Late August 2023 Hello, I'm Nancy Boltz. My husband of 40 years Eric Boltz died in Musicland Nebraska medical center from cancer. He was 64 years old. The funeral was held at the Musicland Lutheran Church where both of us were life long members. Three children (two girls and one boy) and 10 grandchildren we had. The will had been read and everyone had basically gone back to their own lives. Although my kids and grandchildren lived in Nebraska, they didn't live in Musicland. All but 2 lived in Omaha. The other two lived in Lincoln. Enough of that, let me get to the point of my story. Eric had left a diary that he wrote during the period of 1981-1982. This was the period where we had broken up and had dated others. It started over some stupid argument that I don't remember. Eric probably would remember but he didn't mention the argument in the diaries. We broke up two weeks after he graduated from college in June of 1981. Eric worked in Lincoln that summer and I stayed in Musicland (which is about 30 miles from Lincoln) at a Music Camp for kids. While in Lincoln, Eric met a woman named Heidi Holden. She had broken up with Mark Month who was a football player for the Cornhuskers. Over the course of the summer, they fell in love with each other but in September Heidi went back to Mark. She continued to see Eric on the side. Thankfully for Eric, Mark never found out. In April of 1982, Heidi Holden was found deceased at the Lincoln State Park after being struck by a car. The person who did it was never arrested or charged.  April 9, 1982 - Late afternoon "I hid in the bushes and heard and heard the terrible argument. There was nothing that I could do as I saw Mark clip Heidi with his car and then drive off. I quickly ran to the pay phone and called for emergency. I told them who did this to Heidi. I then ran over to Heidi who was drifting in and out of consciousness. Before she died, she told me that she wasn't pregnant. I knew that she had died. I wept for about a minute. I then heard the sirens of the police and ambulance and decided I better get the heck out of there." April 12, 1982 - Funeral of Heidi Holden The funeral was held at the St. Peters Catholic Church in Lincoln. I didn't dare go to the funeral. I watched for a distance. I was careful that I wasn't seen or observed. I knew that police would probably would be looking for the second mystery man. Apparently Heidi was also involved with a man named Jim. I decided that I was going to get even and make the life of Mark Month miserable. And this I did. May 13, 1982 The night before the man named Jim and Mark Month got into a fight at a local bar in Lincoln. I had been watching both men and noticed during the fight that a gun Mark had fell out of his jacket. No one noticed as I took the gun. Mark was arrested and Jim went to the emergency room for treatment. I found out when Mark was released which was a couple of hours later. I went over to Jim apartment and vandalized his car and then shot out the window. I threw the gun away and then fled. Jim of course blamed Mark. Jim filled charges against Mark but it went nowhere. This really angered me. He ended up suing Mark and lost in court. So much for getting back at Mark Month. For the next several months Eric plotted revenge against mark who got arrested for things Eric did, mostly vandalism of vehicles. He found out when Mark and his girlfriends or ex-partners were fighting or had broken up. One ex-partner he actually called weeping and saying that he didn't want to harm her brother but Mark had ordered him to do so. Wasn't long where Mark couldn't get a girlfriend as no woman wanted to be near him. Eric made sure of it. Also Eric would make calls to places where Mark was saying "Why do you allow the murderer in your bar? " August, 1982 I finally got my revenge. I keyed Mark Month's vehicle and with a knife flatten all of his tires. I also spray painted murderer, murderer by his car. I then set the car on fire. Everyone was in the bar drunk and high on drugs. No one noticed as I left. Shortly after I left, rival football players came into the bar and they were blamed. Police were called before it got totally out of hand. Mark got arrested for assaulting a rival player. Again the charges went nowhere. Mark ended up with the Seattle Seahawks which was too far away for Eric to continue his revenge. I still can't believe that Eric sent a letter to the team. I have a copy of the letter dated September 1982. Dear NFL Team: Mark Month is a murderer and killer. He murdered Heidi Holden by hitting her with his car. She didn't die from being clipped by his car but died after heading her head on the pavement. I was there when she died and I called police. Every woman he has ever been involved with he has used, abused and he gets away with it. I still am grieving over her death. Heidi cheated on him because he accused her of doing so, so she did. Heidi deserved better, something that I would have given her. Too bad she met Mark. As for Jim, I found out that he was just a friend. She never cheated with him which I'm most grateful. Signed the second man and forever mystery man which will remain so. Shortly after Eric wrote this letter, our relationship was rekindled. We got married in June of 1983. Six months before Eric died, I was sitting in Bed with him. He was in remission and we were watching the New Unsolved Mystery Program. One of the segments was about Mystery Man who had made Mark Month's life miserable for over a year. Then it stopped. Eric made some comments about it but now when I think about it, it sounded like he knew a lot about the vandalism and letter writer. Eric told me that I could do whatever I wanted. If I reported it to the police, he wouldn't be angry with me. Well, I decided that to protect my kids, grandkids and my family, I didn't turn him into the police. I still was in shock days later that he had done these things. This was a man whom I rarely seen lose his temper much less get angry at someone. We rarely if ever argued. I thought I knew him totally but apparently not. I never believed that you could live with a person for decades and not totally know them. Well, that's true. I can't damage my family's reputation, so I will burn the diaries and the letter.


#Welcome to Micro Monday Hello writers and welcome to Micro Monday! It’s time to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic, you ask? Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I provide a simple constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. This rotates between simple prompts, sentences, images, songs, and themes. You’re free to interpret the weekly constraints how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.**   *** #This week’s challenge: - **Theme: ** - **Bonus Constraint:** In honor of National Wildlife week, your story must include an animal from an . *(Please be kind to them in your stories!)* This week’s challenge is to include the theme of ‘adventure’ in your story. The interpretation is entirely up to you, as long as the connection is clear and you follow all post and subreddit rules. The bonus constraint is not required, but it is worth an additional 10 points. **Note: Don’t forget to next Monday!** (The form usually opens at about 11:30am EST Monday.) You get points just for voting.   *** #How To Participate - **Submit a story between 100-300 words in the comments below.** You have until **Sunday at 11:59pm EST**. (No poetry.) - **Use to check your word count.** The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words or over 300 will be disqualified from campfire readings and rankings. - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post, exclusively. Micro serials are acceptable, but please keep in mind that each installment should be able to stand on its own and be understood without leaning on previous installments. - **Come back throughout the week, read the other stories, and leave them some feedback on the thread.** You have until **2pm EST Monday** to get your feedback in. Only **actionable feedback** will be awarded points. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **Please follow all subreddit rules and be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here; we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. You can find a list of . - **Nominate your favorite stories at the end of the week .** You have until **2pm EST** next Monday to submit nominations. (Please note: The form does not open until Monday morning, after the story submission deadline.) - **And most of all, be creative and have fun!** If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail.   *** #Campfire - On **Mondays at 12pm EST,** I host a Campfire on our server. We read all the stories from the weekly thread and provide live feedback for those who are present. Come join us to read your own story and listen to the others! You can come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. Everyone is welcome!   *** #How Rankings are Tallied We have a new point system! **TASK** | **POINTS** | **ADDITIONAL NOTES** |:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:| | **Use of the Main Prompt/Constraint** | up to **50** pts | Requirements always provided with the weekly challenge | **Use of Bonus Constraint** | **10** pts | (unless otherwise noted) | ***Actionable* Feedback** | up to **15** pts each (5 crit max) | You’re always welcome to provide more crit, but points are capped at 75 | **Nominations your story receives** | **20** pts each | No cap | **Bay’s Nominations** | **20 - 50** pts | First- **50** pts, Second- **40** pts, Third- **30** pts, plus regular noms | **Voting for others** | **10** pts | Don’t forget to vote before 2pm EST every week! *Users who go above and beyond with feedback (more than 2 in-depth, actionable crits) will be awarded Crit Credits that can be used on r/WPCritique.* Note: Interacting with a story is not the same as feedback.   *** #Rankings - - u/AGuyLikeThat - - u/ZachTheLitchKing - - u/pathetic_optimist You can view the previous week’s rankings ! *** ###Subreddit News - Join to chat with authors, prompters, and readers! We hold several weekly Campfires, monthly Worldbuilding interviews, and other fun events! - Check out the brand new over on r/WritingPrompts! - Try your hand at poetry with during the third week of every month on r/WritingPrompts! - Explore your self-established world every week on ! - You can also post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


A young woman stood alone in an illusion; a hologram of vast blue space with clouds swirling in the distance. She was standing before the projector of this calming scape, having come to the floating cube to be interviewed. “What is your name?” the bluish-grey box asked, an array of smaller holographic cubes around it. It was a Cephalon, a digitized life form. Creatures of light and memory. The small blue boxes floated in a pattern that the woman could not clearly identify. They projected a sense of thoughtfulness as if pondering the small human’s existence. “Manmi,” the young woman answered, looking straight ahead. Her stance changed from akimbo to a more regal bearing as she introduced herself; her arms crossing behind her back and her legs coming together. She had been led here by a friend and intended to answer the Cephalon’s questions as precisely and honestly as was humanly possible. “Manmi…what?” the Cephalon asked, her voice mechanical and curious. Manmi could hear a warm tone through the artificial voice, echoes of the person Cephalon Suda once was. The young woman in red and orange wanted to answer the question, but there were gaps in her memory. Information that had yet to recover. Whatever had happened to her while she was in captivity still prevented her from recalling all of her past. Her history. Her identity. “Unknown, ma’am,” Manmi answered. Normally, Manmi would have felt extreme discomfort when failing to fulfill an objective. Be it a military order or answering a simple question, Manmi had always suffered a negative physiological reaction when she felt as though she were not living up to someone’s expectations. Fortunately for her, it was easy to keep her nerve when speaking with most Cephalons. There was something about their lack of humanity and highly analytical voices, absent of judgment, that kept her at ease. There were no eyes peering at her. No pressure. No presence. “This is fascinating information,” Cephalon Suda’s holograms pulsed excitedly, “Please tell me what you remember. Start from the beginning.” “The beginning…my childhood?” Manmi asked, wanting clearer instructions before engaging further. “No,” the Cephalon said, her tone more crisp and matter of fact, “I have ample data on the Zariman Ten Zero already categorized and indexed. We will revisit your information on that subject at a later time. What do you remember from waking up after the Old War? This will be new information for me.” “Waking up…” Manmi repeated, organizing her thoughts before nodding, “I remember…smoke. Bright flashes of light. The sound of energy weapons discharging. I was restrained…” she winced and shook her head, “No, *encased*. I was encased in a container of some sort.” “A cryopod, perhaps?” Suda offered, “Cryopods have been detected in greater numbers lately.” “Yes!” Manmi said, her eyes widening. Memories began to resurface as thoughts connected around that word, “I was put in-” “I know why you were placed in cryostasis, Tenno,” Suda said, silencing Manmi, “What happened when you were awoken?” “Apologies,” Manmi bowed her head slowly, “I was awoken by an alarm. The cryopod’s power was failing. Through the glass I could see a battle; energy projectiles and beams cutting through the air less than a meter above the glass. The power was reconnected and stasis resumed. When I woke up next, I was on a table…” Dark green eyes slowly opened under a bright white light. Pupils contracted as the mind behind them struggled against the fatigue. Her mind and body wanted her eyes to close, but curiosity and a sense of danger kept Manmi alert. She tested her muscles by slowly turning her head towards one side and then another. The sluggish response did not bode well if she found herself under attack, but the brain fog was starting to clear up. The room was slightly obscured by the holographic visor of her Zariman suit. It was a small comfort, but a comfort nonetheless. She focused her eyes on the heads-up display to activate its functions but they were in the midst of rebooting. With a blink, she deactivated the visor so that she could better observe her position. Still having the suit on at all gave her a sense of security. That was a much-needed feeling since her surroundings, now that she was seeing clearly, were *far* from comforting. It appeared to be a medical facility of some sort; bright lights, reflective metal panels on the walls, and a faint scent of chemical cleaners and ozone. She tried to sit up but did not move. Her arms were similarly paralyzed, though with some slow flexing of her hands she determined that she was not *actually* paralyzed but instead restrained. Unable to move her head to see the extent of her restraints, she focused on her breathing and tried to move each extremity one by one as much as she could. There was motion just outside her field of view, and as she tried to move the source of that motion came closer. Several automatons had ceased whatever functions they were previously performing and came closer. Manmi guessed that they were ready to restrain her if she escaped based on observing them *not* moving to remove her restraints. One of the machines floated overhead, moving to block out the light that was shining directly into her face. It was a disc of some sort that projected a hologram down toward her. A man’s face with more eyeliner than should have been legal and what appeared to be a painted-on mustache. Manmi was not entirely sure what she was looking at or who this man was, but the way he smiled made her very uncomfortable. “Praise the Void!” the hologram said, its enthusiasm overwhelming, “The Tenno lives! I was worried the doctors would have to force their way through that *remarkable* suit of yours to make sure you were all in one piece! Dreadful about the forced decryostasis you had to go through but don’t worry! I had my best and brightest work on you.” “Decryo…what?” Manmi asked, her words slurred slightly as the muscles in her jaw that had not been used for an unknown amount of years struggled to keep pace with her overstimulated mind. The lights, the sounds, the man…it was all so much. Too much. “By the Void, it was a *nasty* business. Your cryopod was found by one of my crewmen during a routine patrol of one of my favorite shipping lanes. He logged your cryopod but in doing so caught the attention of a Grineer freighter, who started to snoop around for you. I’ll spare you the details, but one thing led to another and, before ya know it there was a firefight at Tesera Outpost! It was rather splendid, really, but you *did* cost us quite a lot of assets. But don’t worry, I’m certain you’ll be able to more than makeup for the investment we made by saving your life! OH! On that note, don’t-” Manmi had stopped listening to the rambling face as she planned for her escape. If she could not break free of the table restraints herself, she would break the entire table with Vauban. Closing her eyes, Manmi focused on her connection to her Warframe, on the Transference Procedure, and the Somatic Link. But as soon as she did she felt a sharp, *excruciating* pain shoot into her neck. It burned its way down her spine as fast as lightning and every nerve ending in her body exploded in agony the likes of which the warrior had never experienced. “AHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” Manmi shrieked as her body convulsed and her vision blanked out. The pain lasted for barely a second, but that second lingered well beyond what it should have. She lay still for a long moment before she realized that she stopped breathing and gasped for air. The first thing Manmi saw when her sight returned was the overly painted face shaking from side to side, making a *tsk tsk tsk* sound. “So impatient! I tried to warn you, Tenno. Please refrain from attempting to contact your Warframe again. It probably doesn’t even exist anymore,” the man shrugged, “Besides, you are now an official Investment of the Corpus. We can’t have you vanishing out of here, so we affixed a little accessory to you. Any attempt to harness the Void in any unwholesome manner will have certain repercussions. You just experienced one of them and I will waive my consultation fee to advise you that it would be in everyone’s best interests, yours especially, to not try to find any of the others. But let’s not dwell on that! Instead, we should rejoice in your awakening! Now we can take you someplace more comfortable for your recovery.” The hologram moved away and Manmi felt the tension on her limbs release. She lifted her right arm and saw a metal cuff still around it and before she could even think about moving any other part of her body, her arm was pulled to the side and the thin metal band clanged against a metal gloved hand. Someone in a technical jumpsuit ‘helped’ Manmi off of the table by magnetically attracting the cuffs on her wrists into each of its hands. An identically clad person - *were* they people?- did the same with her ankles and Manmi was carried between them. “Crewmen! Take our Investment to cell seven-two-two-six,” the hologram man said before the projection blinked off. The two bulky jumpsuits carried Manmi out of the room and out into a shiny metallic hallway. They moved with slow, precise steps, making Manmi think that if they *were* people at any point, they were more machine now. She looked around as best she could while they carried her, trying to mentally note directions, branching corridors, and any features of the facility that she could use to figure out her position. There was little to see in the narrow halls but she did pick up on a general grid-like pattern with the layout. The two crewmen carried her into a small room, the magnetic fields releasing her arms and legs. They dropped her onto a bed and marched out, the door sealing shut with a *clunk* and *hiss*. The room was small, stark, and rather barren. The bed was just barely long and wide enough for her to lay on, and the only other feature in the room was a holoprojector in the center of the ceiling. The rest of the room was otherwise featureless. Manmi curled up and pushed herself into a sitting position on the bed, crossing her legs as she took several slow breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth. In through the nose, out through the mouth. A lot of events had transpired in a short amount of time and her head, while no longer fogged or sluggish, was still confused. Alarms were going off within her but she could not immediately identify the danger. She was a captive, that much was certain. But what was ‘Corpus’? Why was she in ‘cryosleep’? She needed to think. It appeared she would have plenty of time to do that. “Hello there!” a chipper voice sounded from the walls around her. Manmi jumped to her feet in alarmed reflex but immediately regretted it as she fell to the floor almost at once. “Oooo…you should probably not do that for a little bit. Your body is still waking up! We can do some light exercises from the floor if you’re more comfortable down there though.” the female voice said brightly. “Who are you?” Manmi asked as she worked to crawl back into the bed. “Amita!” The voice answered. The holoprojector activated and a red glow appeared around the four corners of the ceiling. A pinkish collection of geometric lines formed under the projector, forming into a small red pyramid that twisted and folded in upon itself with tesseracts at each of its vertices. “Your personal security Cephalon! Well, I say ‘personal’ but I’m actually in charge of all of the prisoners in the 7,000 block! But right now you’re the only prisoner in the 7,000 block, so let’s just say that I’m your personal Cephalon for now!” “Prisoner?” Manmi said, trying to connect the dots. She knew she was a prisoner, but she did not know why, for what, or to whom, “That guy said I was an ‘Investment’.” “Hahaha! Yes, that’s Nef for you. He’s a little eccentric. But I assure you that you are most definitely a prisoner. And it's my job to make sure you stay sane and fit while in confinement. So! If I say ‘pretty please’ will you extend your legs out in front of you and try to touch your toes? Pretty please?” At the moment, Manmi did not want to do any stretches or exercises. She had experience with Cephalons before and knew that there was something off about Amita. She was far too personable, far too attached to the conversation. But if she was like other Cephalons, Manmi knew that she was not going to benefit from trying to refuse. With a million questions in her head, Manmi proceeded to follow Amita’s instructions and stretched out her legs to begin toe touches.


Two painted horses draw a wagon. Its wheels crush the dry rocks beneath, leaving dust in their wake. Behind, a western sun nearly touches the cliff tops. A rough looking man holds the reins, greased and tired from near a week in the Arizona heat. Though the man was always ugly, he'd seen better days. He leaned back and exhaled, while his hand searched blindly for the waterskin that dangled from the strap on his neck. He slowed the horses to a stop by a nearby overhang and took a sip. Close to the last. He balled his fist and hammered on the side of the coach, behind where he sat. "Water's low! Gotta find a stream or somethin'!", he hollered back. As he slid his sore legs off the wagon, the doors on both sides creaked open against the sand and wind. A large pair of boots stepped out and hit the ground with force, followed by a much smaller pair from around the other side. The first, with rust-dulled spurs. The second, with the letter "D" sewn, with love, into the leather. A gift from family, back home. "Shit, Bill. You know it ain't rained in three goddamn weeks! Ain't a stream round here hadn't done dried up by now!", said the large boots to the driver. "Think I don't know that, goddamnit?! Think I like runnin' all day with no sleep, ass bleedin' from this goddamned chase you got us on?!" "Now you KNOW I ain't had no choice but to shoot 'im, Bill…" "Why? 'Cause turned out sherry liked his pecker better 'n yours?!" "She was gon' runoff wi' me! ..get a new start somewhere different...I dunno, maybe even have a boy 'r two, if we was lucky 'nuff...I just don't under-" "She's a fuckin' 'HORE, JIM! ..Hell you THINK was gon' happen? They sell ya snake oil, then suck it right back outta ya. Honest to God, I never thought my own brother was this goddamned dull in the head. I ought-" "Daddy", interrupts a weaker voice from out of the man's peripheral. "I seen some m-mule deer bout a mile or so back. They gots to get their water from round here somewheres.", the young boy suggested, hoping to quell his father's rage as much as quench his own thirst. The man wrestled his eyes off his brother, calming slightly. He turned to his son. "Whereabouts, Daniel?", he questioned in a low voice so as to not frighten the boy. "Uhm...about a mile back, when we passed alongside those cliffs, I saw a group of them heading down into the valley below….might be a water hole, maybe…" The man's eyes closed for a moment in thought, and he exhaled once more. "Jim, you stay with Daniel. I'll take one of the horses back and see what I can find." The brother coughed dryly, choking on the air as he opened his mouth to respond. "Look now, Bill, I know we're all thirsty and tired.. but you know, same as I do, these is Apache lands. I think maybe we oughta just wait till the next-" "Next what?! Waterin' hole? Said it yourself, 'ain't rained in three goddamn weeks'...and YOU know, same as ME, we won't make it two more days 'less we find some quick. Now I need you to stay here, sit tight, and try not to fuck anything else up. Can you manage that?" The fugitive brother looked at the ground in defeat. The man's eyes squinted against the setting sun, half hidden by the horizon. He dragged his tongue against his bottom lip, chapped and cracked and bloody. He quickly stuffed a rucksack and unhitched his horse. "Shouldn't be long. Keep here under this 'hang, and stay outta sight." He dug his heels into the beast's sides, froth spat from its mouth, and he faded west behind the dust. Jim pulled a palm across his head, flattening the greased black mess of hair, and took a pained look at his nephew. His tongue cotton, and gut empty. 'What'd I get them into', he thought. A six-shooter rested comfortably in a belt around his waist. Five bullets in the chamber. The man pulled back on the reins, slowing to a stop at the fork that led down into a valley between a few hundred yards of towering red clay. Dusk faded quickly into night. With it, the shrieks of hawks were replaced by the yelps of coyotes, and the chittering of too many legs. He pulled items from his bag; a stick of wood, a can of bacon grease, a torn cloth, and a worn matchbox with the words "Mabel's House of Pleasure" written on the front. He fashioned a torch and struck it to life. In the flickers on the dirt, he saw hoof prints leading lower down the path and spurred the horse gently forward. As he descended, his torch lit the earthen wall beside him. The beast hugged it close, fearful of the unknowable...avoiding the deadly drop that waited, patiently, just two yards to the other side. As he trotted lower and lower, the sounds of night dampened in kind. Soon, only the slow clack of hooves was audible. Just ahead, the path leveled out, somewhat, and he felt a slight moisture in the air. He turned trot to stride and, quickly, the gentle murmur of trickling water approached. A miracle from God. A pool no wider than ten feet, collected at the base of this forsaken rock, from a stream flowing from higher up the hillside. He leapt off the saddle and dunked his head in the cool water. Life itself flowed back into his bones, and he re-emerged as a new man. Born again. Remembering where he was, he regained focus and rushed to fill the waterskins from his sack while the mare drank her fill. As he corked the last of the skins by the pool, a slight wind blew, and a tickle brushed his leg. As if rehearsed in his sleep, a bowie knife appeared in his hand and speared the culprit as he swung around. Impaled into the sand was a thin piece of leather scrap with a broken hawk's feather embedded. His face grew stern, and he started to mount up. As he grabbed hold of the reins, a shot pierced the silence. Then again. Then three more times, together. He clenched his teeth hard, sheathed his knife, and bloodied the horses sides with his heels. With pain in her eyes, she barreled back up the cliff path, no longer concerned with the unknown. About a quarter-mile out, he saw the glow of flames coming from the overhang. He drew his pistol and gripped it with white knuckles, the heat kissing his skin as he pulled closer toward hell. Through squinted eyes, he sees his brother lying a few yards out from the burning wagon. He does not move. His revolver rests half buried in the sand, inches from his fingers, shining like the morning star amongst the blood and fire. He sees no one else. No law. No Daniel. He dismounts and hurries toward Jim. "Maybe he's still alive. Maybe he can say what happened, and where's Daniel.", he hoped. He falls to his knees and sees a bald man. No greasy black hair. Just a mess of bone and blood where there used to be a scalp. Rage becomes the man. A few salty tears are shed. They fall and mix with the blood, still warm, from the knife-wound in his brother's throat. His palms red and knuckles pale, the man stands and turns to the east. Heading away are three sets of tracks. Two of them, large; one of them, small. He ties the mare to a rock away from the heat of the flames, and puts out his torch. He slings his rucksack over his back, takes a sip from his waterskin, and follows the trail. The wagon lights the night behind him. Jim's boots point skyward, rusted spurs half-buried. No bullets left. The weak light of the moon allows him to stalk his enemy. The mild winds do not wash away their steps. The stench of red man is not erased by the sulfur of gunfire, or the blood that wets the earth. God will have them, after he is done. The path leads him back and around, like a horseshoe, near the opposite cliff side of the valley he'd only left an hour or so before. He creeps through the cover of sparse weeds. The cold of desert night is unheeded by the red blood filling his every thought. Roasting meat. The smell wafts by him, sickly savory. It incenses him. His brother lies scalpless and unburied. His son taken. Yet, his enemy roasts meat. He moves further ahead toward the source of the odor, coming upon a rock formation leading to a depression in the cliff side. As he skulked closer he came to the depression and saw a cave was hidden there, behind the entrance, that led deeper into the cliff. He slid off his boots, and gently placed them to the side. He must be silent. Faint light escaped from behind a curve along the cave path, the smell more invasive as he crouched closer to the turn. He arms himself, blade and Colt, and peeks one eye around the corner. A circular room. Moonbeams intersect rising smoke as it escapes through a split in the rock overhead. Two Apaches rifle through pants-pockets. Adjacent, on the floor, two small boots. The letter "D", sewn with love. On the spit behind them, meat roasts. The man turns away and vomits. With his bile is expelled his hope, his fear, and what Christian beliefs he still held. He regains himself and peeks the corner again. The two demons continue to search the belongings of the dead, hissing between each other in some foul speak. At the hip of the closest hung a pale leather scrap, with greased black hair. Ghostly, he stepped closer. His bare feet made little sound, and the red man did not see his pistol's shadow as it aligned with the back of his head. The red man did not see. Hammer strikes powder, face becomes it. A mostly-headless Apache slumps to the cave floor, his memories are written on the wall. The second devil turns quickly, with a guttural cry, and knocks the gun toward his ruined meal. The man and monster clash grips, tripping to the stone. He feels a rib break and wrestles for his hand's freedom, undaunted. He wants to sink his knife and end him. He wants it more than life. As they struggle, their bodies roll toward the fire. He lunges his arm into the flames. Red and white, the skin peels and melts away from both hands. The cannibal relinquishes his hold of the knife to escape, but the man does not let him. He stares into the empty soul of the demon, as the flesh falls away from them both. Seconds pass like winters, and the Apache now screams in pain. He fights like a trapped dog to free himself, only succeeding when the skin that bonded him finally sheds. He falls back, wailing like a bled sheep as he scrambles up against the cold rock. He looks up to see the white man. His red eyes, open so wide. As if they had never shut before. The man rose from the ground and advanced toward his broken enemy; a boy, no more than sixteen. He lies in a puddle of his own making. His heart pumps blood with urgency, as if life depends on it. The man takes a few slow paces, his feet sliced and skinned. The boy takes a few short breaths. The victor crouches, his eyes level with the Apache's. A few seconds pass and his head slowly bows, as if praying for forgiveness. He lifts his gaze. His eyes have no tears. His face has no remorse. The eight inch blade goes six deep. Starting in the soft spot under the chin, and stopping in the sinuses. The man holds the blade as the boy shakes involuntarily, his grip melded with the hilt. He holds it until the shaking stops. Then, he holds it a while longer. He stares into the soulless eyes until he can hold no more. Behind him, the fire has smoldered. Outside, hawks can be heard. Sun rays bounce and form in his son's ash. The smell of burnt meat. The man rises to his feet, limps toward the embers, and retrieves his Colt. He limps back and rests against the rock. Knife, wet, in one hand. Gun, warm, in the other. He tilts his head back and pushes the barrel under his jaw. He draws a long breath, and exhales. "Fuck." He slumps over onto the faceless red man next to him; his skull half gone, scattered around the cave like jacks. In his lap, a small pair of boots, embroidered with love. ...He had always been an ugly man, but he had seen better days.


Marianne stood in the center of the large elevator, heavily vibrating as it spend down. The blonde, former noblewoman wore a dress uniform. Casual for her standards, but more on the fancier side amongst the renegades who called the orbital base home. The elevator was designed with the intention of carrying squadrons of fully armored space marines, causing the large metal tube to feel empty with the single, normal human occupant. The sudden stop nearly knocked Marianne to the ground. The door slowly opened, and after adjusting herself, she passed through the door. The fallen noble wandered into the bar, the dark room filled with humans, astartes, mutants, and xenos. All of which the knight pilot would have happily slaughtered mere weeks ago. To her left was the bar proper, tended by a mechanical creature with spider-like legs and metal tendrils spawn from its back. These tendrils poured bottles of multi-colored drinks for a group of five space marines, still wearing their armor. They seemed to be celebrating something, a successful mission most likely. To her right was a stage, with a catwalk leading to a pole. A scantily-clad woman had three, pale arms and a multiple of black spikes across her body. Despite her mutations, the crowd of cultist and traitor guardsmen was loving her show. Marianne was even having trouble looking away, though she didn’t know if she was actually enjoying the dancer’s performance, or that she was just attracted to the sweet smelling musk emitting from her. Despite these distractions, Marianne’s goal was the door on the other end of the room. The door being blocked by the large, green reptilian. “What do you want?” The lizard hissed. The bodyguard was as tall as a space marine, and their armor resembled that of modified space marine power armor. “I’m here to see Zax.” Marianne answered with authority. “Zaxss is busssy, come back later.” “Wait a second Vivi.” A woman wearing a black and gold robe stepped in between the human and the lizard. She had light brown fur covering her body and a pair of curved black horns emerging from her head. Her face was covered in a golden silk face mask, with a single, blue eye in the center of it. “Mari’s with me.” The reptile’s eyes lit up as they stepped aside. “Of course. Zax will be back in a few minutesss, so make yourselvesss comfortable.” Marianne opened the door and entered. Before the furry woman could follow, the lizard placed a clawed hand on her shoulder. “Makes sssure your human behavesss.” “I always do.” She said. “By the way Vivi, did you sharpen your claws? They look like they can disembowel an ork.” “You alwaysss know how to make a girl blusssh Vera. Get in there.” The two found themselves inside of an office. An office designed for a space marine. The desk rose to Marianne’s chin, and the three leather chairs were gigantic. Vera climbed into one of the chairs, which was a struggle on it’s own, and sat down. Her hooved feet barely hung over the chair’s edge, and she could’ve fit two more Veras in the chair with her. “Glad I caught ya.” “I had it.” Marianne said defensively. “You had it.” Vera said mockingly. “Whatever. Just tell me what this Zax guy is like.” “Big.” “I got that.” Marianne angrily replied as she struggled into her chair. "Give me a personality." "Diplomatic, for a space marine. Zax acts as the middleman between mercenaries and employers for the sector, so he's used to talking with all sorts of people." "And what kind of people are we talking about?" "Chaos warbands, eldar corsairs, ork freebooters, rogue traders, the more tolerant members of the inquisition, we aren't picky." Marianne couldn't have hidden her shocked expression even if she tried. "Did you think we were some chaotic cult?" Vera asked, her mask hiding her sly smile. "You're a beastmen." "And you're a knight of the God-Emperor, what of it?" Marianne readied herself to argue about semantics, but her mind was blank. "Not all renegades and mutants are chaos worshippers." Vera smiled. “And those of us who are can still be businessmen.” The door slid open, and in walked a space marine. His armor was black, with dark green pauldrons. On these pauldrons was the symbol of a white dragon head hastily painted over with a red X. In his massive hand was a black helmet with a single hole in the brow. This hole was for the single boney horn on the marine's pale white head. He walked past the two, past the desk, and into the large chair, perfectly fitted for him. "Vera, Vera's friend." "Marianne." "Hello Marianne. I am Zax, your middle man for the immediate future. Your mutant friend has told me only good things about you, but I do wonder how you two met?" Marianne sighed. "It's... complicated." "We're sisters." Vera blurted out. Zax laughed, his deep voice echoing throughout the small office. “Knight, despite your sister’s lackadaisical attitude, she is feral beast on the field of battle.” Marianne did not respond, for she was well aware of Vera’s skills in combat. “She told me you are worst.” "I am an honorable knight." Marianne shot back, her voice filled with venom. "Than why are you seeking work with pirates?" “It’s… complicated.” She paused to think. “Let me guess. An overzealous inquisitor decided you were a heretic with little to no evidence.” "No." Marianne said under her breath, glancing towards her sister. "Let's just say that I'm not a traitor to the Imperium, officially." "Interesting." Zax grinned. "How about we make it official, and in a big way." "What do you have in mind." "I got three jobs for you. First, the Blood Pact is looking for knights to raid a forge world." Marianne turned to Vera. "You're on your own with that one." She said. "The Pact doesn't like me." "Ok, what else." "We got some drukari raiding a knight world for slaves, and you'll even get a cut of the slaves." "The dark eldar aren't a good choice for a newbie." Marianne sighed. "Last one." "The last job is actually from some other renegades. A system are asking for help in becoming independent from the Imperium. The Amaterasu System from what it says." "I don't know anything about the Amaterasu System actually." Vera quietly whispered. "I do." Marianne said. "It's the under the watch of the Dark Blades space marine chapter. I guess their going rogue." "Sounds fun, but what's the pay." Zax ruffled through his papers. "Those who assist in removing Imperial forces from the system will be recognized as citizens of of the Amaterasu System, and will have full permission to live and operate within the System, as well as full respirations for lost personnel, equipment, and resources." "We need a place to stay," Vera said, "but it's your call Mari." "A good way to declare to the galaxy that we don't bow to the Imperium. We'll do that one." "Good, good. Do you have need transport to the system?" Zax asked. "No need." Marianne said, standing up and leaving. "Thanks Zax." Vera said, following her sister. The warp jumped to the system took about three hours, and the two spent most of it in silence. Marianne and Vera sat in the cockpits of their respective knights. "Soooo." Vera hummed, her voice echoing across the knight's vox system. "Is your new electroscourge ready?" Marianne looked down to her knight's left arm, or where one would be. The tall, black and red mechanical suit didn't have a left arm, instead of three metal tendrils. "I'd rather have my claw." "Sorry about that." Vera said, raising her knight's blue and black arm, ending in a claw. "But, look on the bright side! Your knight is called Blazing Scourge, it has an electroscourge." "INCOMING MESSAGE." Beeped, interrupting Vera. "Play it." "Thank you for accepting our call for help." A staticy voice played. "I am Cya, personal serf to Chapter Master Hiro." The image on the feed was a hooded figure, the only visible part of her face was a pair of purple eyes that glowed in the dark. "What's the situation?" Marianne demanded. "During the formation of the Great Rift, the Amaterasu System was cut off from the Greater Imperium as well as Imperium Nihilus. Thankful, the system has been designed to be self-sufficient. However, due to our isolation, we did some actions that the eleclisarchy would declare heretical." "Like what?" Vera asked. "Accepting aid from xenos and granting equal rights to abhumans." Vera noticed that the serf's head was oddly shaped under the hood. Almost like she has horns. "What are we dealing what?" "A single fleet consisting of two battleships, five cruisers, and six squadrons of escorts. We can confirm that the fleet contains no astartes presence, but can confirm the presence of knights of House Raven as well as three Cadian regiments." "Feth." Vera swore. "And who are we fighting alongside of?" "Local PDF and mechanicus forces, the Knights of House Ronin, the Dark Blades chapter, alongside numerous mercenary forces. We currently hold the gas giant Tsukuyomi, and the orbiting moons of Kage, a knight world, the forge world Fojishiti, agri world Kin no Machi, the hive world of Yami no Machi, the fortress monastery Yuro no Yosai. The coordinates your ship is going to is for the fortress world of Kichi. It is currently in imperial hands, but we are currently attack the world right now. Any aid will be appreciated." "Yes mam." "Got it boss." "Arigatō." Cya bowed, before disappearing from the feed. "Ready to fight the Imperium?" Vera asked with a nervous smile. "Too late to turn back now." Marianne answered, her voice shaky. "WE ARE APPROACHING OUR DESTINATION." "We are going to die." Vera laughed. Marianne ignored her. "Let's do this." "ENTERING REAL SPACE." Marianne took a deep breath. "APPROACHING PLANET." Marianne's vision began to fade in and out. "PREPARE TO DROP." "My favorite part." Vera laughed. The floor beneath the feet of the two knights opened. The two knights, alongside a number of smaller armigers dropped from the ship. As they fell to the battlefield, the knights could see various forces charging a fort's wall. Marianne's sight continued to fade. "Battle calls." She whispered. A voice, not her own, but familiar, echoes through her mind. "Bring me blood, bring me skulls, bring me battle." When her sight returned, Marianne was standing in the center of a destroyed building. Her knight was soaked in blood, and laying in front of her was the bodies of multiple guardsmen, each and every one of them decapitated. "Great job Mari." Vera said, patting her sister's knight on the back with her claw. "They're falling back." "Th-th-that's great to hear." She mumbled. "Welcome to the life of a merc. It doesn't get any better." Vera said, half-jokingly. Marianne could not reply. All she could do is whisper to herself. "I am a honorable knight. I am a honorable knight. I am a honorable knight. I am-" "Hungry for battle! Bring me more!" A small grin creeped onto her face. "Blood for the Blood God." She said under her breath, her eyes narrowing on her sister. Her trance was broken by incoming missile fire. Her knight's void shield block most of the damage, but the ringing in her ears did drown out the voices. "I won't betray my sister. Not for the Emperor, and certainly not to you." "I do not care for where the blood flows, just that it flows." "I will make it flow. Oh I will make it flow." Marianne whispered as she barreled towards the retreating enemy, her face a mixture of rage and zen.


>*“…He opens the door of his house* > >*On flames. The scholar of one candle sees* > >*An arctic effulgence flaring on the frame* > >*Of everything he is. And he feels afraid.”* > >*– Wallace Stevens, “The Auroras of Autumn”*  *Whitney Siddall will feel a strong wind from the north while cleaning up his second tip-up. He used to have more, but they’ve all rotted from overuse. His second tip-up, in this spot, after what could’ve been hours, or days – who knew – will not catch anything. The flag will not raise. No flags have raised for Whitney in quite some time.* *Today, he will have taken the riskier route and gone out on the ice 8 inches thick. He used to teach his daughter a baseline of 12 inches. That was the thinnest one could safely drive the family truck across. Whitney will remember this, remember his daughter, the treks they took to the lake each winter.* *He’ll pick up the rig. He will recall his youth and regret the time wasted on the hole. What used to be easy was difficult, the auger he lifts will now be heavy. It will be difficult to dig another, and he’ll think himself dumb for leaving tools out on the ice, instead of picking up after* *himself once the hole’d been dug.* *“Making the bed” is what he used to tell Justine as he would place the tools back in the truck.* *…That flag would raise and they’d both get giddy at the thought of a large, delicious meal. That gold-yellow perch, mottled and striped like some kind of painting, would emerge squirming, and the fillet knife saddled at his side was all they’d need to actualize their hopes.* *He’ll recall that his excitement had been sparked by hers, at her seeing the color explode against the gray. He’ll recall, as he leans down to pick up the rig, that he’d chosen the color green for his truck sometime soon after his daughter turned four or five. He will remember he wanted it to appear to Justine that life could grow even in the harshest environments – as if the truck were some fragile flower.* *He’ll laugh at his younger, paternal stupidity…but the laugh will be silent, since he knows, deep down, that this recollection has occurred before. And he will have barely any time for amusement since he will be frustrated.* *The weather would have barely reached freezing the day before. But he will not think of his venture as a risk. Rather he’ll think in terms of time: all the times in which he’d ventured out on even thinner, even weaker ice.* *All he’ll want is one perch. And he’d sacrifice a million minnows just to give it to Justine. He’ll plan for the holiday season, for when she normally comes to visit, – though Whitney will wonder if she’ll even make it out this year.* *He will think of Justine’s new husband, of their marriage, of their indecision about* *having children, on their focus on travel and self-improvement, of their lives finally formed around each other. And Whitney will feel happy that she has found love. Then he will feel selfish for feeling anything but happy.* *Whitney will make the bed and feel alone.* *Whitney will enter the truck and turn the key, revving the engine – and he will see a small wolf cub hopping in his direction, aimless. Whitney will leave the truck, confused, and pick up the cub. He will be surprised at the wolf cub’s domesticity as it licks his face. Whitney will then see in the distance his first tip-up – he will see the flag raised…but it won’t be raised* up*, for it will be sideways, lying on the icy floor.* *Whitney will approach quickly, holding the cub who is panting heavily, and who, Whitney will realize, is very light, very thin. Whitney will see something in the distance, near the fallen flag. As Whitney will approach, he will slow, for he sees something that shakes him: he sees a young man (maybe in his mid-twenties), crouched, holding a yellow perch to his chest. The man will be shirtless, his skin will be navy and his posture animalistic. Certain parts of his body will be bruised, others scratched and maimed, frozen blood will paint his torso. And his eyes…his eyes will be indiscernible beneath the heavy scratch that will run across his face. And Whitney will realize this man’s wound has blinded him. Whitney will feel something he hasn’t in a while: pity. He will feel the need to help, and adrenaline will pulse within him. He will feel the need to help, but he will know, from age, to approach with caution…and he will ask, with caution and compassion, “You okay, buddy?”* \* \* \* He was a quiet man, the type to sit beside a fire for hours, puffing a rolled cigarette, silently enjoying the fruits of his labor. Though he was a quiet man, he was not altogether serious. He still found humor in vulgarity, and he’d laugh like a teenager. He had moments of outrage that expressed themselves in bombast and melodrama. He whined to himself about the capriciousness of life. And on the days he found himself particularly pleased, he sang loud against the crisp wind and playfully chased the lemmings and squirrels that crossed his path. –In mind and heart, A. Hugh Town was a child that never matured. Today he was tired and a little hungover. His walking stick had become an essential limb. Sleeping on cattails for months had taken its toll, and even the exhaustion after hours of sawing through the boughs of a lodgepole pine the night before hadn’t been enough to exhaust him to sleep. The nights had been short and the days long. When Town awoke, he wasn’t sure what time it was: the sun was hidden behind an overcast tapestry. The days of frolicking had been separated by an increasing number of lazy days, marked by a beige personality. But this wasn’t uncommon: Town had always been the silent type. \- - - - - His silence came from his inability to confront the shadows reaching through his past. And when those moments of silence overcame him, his face turned blank, and revealed neither torment nor depression. Instead he donned a Zen-like concentration, bent on purging his mind of all preoccupation by staring into the fire and drawing from a tight cigarette, as he’d done the night before, and the night before that. But – once life presented him with what he considered a long-deserving gift (such as a dumb easy-to-kill stag, or the soft wisp of clouds that meant the sun wouldn’t feel so bright) – the jump-for-joy child would bubble to the surface, and his only conscious thought would be to keep his giddiness from springing in his step too suddenly, as it might spook the wolfdogs that hung beside him. These most recent days, however, gave no gifts. The soft wisp of clouds had turned to a large smothering quilt that only hid the form of the sun. And even then, its shine still felt so bright and so reflective that Town would often walk with his eyes closed, hoping that he wouldn’t bump into any of the pine trees along the way. And, of course…he was starving. There hadn’t been any sign of food for a good month or so. Those lemmings and squirrels Town used to chase playfully were now chased predatorily. But these small bits of sustenance were not enough to keep his stomach at bay – and he could only imagine what it must be like for the four dogs…and that small cub… Because of all this, Town felt a void growing inside him, which he filled with whiskey. He took long sips from the large flask he kept in his inner jacket pocket. And this day was a day when the void had grown so large that his psyche had burst in excitement just to survive. As a consequence, it seeped through the stick he used to provoke one of those wolfdogs to a wrestle.


When Billie next returned, neither of them spoke of the awkwardness of their last parting. Part of Madeline longed to apologise, to smooth things over so everything could go back to how it was. But she was too reticent to bring it up. What if Billie asked for an explanation? What if she made things worse? And so, she let things fester under the surface while pretending everything was fine. Their visit was brief, anyway, and soon they’d left for the next planning meeting. For the rest of the week, Madeline focussed on building up her strength, under Lena’s careful supervision. The work provided a much-needed distraction, and she’d come to find the doctor’s conversation comforting. “So how do you think I’m doing?” she asked as they strolled around the block. “Good,” Lena replied. “In fact… I think you might be ready to try a light job.” At Madeline’s excited expression, she held up a warning finger. “A *light* jog. No running. No sprinting. And you stop if you feel *any* discomfort! Okay?” “Okay,” Madeline replied with a nod. A cheeky smile tugged at her lips. “Race you back to the house!” “Mad—” “Kidding! Kidding!” She held up her hands in a placating gesture, before taking off at a *light* jog. Though her muscles felt stiff and weak, there was no flare of pain or stabbing sensation from her injury, only the dull ache that she was more than used to. After the first couple of strides, she heard the rhythmic footfall of Lena jogging along behind her. “Everything alright?” the medic asked. “Yep,” she called back over her shoulder. “Better than alright. It feels *good* to be moving again.” Despite her assurances to her friend, she found herself gradually picking up the pace, revelling in the sensation of the breeze on her face. When they arrived back at the house, she was out of breath, mousy locks plastered to her forehead by sweat. “I’m not sure I’d call that a *light* jog,” Lena panted. “But at least we can say your leg seems all better.” Madeline turned to face her, chest swelling with hope. “Does that mean—” The doctor nodded. “You can go along to the next meeting. And go back to looking after yourself without me bothering you all the time!” She chuckled. Despite the excitement surging through her, Madeline’s heart dropped slightly at those words. “Will you… I mean, does that mean you’re going to… you know… Will I still see you?” Lena grinned. “You couldn’t get rid of me if you tried!” Madeline breathed a sigh of relief. Obviously, the doctor would be useful to have around for their rescue mission. But beyond that, she wasn’t sure she could cope without her new friend’s company. Especially given Billie’s current coldness towards her. “Now,” Lena said, snapping her attention back to the moment, “how about we test out your leg a little more?” “Hmm?” “What do you say to some sparring?” Lena laughed at Madeline’s shocked expression. “I promise I won’t be as… enthusiastic about it as Billie. But it would probably be wise to make sure you’re combat-ready before heading back out into the world.” “In that case, how could I refuse?” Lena led her to one of the larger back gardens on the street and invited her to make the first blow. Although Madeline felt clumsy at first, she was relieved to find that her muscles held the memory of the movements well enough. She’d soon sunk into a familiar rhythm, dodging, blocking, and even getting a few good licks in herself, though she was certain the medic was going easy on her. She’d just slipped to the side and was bringing her now-healed leg up for a roundhouse kick when a humming sound reached her ears. She froze. Cold washed through her. Her eyes met Lena’s, and she saw her terror reflected there. But there wasn’t time to panic. It might have been a while since she’d had to deal with danger, but just like with the sparring, instinct kicked in. “We’ve got to separate,” she whispered. Indecision flicked across Lena’s face. Before she could protest, Madeline insisted, “I’ll be fine.” Finally, the doctor nodded. But before they could run in separate directions, she grabbed Madeline’s arm. “Meet me back in the village we stayed in. On the first night after we met.” Then, she turned and ran. After a second’s pause, Madeline did the same, taking off through the house to grab her stuff on the way. But the sight of her single walkie-talkie made her freeze once more. *What about Billie?* They would be back again soon, with no idea where she’d gone. She listened carefully. The humming was closer now. Too close. But perhaps without Lena here it wouldn’t be able to sense her. Perhaps it would just pass by. Or perhaps, it had already locked onto them. Perhaps more were coming. She knew she shouldn’t risk it. But she couldn’t risk losing Billie either. And not just because of how she felt about them. But because they were her link to the group. Her link to the rescue mission. Her link to saving Liam. She looked around frantically for a piece of paper or a pen — anything to leave a note. Her eyes landed on a pencil. She grabbed it and started scrawling on the wall as quickly as she could. ‘*AT LAST STOP*’ When she was done, she peeked out the door to check the coast was clear before taking off down the street at a run, her pack jostling on her back and a copy of *Wuthering Heights* clasped firmly in one hand. Stiff muscles screamed at her as she picked up the pace, but she ignored them. After all, straining her injury getting away was definitely preferable to reopening it in a fight for her life. She didn’t slow down until she was certain the only sounds she could hear were her own footfall and rasping breaths. By the time she did, her lungs were burning and her heart felt like it might burst from her chest. She limped onward as best she could until she found somewhere that looked suitable to stop for the night — an old cottage set back from the road, hidden by huge overgrown hedges. Once inside, she forced herself to remain upright long enough to sweep it for any other visitors. As soon as she was sure it was clear, she slumped down onto the bed, finally allowing her trembling legs to rest. As she lay there, birdsong drifted to her on the breeze. For the first time in a while, Madeline realised, there might be no other humans for miles. Given how used to isolation she’d once been, the thought shouldn’t have been as troubling as it was.


It was a study. A library? No, a living room. Yes, definitely a living room. A cozy room not burdened by the plight of modernity and appliances. Someplace an old lady would live. In fact, there she was, not older than seventy by the looks of it, and quite small and frail to boot. She was sitting on an old oaken rocking chair passed down from one generation to the next. She recalled her great-grandfather making it for his aging wife, but that was many lifetimes ago. Days were spent in it as she was one of the unfortunate ones to live long enough to see everyone else leave. Her son in Spain, her daughter in the Americas, and her husband only with her in spirit and in the image on the wall. Indeed, the days were melancholy and seemed to meld together into an endless stream of loneliness. The only company to keep this little old lady entertained was her cat, Erol. Erol was a fully-black, ordinary cat, although hopelessly fat. The absence of any grandchildren to take care of meant that Erol was the one being spoiled beyond measure. Just like the woman, he spent his days lying on the shaggy carpet in front of the rocking chair, living the cat’s dream. The room was a tidy mess of memorabilia. A picture of her and her husband at their wedding, the one where they dropped the cake so they had to eat biscuits. A dried-out flower she kept in a small glass dome. It was the first flower she ever got. Not from her husband, though. The name was long lost to the wind but the care never left the stems or the petals of the crisp rose. An ocean of pictures, some framed, some not, from her trips around the world and from the familiar comfort of her hometown. Indeed, a full life she lived. I lied before. Sitting in the rocking chair was not the only thing she did. She’d grow roots, wouldn’t she? Ever since the last of her family left the home, a strange coldness moved in and seemed to linger in every corner of the house, no matter the weather. Every place was freezing except for the fireplace, and around Erol. She understood that her fat tub of a cat would be warm, but it seemed odd that he would warm up an entire room. Every day, she made the rounds. Shakily standing up from her rocking chair, a place of stiff comfort, she walked from one room to the next, standing in each of them for a few minutes before moving to the next. If there was warmth, she would stay longer. If she heard a sound, she would sit down. Eventually, though, the warmth would become intense enough to warrant a stool or two being turned over, or a cupboard examined. On this particular day, she went into her bedroom. It was amazingly ordinary compared to the liveries and antiques housed inside her living room, but it provided comfort, nonetheless. Standing in the room, she was about to release a sigh before leaving, but a twinge of heat radiated on her leg. *Oh, I might just stay a bit longer.* The old woman walked around the room more, touching the cupboards, the windows, and anything her hand could reach before the heat became warmer once more. She sat down on the edge of her bed, letting her house dress dangle freely from her knees. Steadily, the warmth made the room pleasant again, almost enough to sleep in. As the bliss of comfort reached its peak, her attention was drawn by movement at her feet. There was something small tangled the flowing cotton of her dress, wrapped like a parcel, almost. As her stoic expression turned to a smile, a small tail stuck out from the mess of fabric, followed by a small paw, then it flopped out onto the rug, eager to return to its play. It was a small kitten. It was mostly white with spots of orange and brown on its head and tail, and quite playful. The little ones that visited her were usually more scared or aggressive, but not this little fellow. *Hello there, little one! My, you’re a lively one. You’ll make Erol excellent company.* It did not. Erol was the type of cat to only love its owner and no one else, but he had to tolerate the newcomer for the sake of his own master. The little one sprang at Erol on its hind legs, launching a mock “attack” at the terribly fat cat. He simply laid down and did not pay him any mind. Although the site of the two playing was a comfort, she could not help but feel a twinge of sadness. Visitors came and went all the time, and she could tell the reason for their visit upon their first touch. When she touched this precious life for the first time as it unfurled from her dress, she felt grime, cold, and wetness. *Drowned. What a shame.* However, whatever happened to the kitten before was not her concern. Her only duty was to provide them a home, even for a day, so they could return to their journey and reach their destination. Wherever they went, she did not know. She set the small plate of tuna on the ground next to the fireplace along with a small bowl of water. *Jump! Jump! Play with me! Cat. Fat cat. Warm. Fesh! Wa…* The small one’s thoughts raced in its hyperactivity, jumping from his unwilling companion to the rug to the food, but when it met its bowl of water, it stood still in its tracks. It looked at the sloshing water and seemed to tremble, but the woman was quick to act for her age. *Oh! Oh goodness, would you look at this silly old lady!* She picked the kitten up and held it close to her. It was still shaking. Moreover, it was cold, cold as the creaky halls of her home. *I’m sorry, little one. This should suit you better.* She put an even smaller bowl on the floor and set the kitten down. It moved forward and inspected the bowl, sniffing it timidly. *M… Milk? Milk!* Its joy and warmth were back as it made a mess of itself, dunking its head clumsily into the bowl. The lady giggled and helped clean the little one up. Her furry visitors brought joy to her life, but they always left soon after arriving. In the case of the new kitten, it was there for two days before the new warmth it brought into the home was gone. She did not have to stand up and look for them, she just *knew*. Whenever a new life would leave for its journey, she would feel intense sadness, a weight of emotion that would seemingly bolt her to the chair for days on end. The only thing to get her out of her slump would be Erol. The fat cat would waddle his way over to the chair, look up at his master, and jump into her lap. His own warmth would permeate her and give her back the familiar comfort of a friendly bond and allow her to stand up again to check for more visitors. Cats from all walks of life would come to visit her house. Some were angry: *Back! Back! hiss No more! No! Let go! Hiss* The angry ones would be taken from their hiding spots and embraced. Sharp claws would slash at her arms and chest, but she held them tighter all the same. They held tight, whispering sweet words of comfort until the wild slashing would turn to slight hissing, and until the hissing subsided into curious sniffs. They were usually the cuddliest out of all her guests. On the other hand, some were confused: *Ma-Master? Where master? Why… Why master leave? You… master?* Nothing could keep the tears from flowing when she heard these thoughts, and she made sure to keep these visitors around for as long as possible to make sure they felt loved. Some were young, as the drowned kitten. They were young, ignorant of the cruelty of humans, and came with all of the child-like tendencies befitting of them. These were usually the first ones to leave. She smiled as she reminisced about a cat that was uncannily like Erol. A white cat, just as fat, and just as lazy as him. She could very rarely hear Erol’s thoughts, but for this occasion, she could hear only one: *Friend.* The two lounged around for many days as visitors came and went. The woman did not feel sad when the white cat left, which she found odd, but welcomed it. Sometime after the young kitten left for its journey, she was feeling sad when Erol jumped on her lap again. He looked into her eyes. *Another one gone. Still the same sadness?* *Yes, they are just so precious I wish they could stay just a bit longer. I’m terribly lonely, Erol.* *I understand. Their lives are precious beyond measure. The ones that come here, must pass this point to reach the end. Their end is another’s beginning. Each time a newcomer visits us, it means a new life has started. Take comfort in that, my dear.* *But why do I have to do this, Erol? Surely, they can find their way on their own, no?* *They cannot. A caretaker must always be here, in this house, to watch over them and guide them on the right path. I should know, I’ve been here longer than you.* He made himself comfortable on her lap, lying down and purring. *And you promise that each one that comes here is going to be happy after they leave?* *Of course, I would not let them stray.* *Erol?* *Yes?* *Are you death?* The cat opened its eyes to look up at the woman, taking a moment to gaze, seemingly pondering before returning to his slumber. She never heard his thoughts again. From then on, she never thought twice about her visitors, always focusing on helping them in any way she could. Erol always mended the anguish she felt when a visitor would leave, and she always helped them. Every last one.


Some things, I never expected to see. There she was, a bald woman with a small suitcase, offering me a glass bottle of shampoo. Not only had I never expected a door-to-door shampoo seller to knock on my door, I didn't even know door-to-door salespeople still existed. And I’d certainly never pictured them looking like this—bald shiny head, no eyebrows, no eyelashes, but a pretty and polite smile. “It will only take a moment to hear me out,” she said, smooth and even like honey. “You won’t regret it.” I was hesitant. Why would I buy shampoo from a stranger who showed up unannounced at my doorstep? And from someone without any hair… it wasn’t like she could be an advocate for the product. But the woman seemed nice and nonthreatening, and I really had nothing better to do with my evening. Buying shampoo from a bald woman would certainly be a novelty. So, I let her in. She told me that her shampoo was a unique formula that would leave my hair feeling silky and smooth. I decided to take a chance and bought a flask of her shampoo. Door-to-door sales can’t be easy and one bottle wouldn’t break the bank. I figured it would be worth it if only for the story I’d tell after the fact. As soon as she left, I headed straight to the shower to try it out. I looked over the bottle. Nothing special about it—just a glass bottle with an unremarkable paper label stuck onto it. Though I had my doubts about keeping glass in the shower. Still, I ran the water and when it heated, I hopped in. The shampoo lathered easily in my palms, and I spread it through my hair—thinning now that I was in my thirties. As I applied the shampoo to my hair, my scalp started to feel tingly, almost electric. Were I to be negative, I’d say it burned. Sometimes such sensations mean a product is working, but it wasn’t a feeling I liked in a shampoo. I’d decided to wash it out quickly when my hair detached from my head, falling in clumps to the shower floor. It flowed into wormlike hunks and started thrashing around on the floor like a living creature. I was horrified. My back hit the shower wall as I attempted to escape the little hair creatures, but there was really no escaping in the enclosed space. What was happening? Was this some kind of bizarre reaction to the shampoo? The saleswoman had been bald, I reminded myself. The hair writhed, moving toward my feet. I started stomping on my hair, trying to make it stop moving. Water splashed up and the hair continued to writhe, movements more erratic now. I stomped harder, eyes wide with terror. What if those hairworms crawled up my leg or under my toenails… I had the most horrible pictures playing through my mind. Eventually, the hair stilled, and I was left standing there in shock, staring at the mess on the shower floor. The water rinsed it slowly down the drain, leaving clumps of hair to block the water. I jabbed at it with my toe, trying to encourage the hair to disappear. But I didn’t wait for it all to go. I leapt out of the shower and stared at my newly bald head. My eyebrows were gone too. What had that woman and her shampoo done? That's when I noticed a message on my mobile. I opened the text with shaking fingers. It was from the woman who had sold me the shampoo, and it explained everything. According to the message, human beings do not naturally have hair. Bald and beautiful is the natural state of humanity. Hair, all human hair, is an alien species that has been mentally controlling us since the cavemen first hunted, since before homo-sapiens existed at all. The organization that the woman works for developed a special shampoo formulation that kills these alien creatures, freeing humans from their control. The message went on to explain that I was now one of these "Warriors of Freedom," a shampoo seller tasked with spreading the word and freeing humanity, one bottle of shampoo at a time. I was shocked and confused. This all sounded crazy, but my experience in the shower had been all too real. I stared at my bald reflection for what felt like hours before the sound of my doorbells shook me from my stupor. I dressed and walked out to the door. On my doorstep waited boxes and boxes of shampoo. I reopened the text. Warrior of Freedom didn’t sound bad. I’d certainly been called worse things in my life. And I’d always kind of known hair was part of some tyranny. I mean really… when has hair ever done any good? Everything made perfect sense. I knew that I had to do something. I pulled the boxes inside my house and then sat to plan out my next moves. First friends and family, I decided. I’d start to spread the word, telling the people who mattered most, and who would most easily buy shampoo from me, about the alien species that had been controlling us all along. At first, they would think I was crazy, but then when they tried the shampoo for themselves, they’d see the truth. After all, I had. Soon, I would have a network of Warriors of Freedom working with me, freeing humanity from the aliens' control. We would sell shampoo door-to-door, at local markets, and through online platforms. I wouldn’t tell everyone beforehand what it did, of course… no I’d make some lie that the hair overlords listening in would like. Looking back, I never could have imagined that a door-to-door shampoo seller would change my life forever. But she did, and now I can be part of something bigger than myself. Who knows what other unexpected things might happen in the future? All I know is that I'm ready for whatever comes my way.


*Time: 2024, one year post outbreak* Back when the outbreak began, Austin was ordered to evacuate, as all major cities were. Almost everyone complied, and those who weren’t were rounded up and forced to by the military. Everyone the government had on record was accounted for and pushed out of the city, whether they wanted to or not; but no one stopped to check to make sure that I, the blind homeless man living in an alley between a hotel and a convenience store, ever complied with the evacuation orders. \_\_\_\_\_ I woke up in my shelter (a former hotel room), and my first feeling was the same one I felt every morning; hunger. So I put my braille copy of *To Kill a Mockingbird* back on my shelf (I had a bad habit of reading myself to sleep)*,* and decided to go check on my traps, hoping I’d caught something to eat. If I was lucky I’d get a racoon or a possum, but if nothing else I was sure there’d be a rat or a pigeon. I grabbed my mobility cane, strapped on my utility belt, and carefully opened the door to my room. I poked my head out, carefully listening to anything that might have been an infected. I hadn’t heard or smelled an infected in weeks, but you could never be too careful. I didn’t hear anything, so I continued walking. Even though I had muscle memorized my way out of the building, I still held onto my wire just in case. I had long set up a series of wires in the building to always lead me back to my room if I got lost. I unlocked the building’s front door, and once again listened for the infected. I heard nothing, so I pressed on. I could tell just by the feeling of heat on my skin that it was daytime, so I knew there’d be less infected wandering the streets. The infected preferred to be out at night, they only wandered during the day if they were really hungry. I learned early on that if I stuck with the same buildings each time, animals would stop falling my traps after like, a week or so. But after a month or so, the wildlife would forget, and I’d be free to set up traps there again. So, I tried to change my locations at least every 3 or 4 days, and not use the same buildings for at least four weeks. Today the start of a new set up. As I was approaching the building (I memorized how many steps it took to get there), I heard the one sound I wanted to hear the least; the low pitched snarl of an infected. And even if I couldn’t hear him, I could definitely smell him approaching. Most infected start to smell after a while, but this one was particularly rancid. From the sound of it, it was alone. I waited for it to get closer, and could still only hear one footstep at a time, so I felt a bit lucky that it was a loner. I drew my revolver, and waited for the infected to get closer. As he did, I isolated the sound of his growling; once I had a lock on his head, I aimed, and pulled the trigger. I then checked to make sure I didn’t miss. I put away my gun and drew my machete, ready to fight it off if it was still alive. It wasn’t; I felt it’s lifeless body with my mobility cane, I knew it was dead. I then continued towards the building where I laid my traps. Once inside, I ran my cane along the wall, checking the snares I laid out. My first three snares were nothing. This was expected, not every single one could be a winner. But as I approached my fourth snare, I smelled something, so I knew I must have caught something. I felt it to take sure it had died; it did. So I put my plastic gloves on, and bent down to feel what it was; it was a racoon. I then put it in a plastic bag, tied it to my belt, and then moved on. While I continued searching, I heard something else walk into the building. Then, I heard the growls, and knew it must have been infected. But it wasn’t just one this time, I could hear at least three growling mouths. And they were getting closer. I couldn’t fight all three at once; there was no way I could isolate their sounds quickly enough to shoot with accuracy, and trying to fight them off with my machete would’ve been hopeless. So instead, I ran. I found a door. I opened it. I then closed it behind me. But this wasn’t going to help me for long; the infected weren’t very smart, but they usually remembered enough of their old lives to do basic tasks like flipping light switches and opening doors. While they stumbled towards the door, I wandered the room more. I found a staircase; this must have been the emergency stairwell. I started walking up, hoping I could lose the infected on another floor. But then, as I was approaching the top floor, I could hear a loud pounding coming from above. Something was stumbling down the steps. I drew my gun, and waited. I could only hear one snarl, so it must have been another loner. Once I isolated his sound, I fired, and could tell just by the sudden *thud* on the ground that I landed another shot. But I didn’t have time to even catch my breath, because the other three infected were coming. I dashed up the steps, hoping to escape them. I got to the next floor, and felt the walls until I found the door. I opened it, dashed past, and slammed it behind me. I then started feeling for a piece of furniture I could use to barricade the door. I didn’t find anything, and I could hear the infected approaching. One of them opened the door, but before any could enter, I threw my entire body weight against it. I could tell something was caught in the door, probably an arm or a leg. While still pressed against the door, I pulled my machete, and started flailing. I must have hit something, because one of them screamed in pain and recoiled. I quickly realized how futile it would be to try to hold them back much longer, so I sheathed my machete, drew my gun, and took a few steps backward. The moment I heard the door swing open, I opened fire. It would have been pointless to try to shoot them back in the lobby, but in a tight doorway where all three would be stumbling over themselves to push past, I knew I’d have to hit something. I fired my four remaining shots as best I could, and then took off running. I had no idea how many I killed, and had no intent of waiting to find out the hard way. The explosive sounds of the gunshots gave me temporary tinnitus. When it wore off, I could hear one set of footsteps and one snarling mouth stumbling after me. I didn’t have time to reload my gun, and could tell by my cane that I reached the end of the hallway and had no idea where else to run. So I drew my machete and got ready for a fight. As the infected got closer, I started flailing my machete. Most infected are smart enough to not run face first into a blade. It would instead circle me, hoping to catch me off guard. I swung at it, but missed, and it grabbed my arm. This was bad, but not the end; it would be if it bit me, but a scratch wouldn’t infect me. It then tried to pull me in close, probably to land a bite, but I quickly slashed it with my machete, and cut its arm clean off. It then howled in pain; that was good, it’s howl let me know exactly what it was. I then raised my machete and threw out one last slash, one that buried my blade in its skull. I then paused and listened for any more infected. I heard none. I reloaded my gun, just to be safe, but still, I heard nothing. With all that madness out of the way, I breathed a sigh of relief, checked to make sure my racoon was still where I left it, and started making my way back out. This was the hardest part of my new life; anytime I lost track of where I am, it’s a struggle to get back to a landmark. But thankfully, all I had to do was follow the hallway to the end and go back down the stairs to end up back in the lobby where I started. I don’t know how long I’m going to make it living day by day in the ruins of my city. But at that moment, all I needed to know was that I was about to have dinner.


“I can’t wait to see you, Bunny.” A wave of panic rose over him, like the adrenaline rush at the crest of a rollercoaster. He read the text message again, then a third time, hoping doing so would somehow ease his worries. He cared for her so much, and she’d finally invited him to stay the night, yet he couldn’t stop thinking in worst-case scenarios. She was waiting for him when he stepped off the tram. “Hi, Bunny!” She ran over and kissed him. “I wish you wouldn’t call me that, it’s so cringey.” He said that, but deep down he liked his pet name. Bunny walked by her side. His eyebrows were raised high causing the stress lines in his forehead to protrude. She slipped her hand into his. “Your hands are clammy. What’s up?” He shook his head. “You know how I get, Fa…” He almost called her Fate. It was a single letter from her actual name. He’d never said the pet name he’d given her out loud. She squeezed a little tighter. “We’ve been seeing each other for a while now. You’re safe with me, I promise.” He’d told Fate about his issues, and how difficult it was for him to be away from his home. Yet he hadn’t told her everything, and the closer they walked towards her home the more the panic rose within him. Fate noticed Bunny’s lips moving slightly. “Did you say something?” “…no. Sorry, I was just thinking.” Bunny trusted her. Yet he still felt it would have been embarrassing to admit he was repeating positive reassurances to try to keep himself calm. He looked at her through the side of his eye. She was beautiful. Not only that but she was kind, funny, and brought the best out in him. He was seen as quite serious, often described as moody, but her joyful spirit made him smile. He felt he could let his guard down with her. It wasn’t love, not yet, but it was close. Her hair was long now, way past her shoulders, but it had been short when they’d met. Fate had been looking at Joy Division albums in H.M.V. when Bunny saw her from over in the Heavy Metal section. Her bag was made from two old vinyl records and some cloth, which she’d made herself. He hadn’t asked a stranger for their number since he was fifteen, yet he was compelled to when he saw Fate. Fate opened the door to her house and walked in, flicking off her pumps. She started to walk towards the living room and then paused. She turned towards Bunny and looked puzzled. “Why are you still standing at the door?” “…you didn’t invite me in?” Fate laughed. Bunny might have felt offended, but her chuckles were so warm he knew there wasn’t one iota of malice within them. “It’s a given, Bunny.” He nodded and walked in, standing in the immediate entrance, and not moving. Fate sighed with a smile on her face and rolled her eyes. “Will you just come in?” She moved behind him and began to push. He managed to get his shoes off before she’d shoved him through the door to her front room. She frogmarched him in front of the couch and pushed him into the seat. “I’m not even going to ask if you want a drink, because you’ll say no. I’m just going to get you one. It’s okay, you don’t have to be polite, it’s not as if my parents are home.” He looked around her front room from his position on the couch. Over in the far corner was an old upright piano. Fate came back into the room with two glasses of water. “I didn’t know you played?” Fate went quiet for a few seconds before responding. “I don’t… I mean, I do play it. I just don’t play in front of people. My grandmother taught me. She’s the only person who has ever heard me play.” He smiled. He wanted to ask more, but her response told him it wasn’t a comfortable subject. She placed the two glasses onto the coffee table, slipping a coaster under each. Then she moved over to the piano and opened the lid. “I’d like to play for you, Bunny.” He stood and walked over to her. “You don’t have to if…” “I want to.” He smiled. He wanted to say something about how much of honour it felt, or to thank her in some way. But he was still incredibly anxious, and his brain couldn’t create a sentence that felt right. Words were a clumsy jumble within his mind, impossible to organise. She began to play and for the next few minutes he forgot all about his issues. He stood behind her and watched her fingers dance over the keys. Every now and again he would close his eyes for a few seconds, letting the mellifluous sounds wash over him. Then she stopped. She replaced the lid and turned to him from the stool. “…Thank you for listening.” He wanted to say it was him who should be thanking her, but again he couldn’t get the words out. Instead in leaned over and kissed her. They moved towards the couch, their lips parting only for brief moments to avoid any collisions. She lay with her back against the cushions, wrapping her legs around him. He ran his fingers through her hair and kissed her neck. “Bunny, do you want to go upstairs?” Like a strike of lightning the panic hit. He’d been in the moment, out of his own head and filled with passion. Yet that single sentence killed his confidence instantly. He didn’t want to say no, yet he couldn’t say yes, layers of fear piling on top of each other as he tried to find a reasonable excuse. “I… not just yet. Let’s hang out for a little bit first. We’ve got all night, so there’s no rush. I think I still need a little bit of time to settle in and get comfortable.” She nodded and smiled with understanding, but he felt disappointment radiate from her. She kissed him again and got up from the couch, grabbing the remote and turning the television on. They nuzzled up together on the couch while watching a film. “I feel really comfortable with you, Bunny.” He wanted to say he felt the same and, in many ways, he did. He felt more comfortable being with Fate then he had with anyone before. Yet, his mind was still conjuring full catastrophe outcomes for the inevitable conclusion of the evening. The credits for the film eventually began to scroll on the television screen. He looked at Fate, her eyes were hazy. “I think I’m ready for bed, Bunny.” He felt the fear once again rise within him. They headed, hand in hand, towards her bedroom. She undressed in front of him and slipped on her nighty. He remained fully clothed. Fate raised an eyebrow. “Are you really going to sleep in your jeans?” With defeat he nodded. He lay on his back while she straddled him. Kissing her made him feel so much happiness, yet still he remained inside his own head. He criticised himself for not being able to lose himself with a woman so beautiful, the worry piling higher and higher. His motions were all correct, he kissed with passion, he ran his hands up from her waist and cupped her breasts. Yet he knew it would go no further. Any time Fate tried to work her hands down to unbutton his jeans, he would move them back up towards his chest. This was done with as much tact as possible, but the obviousness was difficult to hide. After a while, Fate rolled off. “Well… I guess we’ll go to sleep now.” She rotated to face away from him, and he spooned her. After a short time, she began to snore in a gentle melody. Even her sleep was filled with music. He lay there the entire night. His eyes were closed but slept never took him. His mind continued to be filled with catastrophic thoughts. Would he ever be able to make this work? Would he ever be happy? Would he ever be able to be the man that Fate deserved? What if he never got comfortable enough around her? How long would it be before he couldn’t hide it any longer? Would she leave if he told her the truth? It was fine when he was alone, when he wasn’t anxious, why couldn’t it have been fine just this one time? Was it fair for him to have her affections when she could have so much more? The more the hours passed the more panic ebbed, slowly replaced with the heavy weight of melancholy. He felt the sun against his eyelids and heard the morning song of the birds. He rose from the bed and Fate stirred slightly. He leaned over and kissed her forehead. She smiled, yet never woke. He creeped out of the front door and back towards the tram stop. Sat on the tram he pulled out his phone and began to type. “I really like you, but I’m just not looking for a relationship right now. I should have said something last night, but that’s why I was acting distant. I’m sorry if I’ve led you on, Fate.” It would be the first thing she would see half an hour later when she woke. She thought the last word was a typo.


Jeffery looked down at the quarter resting on his thumb. It wasn't much money, twenty five cents, yet it held far too much sway over his life. It was an old coin, scuffed and bent. Most of the silver plating had worn off. The copper underneath is clearly visible, not just along the edge like most coins but over almost every raised surface. It had been in his hands or in his pockets for more than fifteen years now. His father had given it to him. When he was young. He had tossed it to him as he walked out the door. He hadn't understood what 'Call someone who cares' meant, but his begging had fallen on deaf ears. He never saw that man again. He had taken a job. The quarter in his pocket. The family needed the money; his mother and sister were hungry. He was now the man of the house it was his job to provide. So he did. He never spent that coin though. Eventually his mother ran off. She had found somebody new, and she didn't want her children anymore. It was just him and his sister. Luckily, he found a second job and was able to keep paying rent. Food was a greater problem, but he made it. He had to skip a meal or two during the week but his sister always had something. That was what mattered. She did well in school, better then he had been doing before he was forced to leave. She still called him Dad even though he told her that he wasn't. It didn't bother him, he just had strong feelings about anything meaning 'Father' anymore. Still it made her happy. That was what mattered. His sister had grown up to be a wonderful young woman, honest and forthright. A bright and promising future lay ahead of her, and she took it. She got herself a better job than he had ever hoped for. She moved far across the country, a long way away from the rundown little apartment he could afford. She had shown him pictures of her new home. It was beautiful and in a nice neighborhood. He couldn't have been prouder. Eventually she found a partner. He had been scared she would run off like their Mother. She didn't, she had wanted him to walk her down the aisle. Her fiance wholeheartedly approved. That wasn't the only surprise though. They wanted him to move; to a home right next to theirs. They said it would be paid for until he found a job out where they were living. He hesitated. It was a difficult choice. He no longer enjoyed relying on others, but his sister wasn't an other; she was family So when his mother had shown up to the old apartment, the one he was moving out of, to ask for money. He had just the right amount for her. A flick of his thumb sent the battered old coin tumbling through the air. As she caught it he closed the door. Locking it as it clicked shut. He had more important things to do.


There was an old owl that I used to see around my apartment. I always found him strange–owls did not belong in the city, I thought, and he’d be much happier making a home in some drafty barn with a hay loft and broken shutters and mice to eat. But he was here, and he often sat perched on a high branch near the trunk of a tree that grew outside my bedroom window. I had to almost press my face against the window glass to see him–but there he’d sit, just watching, waiting. Normal owl activities, I suppose. One sunny day in spring he left his post and flew up to my open window. He was startling up close–almost overwhelmingly painted and detailed, eyes that stared through me and seemed to glow. Far away he was mysterious, revered, stately–up close he was almost frightening to look at. We stared at each other for a moment–it felt as if we weren't supposed to be here, but I could not look away. His gaze felt almost human. It felt even more human when he spoke to me. “Hello,” he uttered. I dropped my jaw and my water bottle. It rolled toward the window where he sat. I did not move. “You dropped something,” he told me. Our stare did not break as I moved slowly, finally, towards him, to get my bottle and sit on my bed. I sat, slack jawed. “You can talk?” I asked him. “You’re an owl! How are you talking?” “I don’t know,” He replied. “How are you talking?” I almost laughed at such an absurd question, but paused. Then: “Well, I’m, well, a human. We’re supposed to talk.” “Yes,” he said, a tone that sounded almost irritated with the obvious nature of my statement. “But says who? Did someone grant you permission to speak one day, or did you just start?” I mean, he had a point, I guess. I said nothing. “Well, same thing happened to me,” he continued. “I just could. Can.” “Oh.” I finally broke our stare, and looked down at my hands. I almost felt bad for second guessing him, but then remembered the absurdity of my situation and rejected any guilt I felt for holding disbelief that I was having a conversation with an owl. I looked back up, half expecting him to be gone, for me to have made it all up. But there he perched, glowing eyes darting around my room, no longer cutting through me. He spoke again. “So, if we can both talk, what do you think is the difference between you and I?” I had to laugh. “What kind of question is that?” “What do you mean?” “You’re an *owl*, I’m a person. How are you asking what the difference between us is?” He looked back at me. “Thank you for stating the obvious. But I can talk like you, and I can think like you. I can’t drive a car or cook a pot of pasta, but you can’t hunt mice, or fly.” True, owl. “And we look, well, very different,” he continued. “But what is *really* the difference between us? If we have the same brain, what other than our outside makes us different?” “Can all owls talk like you can?” I replied. “Because if they can’t, and it’s just you, then that makes you a very special owl. I’m just a normal person.” He was quiet for a moment. “You have a point.” I expected him to continue, but he did not. I broke the silence before he could fly off. “So they can’t?” I asked again. “You’re the only one that can talk?” “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t know any other owls.” A feeling of cold washed into me, and I suddenly wanted to go open the window and give my owl friend a hug. I don’t think he’d have liked it much, but his simple, matter-of-fact declaration of loneliness and alienation instilled a deep ache in me. He must have seen my smile drop, because my internal anguish over the thought of my new friend being all alone in the world was interrupted by his continuing. “But I never have, so I don’t know the difference,” he said. Stoically. “Aren’t you lonely?” I blurted. I felt ashamed for asking him something that seemed so painful to answer or admit. I wanted to take it back but I could not, of course. He seemed unmoved by the question. Nonetheless, I found myself holding my breath, praying he would not fly away before answering me. “I think that I don’t feel lonely because I don’t know any other way,” he finally began. “I just exist in my world and observe and wonder about why I’m here. And if that’s lonely, I guess I just thought that was what life was. And I don’t mind it, not at all. I don’t even wonder too hard, really. Because I think that it’s this way for a reason. I don’t have anything to miss–which I’ve heard isn’t so nice–because I didn’t ever have anything to begin with. So I just have things to wonder about. Nothing taken, nothing to mourn. Just a life to exist in. Which to me, isn’t a bad life. Not at all.” He looked back at me. His eyes seemed to glow a little brighter, now. And then he flew away. I stood up and rushed to the window, but he was already out of sight.