s. I was an astronomy scholar and Destiny’s offer made me feel like the best, invincible. I was also incredibly naïve. I leaped at the chance of the promise of all the power ever granted. In exchange, I was supposed to be an editor, a groundskeeper of its Library. I think you see where this is going. I think I do too and it makes me sick to my stomach and I close my eyes because if I don’t read the next words then maybe they won’t be real – the next words can be my Schrödinger’s Cat. But I open them again and the blue-inked words confirm it. I became the Librarian of the Secret Library. Destiny was the brilliant, prolific author, and I edited the Books according to its instructions and maintained the Secret Library. Tweaking a few sentences and arranging a few books on a shelf – it seemed like such a trivial price to pay for the immortality and the invincibility. And I loved it: moving things with my mind, never getting sick or old, reading people’s minds. It gave me such a thrill, like I could have everything and anything I wanted: leading a rich life in high style without a care in the world. In reality, I had nothing. Destiny controlled me. I had promised to do its writing and in doing so, had signed away my destiny. I never had any choices to make, though it seemed like I had it all. It took me a good few centuries to realize that. The day I met a girl names Irene – your mother – was the day I realized that no matter the power and promise of Destiny, I could never be truly happy without her, for what good would be a life forever if it was a life forever without her? I gave it up, gave up my powers and position in the Library, and tried to turn a page on that very long chapter of my life. However, when you were born, Dimitri, I realized that I would never be free of it, that Destiny had followed me into you. That’s why I’m writing you this. When I saw your eyes change color for the first time, like mine had all those centuries, I learned that was Destiny’s way of saying, the story must go on. I should have realized that Destiny would try to find someone to fill my position in the Library, and who better than someone who shares my psychic genes? You. I am so sorry, Dimitri. I never thought this could happen. It is true that your DNA is different because you’re psychic – it’s because of me, it’s all my fault. It’s tampered with because you inherited those genes from my old immortal self. I didn’t know – I never imagined – that it would pass to you when I gave it up so long before, and once I realized it, it was too late. But you, Dima, are psychic because of me, and you must take my place in the Secret Library.

I’m sorry, Dimitri. I never wanted this for you. Please forgive me.

*** Katya ***

1248 Chandler Avenue is the end of a small street in a busy corner of town. The backs of brick buildings surround me, some fire escape ladders trail down to the rugged asphalt, the hum of cars passing on the adjacent street rumbles between the walls, and a few lamps light the otherwise shadowy road. By this time of the evening, dusk already settles in, setting everything under a shady film that is eerily murky. I wouldn’t picture Dimitri lounging around in such an enigmatic place. Or maybe I could picture him perfectly, when I reach the building and he sits on the front steps waiting for me. He is as good-looking as ever in a royal purple sweater, but there’s a mysterious aura to him that makes him almost blend into the setting. He wrings his hands and adjusts his glasses; he’s been somewhat on edge the entire day. Yet, seeing me still seems to comfort him. “Hey, you made it,” he stands up when I come into his view. “Yeah, took me a while to find it, but of course. What did you want to show me?” I ask, giving him a quick hug. He turns so that we’re both looking at the building in front of us. From the outside, it looks like a regular office building, but I eventually follow Dimitri’s gaze to a faded wooden sign posted above the door, whatever once written on it worn away from years in the sun and rain, but I can still make out some of the faint lettering: Someone & Someone “Publishing Co.”. You could easily overlook it if you didn’t know it’s there and Dimitri obviously knows it there. He pulls the brass doorknob. “The Secret Library.” *** Dimitri ***

“Oh wow,” Katya gasps as she steps into the Secret Library from the stairwell, eyes drinking in the charm and magic in the room. “Dimitri, what is this place?” I cannot lie to her anymore; I need to tell her the whole truth, otherwise Destiny will keep latching onto my psychic secret to tears Katya and me apart. I don’t believe Destiny played any factor in whether Katya and I are meant to be – we fell in love despite it being written against us, and I have to hope she will still choose me knowing my psychic side. “The Secret Library,” I repeat. “These shelves all hold the Books of Destinies – Books that have every person’s life story written, a storyline everyone unknowingly follows because that’s what Destiny chose for them.” “What do you mean? I don’t understand.”

I sigh heavily, knowing there’s no way I can explain this rationally. “I know you don’t,” I start, burying a hand in my hair. “I didn’t think you would. It’s not something easy to understand. I can barely understand it, and I have to, I have to, Katya, but I don’t know and all I know is that it’s true and, and I have no clue where to begin explaining this to you – or myself – how to even try.” I can’t stop the words from spilling out, strangling in my throat, sentences that run into rambles that makes absolutely no sense.

Katya takes my hands in hers to steady me; she must think I’m delusional. Her touch, once so warm and comforting, now sears red hot deep through my muscles. She opens her mouth to say something, but before any words comes out, her gaze falls on a pale blue Book with a silver-scratched spine. “Why- why does this have my name on it?” she looks at me skeptically. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. “Because it’s

your

Book of Destiny.” “What?” “I’m psychic,” I admit, and her brain whirls, a jolt of shock in her red aura burning me. “ What?”  she repeats, squinting her eyes at me.

“Please let me explain,” I try but she throws the Book at me. “Is this all just a big joke to you? Am

I

just a big joke to you?” “No, Katya, wait!” “Forget it!” she shoves me back as she tries to get by me in the narrow aisle, but we both end up toppling, a fall that trips me into the splintery bookshelf; I cut my hand on the sharp wood. “Ah!” I wince from the sting even though I know it’ll be over in a second. But Katya doesn’t know. Even furious at me, she still gasps and instinctively grabs my hand in concern – sees the gash slick with blood before it completely heals itself in front of her eyes “What – but you – I saw,” she jumps away and stares at me in disbelief. “This: this is unnatural.

You

are unnatural!” she yells and races out the door, letting it swing loudly and firmly shut behind her. I know. I curl my knees up and bury my head in my arms. I know. I’ve known, but hearing it from her confirms it: she has made her choice.


Bedtime Story “Hey Grandkids! Do you want to hear a bedtime story?” Luke asked. “Of course we do!” exclaimed the children! “Okay! It was a long time ago when your grandmother and I worked at rival bakeries. Molly, your grandma, named her bakery, Molly’s Doughy Delights , and mine was titled Bake My Day . At that time, your grandma was sassy and rude.” he said with a side glance at Molly. She forcefully nodded in agreement. “I guess I was. But unlike me, Grandpa was kind and funny.” Molly said with a quiet giggle. “On the first of December, people flooded in with orders for the Christmas season.” told Luke. “Everyone in town was ordering delicious treats!

Both Molly and I wanted to be the best bakers in town. We tried to bake better treats than the others and earn the most money. When time came for the Annual Christmas Festival, the town held a Bake Off where five bakeries would compete in three rounds to win $1,000,000. The lucky bakeries chosen were Molly’s Doughy Delights , Bake My Day, Downtown Bakery , Sugar and Spice, and Cherry on Top .” “The next week we started the first round of the Bake Off.” Molly stated. “We were assigned to create a cupcake with a Christmas surprise inside. Inside my chocolate cupcake, I put peppermint candy, and in Luke’s banana cupcake was a huge load of chocolate! I can’t remember what everyone else baked, though. Do you know, Luke?” added Molly.

“I am not sure. I am pretty old. My memory is fried up! I don’t even remember my name!” Luke joked. The kids giggled. They could have laughed for a long time!

“Quiet down, kids. I remember what Downtown Bakery made.” Molly recalled. “They made a vanilla cupcake with caramel inside, but that didn’t go well. The caramel was so hot that it melted the bottom, and burned a hole in the bottom of the cupcake. The caramel leaked all over the plate and made a huge mess. Lucky for us, Downtown Bakery was eliminated.” “One week later, marked the start of the second round.” explained Luke. “Little did we know, it would be harder than we thought! We had to work with a partner to make a seven-layered cake and decorate it like a Christmas tree.

Six hours were given to us to create our Christmas cakes.

The judges combined Cherry on Top and Sugar and Spice. Which meant, Molly and I were selected to be paired up. It was hard working with Molly because we were long-time enemies. Molly demanded things to be her way, but I wanted it to be different. We barely got done in six hours, and in that time-”

“What did you make?” asked one of the kids. “Well, I saved a picture in the attic! Let me go get it.” Molly answered. She went to the attic and brought down an old, broken, dusty box. She opened it up, and inside was a painted box, a framed picture, and another box that was more formal than the other. Molly took out the hand-painted box and when she lifted the top off, the box tipped over and hundreds of pictures came flooding out. The kids jumped back hurriedly, but then began to scramble through all the old-fashioned photos. Molly tried not to let them see too many pictures or else it would spoil the story! Luke picked up a photo and showed it to the kids. “This is my bakery, kids! Bake My Day! Oh, and this is Molly’s Doughy Delights ! Ooh! Look at me with my blond hair and my bright blue eyes, and Molly with her beautiful red hair and green eyes. She’s wearing her ‘sassy skirt’ in that picture.” “What’s this picture?” a child asked holding a photo in his hand. “What about this one?” another grandchild asked. Every single kid was grabbing images and asking questions. Soon the room was filled with noise. Everyone was talking at once and nothing could be heard. The grandparents’ ear drums were bleeding! “Quiet everyone. We should clean this up and get you all ready for bed.” Luke spoke. All the children started to put the pictures back into the box, and in a couple minutes, they were done. “Is this it?” announced one of the kids.

 “Oh, yes. That’s it!” Molly replied. The kids settled down, and went into the bedroom, even Luke and Molly, to finish their bedtime story. When all the kids were snuggled up tight in bed, Molly showed them the picture of the yummy cake Luke and she made. “Can everyone see it?” Luke asked. “Yes!” the kids responded.

Molly started the story again. The picture was black and white, but still as vibrant as a photo can get. The image was long and skinny with two people on the sides. Luke and Molly were standing beside their seven-layered Christmas tree cake that was taller than they were. Every layer was a different flavor. Chocolate, vanilla, banana, strawberry, red velvet, lemon, and cheesecake. The cake had green frosting around the whole thing in little piped lines to look like pine needles. There were various ornaments made of little candies, all different shapes and sizes! There were lights and tinsel wrapped around the cake, all of it edible. The little painted almond bulbs on the fondant string looked like they actually lit up! Powdered sugar was sprinkled on the tree to make it look snowy. The cake resembled a Christmas tree exactly! “Woah!” the kids said in awe. “What did the other people make?” asked one of the children. “They made all of their layers vanilla.” Luke explained. “Their green frosting was very neat and it was lime flavored. They used isomalt globes for ornaments. It looked really nice and the judges loved the presentation. Luke and I thought they were going to win, but their lime frosting was so strong it made it very sour, and their cake was underbaked.

“Well, who won?” exclaimed one kid nervously. “ Bake My Day and Molly’s Doughy Delights!” said Molly. “Before we started the third and final round, Molly made an announcement.”

“Here’s what I announced at the Bake Off. ‘We do not want to go any further! We will both drop out and split the money now.’”

“At that time, I was so confused and wanted to win.” Luke recalled. “$1,000,000 was on the line! I couldn’t give it up to split it with Molly. I was so competitive and I still am, so I had to talk with Molly.”  “‘One moment. Let me speak with my fellow contestant.’ is what I stated at the contest.” “Why would you say that, Grandma?” the youngest grandchild added with fear and confusion in her voice. “You will know once I tell you what I told Luke.” Molly assured. “Before Molly said anything to me, I asked her ‘Why would you do that? Don’t you want to win?’” “So I said to him, ‘Yes. I do want to win, but the truth is, I am in love with you. I don’t want to compete with you. I only want to spend the rest of my life with you. I love you, Luke.’” “How could you love him, if you were enemies?” mentioned a child. “I don’t know. I just felt it at that time!” Molly exclaimed. “What did you say to that confession, Grandpa? It was so straight-forward!” the eldest child asked in astonishment.

Well I said this. ‘I’ve liked you from the start, too! I used to think you were rude and sassy, but after working with you, things became clear that we are destined for each other.’” “When everyone left the competition, Luke and I were still lingering there. We received our money--$500,000 each. We sat down on a bench together, looking at our cake. Luke got up from the bench and kneeled down on one knee. Holding my hand he said to me, ‘I love you so much, Molly! I want to spend my life with you. Will you marry me?’ I started crying! I was so happy, I didn’t know what to say to him! The only words able to come out of my mouth were ‘Where’s the ring?’” “I didn’t have a ring at that moment. I didn't know what to do!” Luke declared. “The only other thing I could think of was the cake! I started walking up to the cake and told Molly, ‘About that… I don’t have a ring, but I think this works!’ I scooped some frosting off their Christmas tree cake and shoved it into Molly’s mouth. Molly was so offended that she threw some back at me! We were throwing frosting at each other until there was no more to take from the cake!” “We sat down on the same bench as before, but something felt different.” Molly told. “We both looked up at the same moment and saw mistletoe hanging from a branch on the luscious, pink willow tree above. We looked at each other for a moment and then we kissed each other. The rest is history.”


Faeology I looked around, fascinated. There was a mix of ages, some clearly over sixty with greying hair and bright eyed smiles, some, judging by their outfits, clearly students. One girl had the shortest miniskirt I had ever seen, it was dark green and denim and was definitely more like a belt. She wore it with a black cardigan that reached nearly to her ankles and was laughing, joking and pouting with her friends as they posed for selfies. Other girl wore jeans that were more rips than whole teemed with a hectically patterned red and purple shirt. I had used to dress like that once. I looked down at myself now, I’d had another outfit planned but had chickened out. I couldn’t possibly tell anyone where I was going, would’ve had to change in the car anyway and I guess the real truth was I just wasn’t brave enough. I had settled for a black skirt and a dark blue blouse and looked like I was headed toward a board meeting. My saving grace was my jet-black hair that tumbled down my back like a waterfall of loose curls. I had started with it pinned back as I always did, but as soon as I walked through the door I knew I had the dress code wrong and had pulled my hair loose in an attempt to fit in. People were signing in and I followed the crowd to the desks – everyone was sticking labels on with their names on, before going through the swing doors to take seats in the auditorium. The morning was set aside for talks and the afternoon for socialising and stalls – a bit like a fair maybe. I had brought some of my soap and lotions with me to sell and was hoping to make enough money to buy a few more Christmas presents. I smiled at the lady behind the desk and held up my phone with my e-ticket on. “Sign in and get yourself a badge, feel free to get yourself a coffee from the machine to take in with you.” She gestured to the table behind her as I watched the girl in front of me write, ‘Raven,’ on a sticky label and press it to her blouse. I looked at the other names on the list: Storm, Deeana, Jazzindle and hesitantly wrote, ‘Pauline.’ The woman behind the desk glanced over the label and shook her head at me. “Can’t have given names here honey,” she handed me another label. “Here we go by our other names – our real ones.” I’d never told anyone my real name before. I screwed the other label up and threw it in the bin, Adiraya, I wrote and ripped the back of the sticky label off, pressing it onto my blouse, feeling my heart pounding beneath it. I passed the pen to the next person – ‘Fire’ and then followed the swell of people headed for the lecture. “First time?” a woman caught step with me. She was petite with bobbed blonde hair and a gentle voice. Her name tag told me she was called Sage – her tag was laminated with some kind of red band as a lanyard. I wondered if she was someone important. “That obvious?” “We’ve all been there,” we chose seats at the back of the auditorium. “So when did it start for you?” she asked. “You first,” I batted back, “remember I’m new to all this.” Sage smiled. “I was thirteen, taking my dog for a walk in the woods when I came across them. There were three of them and they were collecting stuff, for lotions and spells I’d supposed. I’d hidden behind a tree and watched them. I thought they were some kind of dodgy cult or something, then one of them flew. Without thinking I’d stepped out from behind my tree. “We’ve known you’ve been watching us,” the red-headed one had said, “the thing is, we’ve been watching you Sage.” I’d thought I was dreaming, and I’m pretty sure you can fill in the blanks,” she finished. “But didn’t you say anything, tell anyone?” I asked, curious. “Tell them I’d seen fairies – I don’t think so. Who would’ve believed me? I did try to tell some friends a couple of years later but they spread it round school that I thought I was a fairy and that was that. You have to admit, it does sound crazy – I thought I was crazy for a while and then I realised that there were more of us.” “Welcome to Danton,” the speaker started. He twisted his right hand as if he were turning a lightbulb and the lights dimmed. He waved his hand in a figure of eight and the screen appeared with the words, ‘Faeology’ shimmering with the definition in silver underneath – ‘the study of fairies.’ I tried my best to stop the gasp of amazement, but didn’t quite manage it. Sage looked at me knowingly and whispered, “he’s one of the best, he sees them, most of us don’t, not after the first time, but he’s got this incredible connection. He didn’t look like a man who could have an incredible connection to something mystical. He looked like your typical professor, grey, slightly wild hair and a moustache that drooped. It was his eyes that I couldn’t make out, and his aura – I wasn’t sure why but I didn’t know if I trusted him. His eyes swept the room, but he couldn’t seem to find what he was looking for. “The characteristics of a fairy?” He left space for answers – “what do we think?” One of the teenagers put her hand up, “pretty, quick witted and always ready for a party!” she laughed. I smiled to myself. That seemed fairly accurate to me. Most people in the room were either very beautiful or had this kind of inner glow that I couldn’t quite put my finger on. I wasn’t sure I was particularly beautiful and was even more certain I didn’t have any kind of inner glow, but I knew I did have a quick wit – a wit that had got me the sack from my last job after my boss heard my quips about his haircut and I certainly liked a good party. For me, the whole fairy thing started when I was seven and I had found fairies at the bottom of my garden. It sounds insane, I know, only at the time, it didn’t seem insane. I was so excited I’d seen fairies, that I told everyone and predictably, none believed me. In the end my mum had got so fed up with me talking about it, she’d banned the subject and decreed no TV for a week to stop me lying. I’d seen them three times, at seven, eleven and fourteen. They’d given me my new name, showed me some simple spells (none of which I’d been able to replicate) and showed me some pretty cool dance moves. I’d kept googling fairies on the computer, but other than legends and some ancient faeology studies I’d found nothing until my eighteenth birthday. On my eighteenth birthday, as I’d been googling, I’d found this convention. It appeared on my screen, out of nowhere, as if it had been hiding until then. Now I was twenty-four and the invitation had appeared every year around May Day. It had taken me six years to work up the courage to go, last year I had got as far as the car park but then hadn’t made it in. This year I had been determined. The professor had moved on and was now talking about magical powers. “If you’ve ever noticed some kind of odd luminescent glow around you, remember real fairies, true fairies can glow in the dark. That isn’t just a physical thing. It’s an inner thing as well. Anyone been in a situation where people can’t understand how you are strong?” My mind flashed back to the day my Grandad died. He was racked with cancer and in massive pain. He attempted to pull tubes out of his body, while my grandma, distraught, had tried to stop him. I had grabbed his hands – thinned out with agony and held them still. “How can you bear it?” my grandma had asked. “How are you so strong?” I had never dreamed of telling her it was because I was a fairy! “You can create charms and curses, “he continued, “these curses can last for hundreds of years so are not to be given lightly.” I saw Sage’s face flush and wondered who she had cursed. “and of course,” he finished, “some of us, a few of us, – can fly.” I suppressed something between a snort and a sigh. I had never seen anyone fly. The professor threw his hand as if he were throwing a ball in the air and dust scattered – like it did when I dusted the ornaments at home, and then he did it. Suddenly. Proper wings. Black with silver edges, like some kind of human butterfly. Once round the room and then the wings folded, collapsing away. I felt like I should applaud, but clearly everyone else had seen this before and it seemed to mark the end of the session. As we drifted out of the auditorium and towards the café I turned to asked Sage, “Can you fly?” Sage shook her head, “that’s more advanced magic – they say before you have to fly there are other things you have to do – like know about your name and perform certain charms.” We pulled out light brown plastic chairs to sit on. I mused to myself. One of the first things I had done was to find out the meaning of my fairy name – Adria meant powerful (which I clearly wasn’t) and the ya (a fairy ‘tag’) meant more. At first, I had loved my fairy name, but then as nothing I tried work, I had shoved it to the back of my mind, waiting for a time when someone could help me. You’d think at a fairy convention they’d have some kind of ‘magic food’ but no, not even fairy cakes – it was ‘normal’ – as normal as a fairy convention could be. We had lasagne and chips with salad, Eton Mess for pudding and then went off to set up our stalls. I laid my soap and lotions out carefully – hoping they would sell well. The honey and peach soaps sold out almost immediately and I was doing good trade when I glimpsed the professor. “Look after my stall for a minute?” I pleaded with Deeana, whose charm stone stall was next to mine and ran over to the room to try and catch the professor. “I want to fly,” I said, without preamble, “not for me – I mean, yes for me, but there’s a good reason. I can’t tell you but,” he cut me off, “I know,” he replied simply, (how?) “there is a good reason, but you need to understand the basic principle of flying,” he paused. “In order to fly, to really fly, you have to leave everything on the ground,” “I don’t understand,” I held his gaze. “Worry, pressure, possessions, jobs, people, life, they keep us firmly grounded, only when you can lose that, choose away from that, only then in that moment you can fly, but then when you land, the ground is never the same.” “But you come back again right? I mean you don’t stay in the air, it’s like an altered state you mean?” I asked. The professor sighed. “If you fly, you will find him and your answers; but if you fly you choose away from him – it’s like I said, flying is a choice.” “Buy you fly!” I replied confused, “I mean you probably fly all the time, right?” He nodded, “I do,” he cautioned, “I love to fly, I love my wings, but my ground is very different now.” I still wasn’t sure I understood him. “Just know,” he said, as he turned away from me, almost sadly, “flying changes everything.” So I guess that’s my choice - if someone has shattered your ground anyway, what happens to those pieces if you choose to fly?


The channel was a mess. Scattered snippets of conversation lay in heaps of gibberish, mixed with shattered emotes and glitching gifs. The place reeked of smoke and ozone. *Another Chat Kill*, had been the word from Nobody’s informant among the Chan Ops - the squirrely fellow had neglected to mention it was damn near a Chat Massacre. The place looked like someone had set off a bomb in the middle of a sentence. After a cursory examination for anything obvious the Moderators might have missed, Nobody retreated to a secluded corner, out of sight from the street. He crouched low and eased his trench-coat open, carefully withdrawing the tool he’d *borrowed* from the Word God’s vault. He brushed a few pinions over the object’s smooth, light pinkish glass surface, the touch answered with a soft flicker of light deep within. He shook the glass orb gently. “Come on, wake up. We’ve got work to do.” The dim light grew brighter, revealing the curled form of a tiny, transparent dragon. It wore a sleeping mask that said *‘Do Not Disturb’*, and showed no sign of wakefulness. Nobody raised an unimpressed eyebrow. “I know you’re awake, Ghost. Come out, I need you to have a sniff around the scene. Check for tracks, tropes, and talking-points. Anything that could point us in the right direction.” Ghost huffed and ripped off his sleeping mask. “Ugh, *fine*. Come on then, pour me out so we can get this over with.” Nobody nodded, and tipped the orb on its side. The little dragon slithered out as though flowing through an unstoppered bottle, phasing straight through the polished glass and landing on the floor with a small puff of dust. In a city of Words, the *intent* behind your verbs meant more than the verbs themselves. Ghost trotted in a circle, his glowing, transparent body brightening and lighting the devastated room. He grimaced, nose twitching, and began to carefully pick his way through the debris. “Oh, wow, this place *reeks*. This isn’t your average Chat Kill, this is a Conversation Slaughter.” “So I’d guessed,” Nobody answered. “What do you think? Out of control Campfire? Insane Iron Chef? Loose Serial Worm?” “Oh no, boss, this was done by hand. Knives or swords, would be my guess.” “What? How do you figure, with all the scorch marks and soot?” “Simple,” Ghost answered, holding up an irregularly triangular piece of debris. “These edges, while burnt, are far too smooth and straight to be anything but cuts.” He ran a claw over one straight edge for emphasis. “Sliced so fast the friction cauterised the cuts. That’s why we’re not standing waist-deep in ink, too.” Nobody’s eyes widened, and he felt his feathers stand on end as a chill ran down his long neck and along his spine. Ghost blinked at him. “What?” “I only know one writer who can chop like that - and I put that monster Six Feet Down Unda’ ten years ago.” “Well, they must’ve been the Antagonist to your Protagonist then, boss. Judging by this mess… They didn’t stay Down Unda’.” He paused. “Now what?” Nobody knelt down and held out the orb to let Ghost slither back inside. “His story ended a decade ago. This time, I’ll make it stick - and write him out.” He put Ghost’s orb back inside his coat pocket, turned to leave- And nearly lost his head as a massive claw swept at his face, taking a chunk out of his beak. He honked with pain and alarm and staggered backwards, narrowly dodging another strike that tore his coat open and sent Ghost’s orb tumbling over the floor, the little dragon shrieking with shock. “Leaving so soon, Detective Goose? After all the trouble I had, making my case?” “Not Much,” Nobody hissed, through his blooded beak. “Back to your chopping ways, I see.” The crazed cassowary leered at him. “Only briefly, Detective - long enough to chop *you!*” Nobody was driven back by the lethal barrage of chopping claws, feathers flying with every nick and scrape. “Boss!” Ghost cried, “Say something! Something good!” Another claw nearly clipped a wing. “Like what!?” Nobody gasped. “Like what dragons do, dammit!” A ducked kick punched clean through a wall. “Burn!?” Nobody heard a deep breath and saw the orb glow white-hot out of the corner of his eye. He leapt back with a honk of alarm and hit the deck as a torrent of flame passed overhead, the heat curling his feathers and engulfing Not Much where he stood. The cassowary shrieked and cackled as he was consumed in an instant - leaving only a smoking pile of blackened bones. “Well,” Ghost piped up. “I guess his goose got-” “Don’t you dare, Ghost!” “-Cooked.” *** This was my story for 's delightful Secret Santa story exchange! I wrote for u/gurgilewis, who provided the following constraints: >**Location:** Takes place in the seedy underbelly of a city that is the real-life version of the WP discord server. > >**Plot/Action:** Investigating a chat kill. > >**Uses:** Some of the server roles.


Having worked in several law firms, I was so looking forward to the new position that I was offered. The top law firm in state, offering superb salary and benefits. Was it all a dream? I was eager to find out. The interview progressed smoothly with a good-looking senior partner, whose description of my duties were exactly what I was seeking. More responsibilities as a real estate paralegal would enable me to handle real estate closings from day one right through to attending closings and making the transfer of property.

Day One - Dressed professionally in a black suit with white cotton blouse, I appeared a half hour before starting time to get acclimated to the office before tackling the workload that I expected to be given. However, the Supervisor, who was to accompany me for the day, had not arrived. Someone, who didn’t identify himself, suggested that I take a seat in the reception room. The gold and silver striped wallpaper gave it a classy appearance. A couple of VanGogh paintings, comfortable padded chairs and sofa in a green and gold print against an accent silver wall added to the ambiance.

The Supervisor, a young woman, perhaps half my age, appeared in jeans and an oversized sweater. Sticking out her elbow for an elbow greeting, she introduced herself as Amy and led the way to what would now be my office. She suggested that I take inventory and notify her of anything that I would need additionally. She would return in a few minutes to review the systems the firm had in place, sign me up for benefits and take me on a tour of the entire office and making introductions. So far, it all was going smoothly. My office had one side that was entirely floor-to-ceiling window, which faced the Northeast direction. Vertical blinds would block out the morning sun. The mahogany desk looked like new. A mat with white paper for notes or doodling protected the writing surface. A box containing my business cards was set above the mat awaiting use with my first client. I felt like I was welcomed and belonged to this highly respected law firm. Let my day begin. Upon further checking of desk drawers, I found that I had a stapler, staple-remover, note pads, telephone message book in duplicate, scissors, paperclips, and plenty of hanging file folders. A wire-rimmed waste basket was appropriately placed under the desk.

The only thing that I could immediately think I’d want was a desk lamp with soft lighting, so I could turn off the fluorescent lighting when I chose to do so. Sometimes I find that it is simply too bright. I’d bring my lamp from home, which I noted in my cell phone. When Amy reappeared, she suggested that we venture to the break room for coffee and to fill out the necessary new employee paperwork. Coffee was definitely a must, as I hadn’t taken the time to pick one up on the way in.

Getting used to new co-workers is never comfortable. For I learned years ago that how they appear at first meeting is usually not their working personality. In all fairness, my first presentation is not how I function either. It’s a matter of being uncomfortable and attempting to adjust to newness on both parts.

Amy gave the impression that she truly cared about my comfort level and that she was genuinely pleased to have me join their team. Her presentation of the paperwork gave the impression that she ran the firm. “If you have any questions or problems, I’m the one that you need to come to see. The attorneys are busy with clients, and they leave the employee matters for my handling.” The usual government required papers were signed, as were the benefit forms. Instead of providing me with my own expense account, like I was used to, Amy informed me that I was to bring her and statements to pay and I would be reimbursed for out-of-pocket expenses upon presenting a receipt and/or invoice for any kinds of purchases made that were on the approved expenses sheet, which she provided me with.

Being that no mention had been made as to my client list, I inquired, “When will I be assigned clients?” Appearing a bit miffed, Amy stated, “Well, you will work with partner, Mr. Wiseman, for the first month. At the end of your first week, he will determine how to proceed from there.” Not quite the answer that I was expecting, and feeling a bit insulted, I swallowed my pride and simply nodded. What other surprises would be in store , I wondered. My first disappointment of the day. With that, I returned to my office to study the firm’s handbook that Amy provided and to check what contacts the firm used for various business needs. Awhile later I jumped as I heard a loud, screeching voice demanded immediate attention. “I want those survey and title reports on my desk within the hour. Do you hear me? I told you to have them ready at 9 AM!” I looked out the window on my office door to see that it was the managing partner, who was obviously annoyed with someone. Not used to such inappropriate office decorum, this was the second disappointment, and hopefully, the last one. While I had been introduced to staff, there was no way that I could remember everybody’s name upon first introduction. Therefore, I didn’t know who it was scurrying by, obviously the one being chewed-out. Tension filled the atmosphere from then on. A middle-aged looking gentleman knocked on my door. Upon my wave in, he entered, introducing himself as being Ben Benone, a partner. “I know that we met briefly earlier, but I want to say what a pleasure it is to welcome you. Your resume and references are superb. Indeed, you are a fine addition to our team.” What a relief to hear this. “Thank you, sir. I appreciate your kind words.” With a shake of the head, he continued, “Please, call me Ben. I saw the look of horror on your face when John Wiseman chewed out Walt. He has a short fuse that we all just ignore. If we let it get to us, we’d never accomplish anything.” “Well, Ben, it was quite unnerving. I’ve never worked in any business where there was such disrespect for the employee and screeching. It is a huge disappointment to me and one that I’m not confident will be conducive to my best efforts. I feel that I may be doomed before I even start.” Being so honest to a co-worker, who was yet a total stranger, was not like me. But, then, neither was the situation like in my lifetime. Even my parents didn’t shout or scream like that.

Ben said that he understood and he hoped that I could drown-out John’s tantrums. “Please come and speak with me, when you are disturbed by them. Believe me when I say that you won’t be the first one, nor will you be the last. I’ve worked with John for 20 years. He has never changed. I had to be the one to make adjustments. Ear plugs are a huge help!” He chuckled as he shared this bit of advice. “Thank you, Ben. I sincerely appreciate your recognizing my discomfort and advice. I promise to do my best to not be so sensitive. I will purchase a set of high-quality ear plugs, if there is such a thing.” With a nod, he returned to his office across the hall.

Day Two - After visiting several stores, I was able to locate what the store clerk said were, “The best ear plugs made. They are guaranteed to block out all sounds.” That sounded perfect. With the set in my briefcase, I arrived for my second day on the job. The door to Ben’s office was opened, so I peeked in my head showing him my new purchase. He gave a thumbs up, as I proceeded to my office. Sure enough, after lunch, John was on another tirade directed at one of the female paralegals this time. At the first rise in tone, in went my hearing aids, and I continued reading my first client’s proposed Purchase Contract, which had been emailed for my review. The hearing aids blocked out the unpleasant sounds.

Still not sure that I would be able to persevere under such conditions, and that this remained in my mind to be a dream job from hell, I was giving it my all. A month later - Whether it was my being in my paralegal trial period or not, as of yet, I had not been the one for whom a tirade had been directed. There was little doubt that my day would arrive. With each week, my endurance was building, as was my confidence. I could only hope and pray that when my turn came, I would be able to have a respectful response that would stop John in his track, making him offer an apology. What was that saying, “You catch more flies with honey than you do with vinegar.” Well, I was about to prove it to be true, and maintain my career.


Roots of trees rupture through the ground and extend up, aching for sunlight. They won’t find it here, not tonight. Their leaves brush the ceiling, and their branches conform to the shapes of the bookshelves. I’ve never experienced nature taking over a place in such a way, let alone something as precious as a library. Animal nests have been built in several corners, bookshelves and the books inside them are caked in dust, and chrome-coloured stair hand railings have been plagued with rust and are beginning to deteriorate. It’s likely been a while since anyone’s even visited this place, let alone worked here—a shame. The aesthetic of this place is lovely. “This place is cool,” Kupla said. “Not what I expected at all.” “Yeah,” I added. “Bit creepy, though.” He didn’t reply. I could tell he agreed, though. You spend enough time with someone you pick up on their nuances. Here, I could read Kupla like a book, and the fact of the matter is, concern was painted on his face. No matter how hard he tried to hide it. A silence filled the air as we inspected the library’s ruins. We stayed within reaching distance of each other, just in case. “Doesn’t help that the sun’s just set,” Kupla said, breaking the silence. “You’re the one that suggested we do this tonight. Let’s go exploring , you said. You’ve been looking at those random Facebook posts too much. Be thankful we found a library and not a psych asylum or something.” “True, true. You’d not be able to handle that,” Kupla said, laughing. Projection at its finest. “Hear that fucking croaking? We must be near a creek.” “Maybe,” I said. “We haven’t looked at that room yet. Let’s go there next.” “Okay,” I said. “Don’t be too loud. Animals are living here. Don’t want to bloody startle them and have ‘em jump us.” “Yeah, yeah. Whatever. We’ll probably need a light soon. Has your phone got much battery left?” “Yeah, a fair bit. We’re fine,” I said when a book caught my eye. It had a red spine, and all surrounding books' spines on the shelf were black. It stood out like a sore thumb. I picked it out and observed it. “ A Grim Dawn, ” it said on the cover. I turned it over to read the back, but there was nothing there. The book had been wiped clean, which was weird because every other book on the shelf was dusty. Inside “ A Grim Dawn” were drawings. It didn’t take long for us to realise they were some type of blueprint of the library. I was about to place it back on the shelf, losing interest, but the fact that it was cleaned and formed as a thought in the back of my mind. Someone had looked at it recently. “What’s that bit meant to be?” Kupla said, staring intently at a small square drawing off to the side. If it were a room, it was pretty plain. Maybe it was for storage. The print of it was merely a square with a circle in the centre. “It has to lead downstairs somewhere,” he added. “It doesn’t make sense otherwise. Look at this part connected to it.” He was right. There were two large rooms connected to the small “storage” square. Kupla walked past the black-filled bookcase to the other side of the room. I could hear the rough scratching as he ran his palm over the rusty handrail. “Going by that book,” he stated, “if the entrance were anywhere, it would be roughly here.” There was another bookshelf in its place. The books inside it seemed somewhat random yet normal. Nothing noteworthy stood out. “What about behind it?” I said, and Kupla tried pushing the side of the shelf. “It’s moving,” he grunted, dusting off his hands on his black long sleeve. “I need your help.” The shelf left scrape marks on the floor as we nudged it over, and behind where it originally stood, clear as day, was a door to another room.	A hidden room. The room only had two things inside it. One of them was a glass window, which looked out to the back of the library. Kupla opened it, screeching and fluttering of bats circling the peak of a giant Eucalypt tree pierced our veil of silence. “I can see a creek right there beside the tree. You were right.” The croaking was slightly louder with the window open. In the shape of a circle, a piece of rope is right there in the middle of the floor. Trees and plants had not yet reached this room. Or, if they previously had, they’ve since been removed. A bat flew past the window in a blur of speed, and Kupla stepped back with a flurry. In frightened Kupla style, he remained silent. I could see past his faux stoicism. He was deep in thought as he observed the small room. “Is it just me, or does this room look… not as dusty as the rest? Like, clean, almost,” he asked. He was right again. The room had the appearance as if someone had been in it recently. And it can’t have been for the view. “That rope there has to mean something. Pull it up a bit,” I said. Kupla curled the rope around his fingers and yanked. The middle of the ground opened up, revealing the silhouette of a declining staircase. The rope was attached to a trapdoor. Darkness blanketed the rest of the room downstairs, and it was impossible to make anything out. We would have to walk down ourselves. “A hidden room inside of a hidden room?” Kupla asked. I shrugged. “Guess it’s time for the torch then, aye?” We descended the stairs slowly, an obnoxious creak with every step. A feeling of anxiousness spiked the lower we went. I spoke nothing of it and hope Kupla felt the same. Eventually, both of us had reached the bottom. I shone my phone light ahead of me, and a thick, black rat scurried from one side of the room to another. Kupla jolted back, tripping on an uneven tile. He fell to the ground. “Fucking rat,” he sighed. Dusting off, I could tell he was trying to keep his cool. Despite appearances of the previous room, this one looked as if it hadn’t had any life inside it for years. Dust and dirt layered everything in sight. Webs weaved by spiders stretched across the floor and audibly cracked as I passed through them. Kupla stood up, dusted himself off yet again, and shone his light around with me. In the far corner of the room was a bed. White sheets draped over both sides and fell down the end of it. Somewhere in the middle was a large red stain. Cobwebs covered the pillow and bed frame. “Something tells me that stain isn’t wine,” Kupla said as we edged closer to the bed. “I’m scared to think what’s in the other room if this is in the first fucking one.” “Other room?” I asked. “Remember the drawing? There were two rooms connected to the small one upstairs. What the hell is in the other one?” “Mm, good point,” I added. A gust of wind permeated throughout the room, and the door we came in through shut with a slam. “Did you shut that window before we came down here?” I asked. “Nope.” “Great. Just what we needed,” I said. I continued exploring the room a little further. By now, we were both past the point of pretending that we weren’t scared, the room had a creepy vibe to it, and that was that. “Man, this is enough for me,” Kupla said. “I’m heading back up. Come help me with this door.” I looked over at him. His shadow towered over him as I aided him with my light. His was shining on the stairs as he quickly ascended them. “The door didn’t look too heavy. You’ll be fine,” I said. Just wait a minute for me, and I’ll come out with you.” Again, I turned my attention back to exploring the room. I cast my light in front of me, and it revealed a wall with funny markings on it. I edged closer and realised it’s a tally. Someone was counting something, and I didn’t feel like knowing what. “Nah, I don’t wanna wait. This place gives me the cre--” Kupla’s voice trailed off. “Uhh… you need to come see this. Like right now.” “I had the same thought,” I replied. “Look at this weird tally on the wall.” “I don’t care about a fucking tally, man. The other side of this door has scratch marks on it. Like a lot of them. Someone’s been fucking stuck here and tried to escape. Help me with the door now.” The tally could wait. I rushed over to help. The scratch marks on the back of the trapdoor were no joke. Whatever level of anxiousness I had previously had evolved into nausea. The thought of being trapped here made me sick. At least I haven’t seen any skeletons around, I thought. “I’m bailing, fuck this place,” Kupla said. He pushed the trapdoor open and looked down at me. “Coming?” “One sec,” I said. “Just need to take a better look at that thing on the wall.” “I’ll wait here. Be quick.” I stared at the wall and counted. I wasn’t sure what the carved numbers meant, but it had to be something. Whatever it means, it’s happened a lot. At a glance, there are over a hundred markings carved into the wall. The tally and scratch marks were enough for me, and I didn’t want to look for the other room. An unexpected sense of dread had begun to course through me. The hair on my arms and back of my neck stood bolt upright. A strange coldness took the air. I forgot I was even in a library. “Kup!” I called out. His head appeared from upstairs. “Yeah?” “Coming now. Just checking you were still around.” I was climbing the stairs when I looked at Kupla. I began to ask him a question when I noticed a frown on his face. His eyes squinted. It was a frown of focus. “Thought I saw somethin’, never mind,” he said. The frown faded. But not for long. I was on the final stair, with my hand on the trapdoor, ready to leverage myself up, when Kupla’s face wore the frown again. “What?” I asked. The frown lessened, but his eyes widened. “Behind you!” he yelled. Before I could turn to look, I felt it. All at once. The stinging cold. The dread. Nausea, they all intensified. But they were nothing compared to the sudden puncturing of the fleshy part of my neck. I tried to shake free to no avail. The creature was strong. Too strong. I couldn’t even budge. The creature was draining me at a rapid pace, and I could feel consciousness smoothly slipping away. When I woke, Kupla lay sprawled over the staircase. He’d been torn apart mercilessly. Blood travelled down the remaining stairs and pooled at the bottom. I felt like I could smell it. I was overcome with a craving I wasn’t sure how to satiate. My phone light was gone, but I didn’t need it to see anymore. The fear, the dread and the cold had all passed. They were replaced by an ache to stretch and a longing to feed. A scuffing sound came from across the room. It was not the creature from before, but a man. He was dressed in all-black. He looked me in the eye, and a self-satisfied smirk played across his face as he began adding to the tally on the wall.


The air was cool in the morning when he stepped out onto his porch to head to work. This was to be expected in early October, and he was thankful for it. The summer had been a hot one, and he’d been ready for the opportunity to break out his jacket and long sleeve shirts by the end of August. But, unfortunately, the summer heat had held firm throughout most of September. Now though, the heat had finally broken, and he was looking forward to the brisk air of fall. He turned, checking to ensure he’d locked the door before he made his way down the steps and out onto the sidewalk. “Good morning Ms. Galespi!” He called to the older lady seated on her porch smoking a cigarette. “Oh, good morning, boy!” She called back, her breath heavy with smoke in the cool air. “Off to work?” “Yes, ma’am.” He said, smiling at her. Then, he paused, taking the time to greet her properly before continuing on. “How are you this morning?” He asked. “Oh, I’m well enough.” Ms. Galespi said. “Good. Kids gone off to school already?” He asked, checking his mental inventory for all information about the woman. “Yeah, bus just picked them up.” She said, taking another drag from her cigarette. “Those things are crowded. Kids tend to act like fools a lot of the time. I remember how it was back when I was a kid.” He said. “Yes, sir.” She said. “Unfortunately, I can’t get them there myself. My eyes aren’t what they used to be.” “Yes, ma’am. Not fair you’re the one to have to take care of them. Has to be hard on you.” He said. “Well, you know how it is. Their mom, well, the less said about her this morning, the better.” Ms. Galespi said. “Probably.” He agreed. “Perhaps she’ll come back one of these days. Take care of the responsibilities that are hers. Sometimes I can’t believe I managed to raise a woman like that.” She said. “I wouldn’t count on it, ma’am.” He said, knowing the kid’s mother would never be back. Not anymore. What she’d done to those kids, what she’d put them through, had been wrong. She wouldn’t be back, never again. “Yeah, I suppose you’re right, son.” Ms. Galespi took another long drag from her cigarette. “You’d better be on your way, don’t want to be late.” She said. “You’re right. We wouldn’t want that. They pay me to be there on time, so that’s what I do.” He said. “You’re a good boy. And a good neighbor.” She said, waving at him as she exhaled smoke again. He frowned. “Those things aren’t good for you, ma’am. But, if there is anything I can do to help you….” He started to say, but she cut him off. “Now, son, respect your elders. I know these things are killing me, but they’re about all I have left anymore.” She said. His frown deepened, unsure how to accommodate two conflicting thoughts. Finally, he chose to take her advice and let the subject go. “Good morning Ms. Galespi. I’ll see you later.” He said, waving as he continued on his way to work. Work was uneventful. As always, he clocked in on time, greeted his coworkers, and set to his tasks. That was the way things were and the way things should be. He worked through his breaks, like always, never drawing attention to himself or the bit of extra time he put in while others were off drinking coffee or smoking. And he was careful to be back from lunch five minutes early as well. Sure, they didn’t usually pay him for the bit of extra time he put in throughout the day, but that wasn’t the point. Work was important. It didn’t matter what you were doing. Whether you were stocking shelves, doing someone’s taxes, or running a business or nation, your job was a part of who you were. And more than that, it reflected “What” you were. He took that seriously. He was a good man, and though he was typically surrounded by people who were less than he was, it didn’t matter. Who he was wasn’t dictated by the other people around him or what they thought. Who he was, who he really was, was dictated only by himself and his actions. As he left work for the day, he decided to stop by the store on his way home. Making his way through the parking lot, he saw a middle-aged woman struggling to balance her cart and young child. Her purse had spilled onto the pavement, and she was holding the child’s hand as she attempted to scoop the items from her purse into a small pile. Cautious, knowing how people often reacted to the intrusion of strangers into their daily lives, he approached. “Miss.” He said, stopping several feet away. She looked up, her eyes nervous. “Huh?” She mumbled, taking his appearance in quickly before looking back down at the spilled contents of her purse. “Miss, you look like you’re having a bit of a time there. May I help?” He asked. She looked up at him, then at the little girl holding her hand, then quickly at the cart full of groceries that was slowing rolling away before glancing up at him again. “No, I…” She started to say. He took several careful steps forward, stopping the cart and holding it still with one hand, the other held out to his side, palm open. “You’re trying to juggle a lot there; the least I can do is hold your cart for you. Maybe I could help you get the groceries in the trunk while you get things situated?” He offered. She regarded him again for several long moments before she relaxed and smiled at him. “Thank you, yes. That would be a big help.” She said. He held the car while she gathered the spilled items from the ground and then opened the trunk for him. “Thank you again.” She said. “Of course, you go ahead and get her in the car; she’s looking tired.” He said. The woman looked down at the little girl hiding just to the side of her mother’s leg, still holding her hand. “Sounds like a plan.” She said. He watched her lead the small, shy child around to the side of the car and began putting the bags in the trunk in an orderly fashion. He was careful to ensure the lighter items went on top so that nothing would be broken or crushed. When he was done, he stepped back, pulling the cart off to the side. “There you are.” He said as the woman walked around the car to the driver’s side. “Thank you again.” She glanced at him one more time, taking in his whole appearance for the first time. “I’m Jamie.” She said, holding out her hand. “Nice to meet you, Jamie.” He said, shaking her hand. Something hard pressed against one of his fingers. A wedding ring. “You’re very sweet, would you like to…” She began. He frowned. “I’m sorry, I just got off work and am in a bit of a hurry. Please, drive safe; I’m sure you have someone waiting at home for you.” He said, turning to guide the cart towards the store. “I’ll take care of the cart for you.” He said, not looking back. Inside, he gathered up the few items he’d need for the week and headed towards the registers. The self-scan was open, as always, but he didn’t care for them. They were too impersonal. A sign of the times, he supposed. So instead, he went to one of the slightly longer lines and waited for an actual cashier. As he neared the front, his attention was drawn by a man’s gruff tone. “Can we hurry up already?” He said. The woman in front was handing a small pile of coupons to the teenaged cashier. The older woman was small and frail and looked startled by the man’s outburst. The middle-aged man behind her looked just as surprised; the cashier looked terrified. “I’ve been waiting for twenty minutes now. Let’s go. I have things to do.” The man said. “Sir…” The cashier tried to say. “No, let’s go. I’m not standing here waiting for you to scan all that crap just so she can save twenty cents on her cat food. She’s probably got too many of those monsters running around her house anyway. What, no one else to take care of?” He said. The woman looked shocked. She glanced at the cashier, “I’m sorry since my husband died….” “No one cares about your cats or who they’re filling in for. Let’s go. I have to get back to work already.” The man said. “Sir, uh, you could, have, you know….” The cashier tried to speak, but the man cut him off. “If I wanted to use the self-checkout, I would have. I hate those machines. They’re even dumber than you kids. Lets. Go!” He said. The man in front of him looked visibly nervous now. “Look, if you’re in that much of a hurry, you can go ahead….” He said. The man cut him off too, “I will.” He stepped in front of the man, glared down at the small woman, and then at the cashier. “Let’s go already.” He snapped. The cashier finished scanning the woman’s coupons, shaking as he tried to hurry. Finally, he took her money, made change, and smiled nervously at her as he loaded the last of her bags into her cart. “Have a good day, ma’am.” He said. “Thank you.” “You too.” She whispered, hurrying away “Now, let’s go.” The man said. The cashier, for his part, simply stood there. “Sir, there is no reason to be rude.” “Rude!” The man said. “It’s rude to waste everyone’s time with cheap coupons and stories about your cats and dead husband. No one cares. Let’s go.” “Sir, please, if you would just….” The cashier tried to say. “If I have to call your manager over here, we’re all going to be wasting a lot more time!” The man said. Watching all this from what was now third in line, the good man spoke up. “It’s alright, young man. Just ring him up.” He said, his voice calm. The cashier looked back at him and immediately seemed to relax. “Yes, of course.” He said, taking the man’s items and quickly scanning them before putting them into a single plastic bag. The man paid him, grumbled a few more obscenities, and hurried out. The good man put one hand on the shoulder of the man in front of him and smiled. “Would you please watch my things for a moment?” He said. The man only nodded. Later, the good man stood outside an old but well-kept house. The cool night air on his face was both relaxing and uplifting. He loved this time of year. When the season began to shift from the heaviness of summer into the light air of autumn. It always made him feel just a little more alive. Fall was almost like a breath of fresh air right before the cold, starkness of winter. In the dark, he watched the lights in the house flicker. He’d been waiting for a while now but was in no hurry. Things would play out as they needed to. Eventually, most of the lights in the house went out, and he made his way through the backyard. The fence had been no obstacle, and it had been simple enough to find a secluded spot near the detached garage from which he could keep an eye on the house. He tried the knob on the back door, knowing it would most likely be locked. It was, of course, but he never wasted time making assumptions if he could help it. The man lived alone; he’d made sure of that, just as he’d made sure he had the right house before preparing for the task at hand. It hadn’t been hard to find the address, not once he had the man’s license plate. The internet was a pretty valuable tool if you knew how to use it. Sadly, there were people in the world who used it for all kinds of horrible things. But there wasn’t much he could do about that. He was just one man, after all. One problem at a time. He felt the door click open quietly as he worked the lock and slipped inside. He moved silently through the house, taking his time to let his eyes adjust to the changing light as he moved. He found the man sitting in a small home office. His face illuminated by the computer monitor as images flashed across the screen. Distracted by his activities, he didn’t notice as the good man crossed the room behind him. Not until the hand slipped over his mouth. “Don’t move.” The good man said. The man froze, shocked and startled at being caught in such a compromising position. He choked slightly as the knife pressed against his throat. “You were very, very rude today.” The good man said. The man tried to say something, but he choked again. “No, it’s too late for that. First, you were very rude to that poor old woman and the young man at the store. And now, I find you here, and it turns out, you’re even more awful than I’d realized.” A single tear slid down the man’s face as he tried to work his mouth, then he gasped silently as the knife slid across his throat. The good man held him as he died. After all, no one should die alone, no matter how bad they might be.