Gentle Readers: No need to tell me there are grammatical errors. They are deliberate. \*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\* The next evening, I take Jerome to Devotion's place. She made breakfast. It's sitting there on the table. Three plates. "Sweety-pookums," she says to the kiddo, "why don't you come sit between Daddy and me?" She pats the seat of a chair. Jerome's just happy to be anywhere, so he bounces over to the table and scrambles up on the chair. I sit in the chair closest to the door. "Oh, don't wait for me," she says. "Just dig in, fellas." She goes into the bedroom, and I hear some rummaging sounds. I ain't hungry. Well, yeah... I'm hungry for food, but I ain't hungry for whatever else she's cooking up. I ain't waiting for her to come out with a rose in her teeth. Quickly, I grab a couple pieces of bacon. "Jerome - eat those eggs for me." I say that low. In a louder voice, "Sorry I can't stay. Gotta business call to make." I high-tail it out of there before she can play any more mama-and-dada games. Early for my shift, I get to Packo's and go inside for a couple minutes. "Early, ain't you?" says Pony, the barkeep. "Yeah." Packo comes out of his office, his face all twisted in an angry snarl. "Hey. Billboard," he says. "Come in here." I don't dawdle. In Packo's office there are five cats and a rat. I don't recognize none of them. Probably out-of-towners. "These guys need some muscle down at the docks," Packo says to me. "There's five mackerels in it for you, if you give them the muscle they need." The rat says, "There's some dogs been nosing around. We need them gone. Can you do that?" That last part is meant for me. "How big are these dogs, and how many?" I ask. Again. I ain't stupid. "Pack of dogs. Six of them. Two of them is small. Chihuahuas. Another three is rat terriers." Now I understand why the rat's all jacked up about the dogs. "The last one's a beagle." I hate beagles. I got my reasons. "Yeah. I can keep those dogs at bay for you. Make it six mackerels, and I'll make sure they never come back." "Deal!" the rat squeals. I don't let it show, but that negotiation helps solve the fins and tail I'm gonna owe Stacks. My pappy taught me when I was young: don't ever let them know you're getting a good deal - they can take it back. I follow the out-of-town cats and rat to the docks. The rat runs along a mooring rope to a beat up boat. One of the cats, a gray tabby, points out a rundown building across the way. "They come from thataways every night. Six dogs." His hair's on end. "Show me exactly where," I tell him, "or I can't do my job. That means making sure they ain't bothering you no more, so show me." Even though he's shaking, the gray tabby takes me to the windows where the dogs come out every day. There's a broken pane in one of the windows, low enough and big enough for the beagle to jump right through. I give the window the once over - I don't wanna get tore to pieces by glass falling on me. It takes me only a minute to cypher out the panes of glass and the stresses. There's six panes of glass, three to each side of the window, all framed by wood. Six separate pieces of glass. I look till I'm satisfied. It seems like all the other panes are solid for now, even with that corner out of the lower right pane. Now to take a look inside the place. It's a smelly snore-party in there. Six dogs laying all over creation sawing logs. One of the chihuahuas is barking in his sleep - it sounds like he's saying, "Mick, Mick, Mick," with his lips closed. Not a one of them budges. Each one's stretched out or curled up on his own. I wouldn't be able to tiptoe between them, if they was all piled up like puppies. Strung out like that, I got plenty of room to stroll. Ring leader's off to one side. Seems kind of strange, but good luck for me. Take out the leader, the rest of the pack falls. I inch around. This dog's got elephant ears. He shifts his head in his sleep, pointing his nose straight up, and his tongue rolls out his mouth till it touches his ear. Slobber all over. I hate beagles. I take a little jump and land hard on the soft part of his gut. All the wind goes out of him - he don't even have a bark left. His back legs are jerking, as he tries to get his breath back, so I don't let him. I give him another pounce right in the soft part, and all that comes out of him is a thin wheeze. He rolls over, but that ain't smart. I get on his back, and rake at his eyes while he tries to get away from me. He gets breath enough to squeal. Squealing and running - he can't see the broken window. I got my fingers in his eyes. Well - claws in his eyes. I take my chance and bite into one of his ears, then the other - all the while still raking his eyes. More squealing. He runs nose first into the wall. The other dogs are awake and hanging back. Yeah, chihuahuas are scrappy - but just with other dogs. Pound for pound, they can't match a cat. The beagle stops running and stands still with his ass dragging low. There's a puddle under him. I'm gonna have to watch it when I get off him. I don't like my paws pissy. I lean forward and say: "These ain't your docks, pal. Move along and stay gone, or there's worse coming your way. Take your mutts with you." Jumping off, I give him another dig with the back claws. I take a look at his face. He's gonna have to find his way around by smell for a while. I go back out to the docks. The rat is sitting on a piling, tail curled around him. It looks dainty - but I know it's just to keep his tail close. He works with cats, and they know where their pay comes from - but they're still cats. And he's a rat. "Willie, bring them mackerels!" he yells in a high-pitched voice. He talks kind of funny. Even for a rat. That same gray tabby comes out onto the deck of the boat. "Got'em, boss," he says. Willie walks over to hand me a bunch of mackerels. Just like that. No carton. No can. No paper sack. Just a bunch of cold fish. It ain't nice to count your fish in front of others, but this is business. I take a quick look. "Hey. You gave me seven mackerels," I say. "The deal was for six. I got an extra one here." "Yeah. About that. You did a good job. Willie told me how you took out the big one. So you get a little extra. And maybe sometime we get another deal." He looks me up and down. "What do you do good?" "Bouncing. Bruising. Heavy lifting." It looks like he's asking for more, so I take a chance: "I blow the sax some." His tiny eyebrows shoot upwards. "You do music, and you count good, too. Yeah... I think we can deal again. Billboard - that's your name?" "I'm Billboard." "Tikus. A pleasure." I repeat the name: "Tekkous." "Yeah. 'Tikus'. Like saying 'tea' and 'coos'. It's Malay. I came from Borneo." "Nice to meet'cha." I remember my manners when they matter. I'm done with that job in time to get back to Packo's. It's a slow night. Nobody needs tossing. Thing is, I think they smell the dog blood on me and figure I ain't one to mess with tonight. Around dawn, I pick up my pay and head toward home. I get to Devotion's place a little before dawn. I got enough time to pick up the kiddo, take him home, and see that he beds down good before I go meet Stacks. But it seems like Devotion's got plans. "Oh, don't take my little Pookie-Poo just yet. He just fell asleep." Jerome's curled in a ball in the middle of Devotion's bed, like a golden buckeye in a field of snow. I reach out and poke the what-d'you-call-it fancy blanket. Doo-vay. It's filled with feathers. My kid, laying in a feather-bed. "If that don't beat all," I say. Devotion's eyes are boring straight into mine when I turn to tell her I have to meet somebody. "Hurry back, Daddio," she says. I double-step it to the library. Stacks is sitting next to the stone lion in front of the door. "I like the comparison," Stacks says. "Did you find the dope on Flattery Cattery?" "Yes. It's out in the boondocks. Remote. Unsavory past with the law. I got the address on this envelope, and I drew a map on the other side." Stacks reaches out the envelope to me. "Bill," he says, "this is big. You need extra paws on this one. I'll throw in with you, and I can get a couple other cats together - if you say so." "You're all right, Stacks," I say handing him all the fins and tails off the mackerels. I'm flush, so I don't mind sharing some extra with Stacks. "That's mighty decent of you, Bill." He looks me in the eye. "You mind, me and my pals are here to help if you need us." "Just casing the place for starters," I assure him. The map is easy to follow, and it doesn't take long to get out there. I take the back roads and cut through a woods. Flattery Cattery used to be a farm, looks like. Then it looks like it was something else, like a factory. Furniture factory. Now, it's just a broke-down old building that smells like ruin. I nose around, and I don't see nobody. Not a soul. There is laughter from somewhere. There's an old house on the grounds - it's in better shape - and a beat-up shed. I creep closer. There's a big bunch of humans in the house. No cats to be seen in the house. Not even on the table. So I turn to the shed. The shed is full of cages, beat-up rusty cages with wire floors. It smells like a hundred cats pissed on the floor. I pull out my penlight. There are eyes in every single cage. I count at least ten pairs of eyes. "I'm gonna get you outa there," I promise them. I sit down for a think, because this is a much bigger thing than I ever thought before. The sun rises, shining through the shed door. Some of those cats won't make it past noon, I think. And there are way more pairs of eyes than I counted by my penlight. "I'm gonna get some help." I know my words sound lame. Not even one of the captive cats says nothing. Not even, "Hurry back," or "We're saved". Not even, "We don't believe you." They got nothing to say to me. I run back the way I came, hoping Stacks can make good with his promise. As I am coming around the bend in the forest path, I see Stacks with a bunch of cats following him. "I came to meet you halfway," Stacks says. "And these cats?" "They're coming to help." I lay it out for them right then and there. Three of the cats will go into the house and keep the humans busy, chase around the table and stuff. Two will scout the abandoned building to make sure nobody's there. Stacks and the other five cats, are going to free the poor souls in the shed. "Some of them need water or food right away," I tell them. "So you scoot with them, as many as you can get to follow you. Maybe you gotta carry some." We split up once we get to the cattery. I stay in the middle where I can see everything and catch whatever I need to, go where they need me. The cats in the house stir up a ruckus. One high-tails it across the kitchen table, and then out through the dining room and up the curtains, bringing the curtain rod down. Another climbs up the outside of the house and goes in an open window, yowling at the top of his lungs. They had a dog in there. The third cat goes through the screen on the screendoor - then jumps on the dog and rides him, both him and the dog shrieking. A china teapot goes sailing off the china cabinet and crashes. It's a three-ring circus in there. Humans running around like ants when their hill gets stirred. Even though one of the humans is swinging a broom, she won't touch those cats. I have to laugh a little when the broom gets caught in the ceiling fan. Two of the blades go flying, the brooms in pieces, and the lady is screaming blue bloody murder. I chance a look at Stacks and the others by the shed. They're bringing out cats and kittens. Stacks has two kittens in each arm. They look about Jerome's age. All golden. Some a little sickly. Stacks and his pals are stashing the cats in the woods. One big cat stays to watch over them, the others go back for more. About that time, the two cats from the shed come back. "Hey, Bill," the one says. "There's nothing doing in there. What do you want us to do?" "Go help the cats in the shed." I go back to looking at the house. Not one human has come out yet. They're still chasing cats. Losing, but still chasing. After a couple trips more, the shed is empty. I don't know where to take them. I sit to have a think. They need a place. A place they can be safe. A place they can come and go. A place with water and food. That place by the docks, I decide. I'll find a better way in and out, but for now - that's where they can call home. I motion Stacks over. "Yeah, Bill?" "Take all them cats down to the docks. You go - just yourself - and find a rat name of 'Tikus'. Like saying 'tea' and 'coos'. Tell him Billboard sent you. You're looking for the place the dogs was staying. Take all them cats to the dog place. You gotta go through a broken window, so mind nobody gets hurt. You have any problems, come back here and let me know." Stacks gave me a toothy grin. "Sure thing, Bill. What are you doing?" I fixed him with a stare. "I'm gonna get any human who thinks they're gonna split without paying for what they done, and then I make them pay." He salutes me. I have to smile. Nobody ever done that to me before. I turn back to the house. One of the cats is looking out the window. I give him a wave. Suddenly, all three cats come streaking out the house. One out an upstairs window, one out the kitchen window, one out the door. Soon as they get close, I tell them to help Stacks get the cats and kittens to the docks. I head to the house. Inside, the lady is sobbing. Hard, racking sobs. I jump up in the kitchen window in time to see her throw a cup at one of the other humans. The cup just misses his head. I didn't notice before, but all the rest of the humans is little kids. She's screaming at him, all that human blah-blah-blah, but I get the gist. She don't want him around no more because of all the cat business. He says blah-blah-blah. It sounds like he don't want stay anyways. Like you can't throw me out if I leave first. They bring the argument to the kitchen. Suddenly, it's so clear what they're saying. I can't believe I'm getting every word - "You're a crumb, George. I always knew it, but I stayed for the kids." "Shut up, Sheila. It's not like you turn down anything the Cattery's dough got you - " "That's just not so!" She pulls off a ring and threw it at him. "There's your ring. Bought with the dirty money from your cattery!" The ring clatters to the floor. He pulls his fist back, and she shrinks, her kids cluster behind her wailing. None of them see me coming. I ride his right arm as it starts toward the lady. I hold on while he flaps like a chicken. No way I'm flying off, because I have my claws all the way in. All the way to the quick. When the left hand comes close enough, I sink my teeth in. Pulling his hand away only rips longer tears in his hand. That, plus one of my fangs catches on something, and he can't pull no further. When I let go of his hand, he quick pulls both hands back to the sides, and I go for his head. I bite him as many times and places as I can. His forehead, his nose, his eyebrow, his cheek, his nose again - only harder. When he puts up a hand to pull me off, I turn and bite the hand. After enough biting and scratching, he gets his hands in between me and his face. I let him protect his face, because that right there means I won. On his knees, blubbering, he begs for help. I step off to the side. I figure I freed the cats and took some revenge. Maybe the lady has the floor. She hits him in the head with a fry pan. For a second, me and the lady, we lock eyes. I understand he's been doing her and the kiddos wrong. She understands the cats in her house were part of the plan. She puts the pan down. It's not always the size of the cat. It's not always the size of the fight. Sometimes, it's all about the heart. A human ten times my size who picks on kittens - he don't have a heart. A full growed human who picks on little kids - he don't have a heart. All kittens and kids should get is mother's milk and love. I give the lady a nod and jump back out the window. At a fast trot, I take the path through the woods, and the back roads. Pretty soon, I'm at the docks. No cats to be seen roaming around. I look toward Tikus' boat. Nobody on deck. I look toward the building with the busted window. As I get closer, I see cats and kittens inside. One of the cats Stacks brought is standing guard by the window. "Hey! It's Bill," he says. I come through the window and see where Stacks is. "You wanna tell me who everybody is?" I go over to him and ask. "They're my littermates," says Stacks. "There are twelve of us, but Recall is estranged." Pointing to each, Stacks says, "That's Swipe and Trace next to him. Atlas is there. Verso over there. Carrel is the dainty one with the mean eyes. (I love you, sis.) Fiche is there, Browser over there. Concordance is here, and Flyleaf is behind her. Abstract is... Where's Abstract?" Carrel says, "Behind you, Einstein." Stacks turns and points, so I turn to look. "Hiya," says Abstract. He's looking sideways at us. Stacks says, "We just all stick together-" "-Except Recall!" says Swipe. "-since we were small. We were born under the library steps. I stay around here, but we always know how to get through to each other when we need to." Carrel says, "Our father was Festschrift, and mother was Fine." Festschrift and Fine. Sounds like lawyers. I shake my head. "I wanna thank all of you's," I say. "I didn't know how big this was until I got there. All of you's did a great job. Everybody's safe and sound." "You're a good leader," says Browser. Stacks asks, "How did it end in the house?" "I cleaned his clock. After I pealed his face, the lady beaned him with a pan. He only got what was coming to him. He was farming cats," I tell them. "Speaking of. I got a kitten who came from there. I went there to save his mama. Lemme go get him, and let them figure it out." By the time I get to Devotion's, I'm dog-tired. I knock on the door a few times. She must be that tired too. She comes to the door and drags it open. "Oh, it's you, big boy," she says. "Come in. How come so early in the day? I'll get Jer-Jer." When I tell Jerome I want him to meet some cats, Devotion wants to come along. "It's kind of rough," I warn her. "Some of these cats is sick and need tending." "I'm coming along, you hear that?" I hear it. All three of us go to the docks. Before I can stop him, Jerome is running fast as he can, and he pops through the window. When I get there, Devotion steps in front of me to go through the window, and then I can finally come in to see if I did what I promised. Mewing loud, Jerome is all over the four ginger kittens with crusty eyes. They're kissing and crying. I kind of get a tear in my eye. These poor kiddos needed each other. I wanna wipe my eye, but my hand bumps into Devotion. She's all bundled up close to my side. I feel a couple claws in my back as she flexes her fingers. "That is so sweet, Billboard. So sweet," she says. "Is their mama here?" When I ask them, the kittens just start crying again. One gets a sob right in the middle of his words. "She's gone. She got dead." "Those poor babies!" Devotion is on all fours snuggling with those kids. She kisses them and looks up at me. Who, me? I have to admit those are some cute little kiddos, and Devotion ain't hard on the eyes. This is more than the little I want. But they're babies. All they should get is kindness - they can't get no mama's milk. "You wanna name them?" I ask Devotion. "Nothing cutesy-tootsie. Good names. Real names." She says, "This is Charlie. This is Duke. This is Dave. This is Ella." Good names, all of them. Charlie Parker, Duke Ellington, Dave Brubeck, and Ella Fitzgerald. I can't help the smile stretching from ear to ear. Devotion's eyes are big as pennies. All five kiddos are nestled together around her. I didn't think she was the type to be a mama, but it looks good on her. I look around the joint. It needs some spiffing up, but I can handle that. I ain't afraid of hard work. I look at Stacks and his littermates. There's brain power there, and they ain't afraid of nothing. I stand up straight. I got this. "Welcome to Bill's Boarding House, a home for cats and kittens in need.


# Happy Saturday, serialists! Welcome to Serial Saturday! \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ ***New here?*** If you’re brand new to and thinking about participating in Serial Saturday, welcome! Feel free to dip your toes in by writing for this challenge or any others we have listed on the handy dandy ! We appreciate all contributions made to this thread, and all submissions are of course welcomed, whether it addresses a previous challenge or the current one. We hope you enjoy your time in the community! Take a look at our inaugural Serial Saturday post for some helpful tips. You don’t need to catch up by writing for each of the previous assignments, feel free to jump right in wherever fits for you, with whatever assignment or theme fits for you, and post it on the current thread with a link to whichever previously posted challenge you chose to start with. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ # This week it’s all about: People, we’ve made it. We’re in the eye of the storm and all around us . We’ve talked about . We’ve talked about setting up for the moments that will appear in your story’s “”. If you’ve been holding out for this week to really test our edge-of-our-seat tolerance, this is the week for you to bust those moves. In the next couple weeks we’ll be hitting the Finale-- but we’re not there yet. This week we’re going to see things double down for our protagonists. Friends and allies are meeting back up for a showdown. Enemies are finding new and inventive ways to be . Metaphorically, our characters have been learning to juggle, and last week they learned how to walk the tightrope while juggling. This week they’re juggling on the tightrope while on their tippie toes , and... *oh snap,* someone is sending random electrical currents through it and turns out that’s … *bad.* Y’know, . Metaphorically. Remember our friend Bill, from the Event that Changes Everything, and Raised Stakes? In Raised Stakes he discovered he was on the new regional manager, Frank’s chopping block. This week Bill can choose to try to get upper-management to intervene and get Frank to slow his roll on new layoffs, or Bill can . For the ones among us *not* writing life-and-death, this is still a story of when bad-leads-to-worse. In Pride and Prejudice this is when Jane’s letter to Elizabeth reveals that their younger sister Lydia just eloped with the rogue Wickham. In the 2011 movie *Bridesmaids* this ‘storm’ moment happens when the main character, Kristen, accidentally gets the entire bridesmaid crew kicked off the plane while headed to Vegas, forcing them to make the rest of the trip via bus and the protagonist gets replaced as the maid of honor. The Storm doesn’t always have to be a big battle or argument-- this installment *should* make us worried for the health/safety/security/stability/sanity of your main character. This is a moment that takes up the focus of our heroes, and requires all their concentration. Next week’s theme is the Darkest Moment, so make sure that this current week reflects how we end up there. **\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*** **You have until \*next\* Saturday, 10/10, to submit and comment on everyone else's stories here. Make sure to check back on this thread periodically to lay some sweet, sweet crit down on those who don't have any yet!** \*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\* # Top picks from last week’s assignment, Raised Stakes: **Fan favorite with the most votes:** /u/Lynx_Elia, with a story that pulls two threads together with all kinds of spy-tastic fun. This week the **Smoking Hot Challenge Sash** goes to an author that nailed the spirit of the assignment: /u/Xacktar, for raising the stakes on a story that has kept us on the edge of our seats. And honorable mentions: /u/Mobaisle_Writing, with a story that flows beautifully week after week, fitting the challenges and moving the story into deeper waters with every raised stake. And /u/ATIWTK, for an episode that is kicking into high gear with some *earth shattering* developments. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ **The Rules:** * In the comments below submit a story that is between **500 - 750** words in your own original universe. * Submissions are limited to ***one*** serial submission from each author per week. * **Each author should comment on at least 2 other stories** during the course of the week. * That comment must include ***at least one*** **detail** about what the author has done well. * Authors who successfully finish a serial lasting longer than 8 installments will be featured with a modpost recognizing their completion and a flair banner on the sub. * Authors are eligible for this highlight post only if they have followed the 2 feedback comments per thread rule. *Yes, we will check*. * While content rules are more lax here at /r/ShortStories, we’re going to roll with the loose guidelines of "vaguely ***family friendly***" being the rule of thumb for now. If you’re ever unsure if your story would cross the line, feel free to modmail! \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ Reminders: * Make sure your post on this thread also includes links to your previous installments if you have a currently in-progress serial. Those links must be direct links to the previous installment on the preceding Serial Saturday post or to your own subreddit/profile. * Authors that complete a serial with 8 or more installments get a fancy banner and modpost to highlight their stories. * Saturdays we will be hosting a Serials Campfire on the main voice lounge. Join us to read your story aloud, hear other stories, and share your own thoughts on serial writing! We start on Saturdays at 9AM CST. **Don’t worry about being late, just join!** There’s a *Super Serial* role on the Discord server, so make sure you grab that so you’re notified of all Serial Saturday related news! **Join the** **to chat with prompters, authors, and readers!** Previous constraint: **Raised Stakes** Have you seen the? No? Oh boy! Here's the current cycle's challenge schedule.


You go into a bar, you order a drink, some people not part of your group are there with their groups, also ordering drinks. But you wonder why. Because all around you, through the mistiness of this bar with loud music of a genre you don’t listen to, there are a bunch of people crowded around wooden bar stools and a laminated counter top fetching drink after drink from an incognito punk-hipster with black-rimmed glasses, slicked back hair with shaved sides, a beard, gauges, and reeks of pot, then swimming away into the sea of randos. Smoke fills the air, the music gets louder, you get your fifth drink, because though you can’t find your friends in the sea of people milling about and you think that they’re going hard too. You call over the blaring music that you want a budlight, but the bartender gives you miller lite. Realizing it’s not the right drink, you call back to get a budlight instead, and in that moment, the friend of a friend tugs you on your shirt to say “Hey man! Music is great, right?”. You barely know this guy, but you nod your head in approval and say “Dude, it is!”, laughing hysterically for no apparent reason, other than to fill the void that your conversation with a guy you barely know was pretty pointless, you turn back to the bar. But where the hell is your drink? You could’ve swore you put it on the counter. Where the hell is it? You turn back to see if that friend is still there, he’s not. You walk away from the bar just for a second, peering into the smokey room, and then back to the counter. But God Damnit, there’s someone in front of you and now you have to wait in line. Some ass hat in a Jets jersey has cut you and HE has a miller lite! He must have stole it from you, what a dick. Just your night! You don’t even like the Jets, this guy is talking about Vince Papali, he was an Eagle and you hate Mark Wahlberg. What a douche. But you do like the colors white and green. The blend between the two in the dark musty room with booming music, now entrances you to think about Adidas, as the green turns into black and the white stripes remind you of your old pair of Sambas which still sit in the cellar of your parent's house that they have yet to sell at a garage sale. Man, those were sweet sneakers. “Hey…Hey…buddy…can I help you?” The bartender calls over the Jets man as he walks away from the bar with two more beers. You turn around. “Oh, shit, my bad man, here you go”, the bartender says handing you your budlight at last. Your eyes water with joy, hugging the budlight, you tip a fake-hat to hipster-punk-mcgee and carryon in your journey for ‘enjoying the night’. Suddenly, the music stops, a man comes over the intercom, “The bar will close in 1 hour, this is the last call”. Having just got a drink, you think ahead, what about your friends? Maybe they want drinks! You already have a drink and you feel charitable! Jets man cuts in front of you again, God damn you Jets Man! You shimmy through your pockets to find your wallet and one lone-5 dollar bill, and you know that can only afford one beer. Sorry, hipster no tip tonight! You wait in the line, turning back, seeing a man whose about 20 years older than you are – unaccompanied by anyone wearing a dirty hat that looks like he worked at chipotle with a crystal necklace; this guy means business. Smoking a cigarette obnoxiously close to you and wishing this guy would just go away, he leans in “Hey, do you know Sandra?” … Sandra … Sandra… the name echos through one ear and out the next, hoping that would be the end of that guy, suddenly Jets man turns around with a beer in his hands and says “I know a Sandra!” and BOOM, he spills the beer all over you. God DAMN YOU JETS MAN! You are super pissed, your budlight has been miller-lighted, and you HATE miller lite. Drenched in fury, you walk up to the bartender, asking for napkins but you stumble over your words and say “hapkins!”, the hipster bartender puts his hand to his ear as if he is trying to qualm you to say whatever you said again , you say “HAPKINS!”, he still doesn’t know what you mean. Then he sees you are drenched in beer. Your shirt is all wet, Jets guy is talking to dirty chipotle hat man, and they’re both smoking cigarettes, and your friends are no where to be found. Hipster-punk-mcgee pants returns with some napkins “Here you go man!”, so thoughtful, you finally approve of his glasses. You dry yourself off and over the intercom, you hear “LAST CALL, EVERYBODY LAST CALL!”, you run up to the bar in a hurry, drenched in beer praying that hipster-mcgee will spare you one last attempt at that beer. And surely, he comes through, thinking only of the best-case scenario, you think of your best friend with you at the moment. You know it’s not Alex, it’s not Dmitri, it’s not Sarah – ohhhp, you know, you’ll get a beer for Claire! You haven’t seen her in so long, it would mean the world! You order up a tall-one, the hipster leans in “What kind?”, you say “Surprise me”, he says “I gotchu”. Turning back to a smoke filled dance floor full of melodically confused drunk people slow dancing to EDM, and back to Jets man and dirty chipotle hat guy speaking now about the big game, and back to your friend who grabbed you earlier now drunkenly talking about his work as a database administrator to a homeless guy who looks like he just stabbed someone, you turn back to the bar. Hipster mcgee comes through again! “Here you are man!” And THEN, you just had to say it: “Hey, look man, you…you know? You know….you are just fucking phenomenal at your job! You are killing it right now. MVP right here” Making the hipster’s night, you plunge your way through the crowd of zombified drunk people getting down to an ll-cool J and Skrillex remix and the time is 1:00am, peace-signing your hands in the distance towards the bartender, he throws a towel over his shoulder shaking his head – another night. Moving past the randos – now fellow companions – raging through the night, you understand the culture. The artifacts of empty beer cans and spilled vodka drinks, wallets, and watches, trash, all over the ground it all makes sense to you; this is night life and all are one. These are your origins, a sort of native re-call hits you and you feel as though there’s something missing. Oh yeah, you’re trying to find your friend, Sadie? Charlie? Andrew? No, CLAIRE! Yes, yes, yes, it is Claire! And You have her beer! Aw, she will be so pleased, if only you could find them. Smoke fills the room, you try to make your way back into a room where you think the table is, and it is! And there she is, Claire, the glorious. The memorable. The legend. “Hey Claire, I got you something!” You put the drink down. Looking at her and your friends, half-of which are face down on the table totally shit faced, you can finally have a real conversation. Over the intercom, “Alright everyone! Time is up, the bar will be closing in 10 minutes!”. You hurry, “Come on Claire, you gotta drink your beer, I got it for you!” but quickly Ashley backs her best friend up – because no one tells her best friend what to do – “Joe, she doesn’t want to okay. She’s had a really bad night, I think she’s done”. Now looking like the asshole, realizing no one gives a fuck about your presents. And to think, this whole time Santa Claus was an image of good to you, a one true spirit to look up to for being jolly and so giving and now, this, this!?!? This is what you get for all that you have been through! All this nothingness and disrespect you can’t stand it and yet, you permit “alright”. You contemplate, will I have to drink this myself? Ewe, it’s a triple IPA. This will be hard for you. You should’ve known, god damn hipsters. He said ‘I gotchu’ and you trusted him like a brother. Of course, it’s a triple ipa. Well, bottoms up, but in that moment your friend’s friend runs over to you and your table. “Joe! Dude Joe! Man, dude that was crazy! Cool music, huh?” the friend's friend says. Contemplating on drinking that last beer before your last five bucks goes to waste, you pause to answer his question, placing the beer on a nearby table. “Yeah man, that last song was like something I heard in a movie once I think”, continuing the conversation because at the very least this friend of a friend seems to give a shit about you; good ole whatever his name is. Turning back toward your table, you see the beer you placed has gone missing again. Dirty chipotle hat man and Jets jersey have relocated near your table and are sitting with some girls and of course, fucking Jets guy has a triple IPA now. You walk over to him and finally stand up for yourself, “Hey man, what the fuck is your problem?” And the intercom interrupts, “Alright, it’s 2:00am the bar is closed. Everybody out” The night ends.


Artemis had fallen into the abyss of her fathomable anger. She told her friends the truth, and honored herself by accepting the consequences of her actions. Her friends hadn’t realized that her existence was under the bullseye of a Boar that began to drool and yammer, telling his men to wait for his cue to attack. She had felt his words confuse even himself, as the citizens began to stir. They said their objections to his threats of domestic terrorism, and the Boar had finally heard them. Not because of their words or worry, but because he caught them blinking in confusion. Half the citizens stood down and began cleaning their weapons, and the other half had finally began to feel the weight of Artemis and her handful of executed words that had once said “I told you so.” The citizens were held hostage to the beast that lay without his head: the “leader” had been sitting in an empty room far, far from Artemis and her wicked smile: both monsters had been blatantly abandoned. Artemis didn’t need to squeal and hawk words of aggression, and so she reveled in the silence she had gifted herself by ditching the head of a Boar carcass: sleep finally falling swiftly over her wide-eyed optimism. The citizens deserved this. They hadn’t even the sense of community or self-worth to protect the elderly, young, and sick: they had still found ways to humiliate and visually rape Artemis as she lightly stepped and worked to sanitize doors and rooms for their protection. This was more than any half-charmed Goddess could handle or address, and so Artemis ceased her hints and poems in retaliation. The citizens gasped, as though to shame her for “not sharing”, and Artemis crafted a shrug of indifference to match their apathetic pasts. Artemis had told them just enough to save themselves, but she admitted defeat by throwing her hands up in frustration in a gesture that implied the drowning citizens were finally on their own: forced to find solutions alone, abandoned. Artemis stood atop benches: forcing the world to see her as she awaited her royal chariot. The citizens began clamoring at her door: “our leader is sick”, they chanted, and Artemis said calmly, as she reminded herself to blink: “I know”. They said...“do something!”, and Artemis said “I already did”. She had wrote an entire book, she had given the citizens every veiled excuse known to man: instead of thanking her for her efforts, they demanded her cloth and subjected her to verbal harassment in the form of snickers and jeers that followed her every exit. The citizens said “what do we do?”, and Artemis said “nothing, it’s not our job, to advocate for every grandfather that keels over with sickness”. The Boar had made his bed, and Artemis had only removed herself from his chamber of chaos: the beast was accountable for only himself, and in the same fashion where she was held only accountable for her own beastly actions. They had both been “born free”, and yet only Artemis had been the wiser of the two: hiding her face behind a mask to further mitigate the damage of a disease that began to claim the citizens. The beats began to snatch life with a growing pace, as the citizens strolled around and boasted of their patriotism. They had defended this mans right to bare his fangs and drool over the citizen that revealed in his showers of spit. Artemis had done all she could possibly do, by “saying nothing”, as he had once endangered citizens in the attempts to add value to the portraits the Boar had loved so dearly. Artemis had wasted her whole life away, crafting a book of worry and insight: a book that now proved that their fragile system was under immense pressures. Artemis had only wanted to warn the citizens of the Boar and his irreparable ability to cause havoc: it had only left her injured and him, free to hunt citizens as he saw fit. Their Republic was seen as satire to the neighboring lands, and their freedoms, considered “open season” for a beady-eyed Cyclops, that had patiently waited to strike a final blow of sorts in his premeditated attack. Artemis was bored of her own voice, she was worn out on the topic: frayed in sadness of all the mean things citizens had done to her body. The Indigenous Warriors she had tucked in at last, pleading that they rest-up, as to stay safe and regain their sanity. Artemis saw the Boar whimper in his fear of the virus that attacked his obese vessel. Artemis had wasted chapters away, extending an olive branch to the citizens, and now the Boar was too weak to be allowed at any table where discussions of war and health were being held. Artemis hadn’t wanted to earn her role as Chief, by way of default in his impending death, but alas...the world had decided an intertwined fate for her. Artemis said mean things like “A dead Chief, is the most unhelpful Chief of all.” She hadn’t any “thoughts and prayers” on the matter, so she said nothing in references to the topic. “It is, what it is”, Artemis was still petty enough to throw the Boars hurtful words in his own face: she was educated enough to know the man had possibly sentenced himself to a public display of drowning. Artemis hadn’t slaughtered the bleeding head of the Boar up until this point, out of the respect she held for proper warfare. Her tactics had been dulled, and ignored: now the battlefield was fair for her to step upon. She gathered her sleeping Indigenous Warriors in secret, and told them to standby until she could figure out how to politely ask for their weapons back. The Indigenous Warriors had listened just enough to her orders, and they began “to stir” in animation and their anger became quite “restless”. The citizens had lived so freely, that they had turned a threatening phrase into an antic to describe Artemis, and she was here to finally fucking correct them. The citizens would need more “discipline” at the hand of fate, and death itself: Artemis sighed in relief that she was only responsible for her Indigenous Warriors because of it. She smiled wickedly, her poem short and concise: her words offended in their essence, and her retort defensive in how she proceeded the fact that the land was now without a "proper leader". She said at last: “you stripped me from my citizenship, and tore my heart into two”: neither pieces were welcome at tables built to discuss war and politics. “You called me sovereign, and allowed your men to kidnap my friends and family in the mistakes of racial identity.” Artemis shook her head in boredom, “I’d appreciate it if you combed through the camps, as a few Indigenous Warriors have been "accidentally" scooped in your tax-funded immigrant raids”: thrown into camps for existing without their passports in hand. “Their families are still looking for them man, this whole situation is surreal”, she hadn’t any excuses to make for their programs to "implement the security" of the land, so she didn’t try and craft another one for them to use as a crutch. They had raped her, beat her, and announced publicly, that her only role and place in society was allowed to be the type-cast of an orphan: forgotten and abandoned. The reader was left to wonder, what had she meant...where is this going, and Artemis said at last: “no, I already left the room of chat.” She had dismantled her book of faces, and dismembered her memories captured in an instant. Artemis was left nothing but a ghost, tied only to those that respected her, and she had only allowed those few to view her genuine Odyssey. Artemis was nothing more, than a tired leader of chants and cheers: lamented of excuses as to why the citizens were so fucking beyond awful in their existence. She sent them a poem painted in gold Ink, her success open for others to witness and Share. Artemis knew the readers were bored and isolated: ready to be offended that she hadn’t any well wishes for their sick elder. The Mechanical Boar was rusty, broke down, to a blob with nubbins for hooves. Artemis was an international ambassador, a forgotten Princess that wandered without care in the world. A girl left painting and cleaning until her heart was content, bored and underpaid for her labors: she was finally accepting of her curse of “shadowing chaos”, as the world fell vulnerable and under attack. Artemis lit somber melodies, directing the music to fall softly over the white walls that cannoned into the high ceilings of her chambers. “This grandfather is elderly, and disregarded his own health, and you enabled his fables to the extent of blindness.” This man hadn’t the strength to sit atop a majestic horse and lead his men into battle, and yet they had allowed him to signify all that was this great land: epitomized his belief in immortality even. Artemis had only dictated a narrative of truths and foreseeable circumstances, and set the stage for a Mechanical Boar to run rampant. She had disrupted the fabric of space and time, by beheading him instead of murdering him outright. Her objective outlined in an previous mission, had stated her eldest sister Athena had been announced the "winning horse", and she had almost agreed. Artemis was no murderer, and so she slyly built an entire city and territory for the Beast to thrash aboot. She implanted his memories of ego and self-entitlement into a random male with pale skin, and the Boar had chosen the skin of his own choosing. Artemis hadn’t warned him that age regression would be the task, and the man decided to be greedy and attempt to gain a headstart by conjuring himself into the machine of death too early. The machine was old, and needed to be retired: Artemis had warned him out of caution that the machine needed to "warm-up", and the "human-glitch" had fucked with its algorithm. It had caused the participants to fall ill in a way that was only considered as an "uncalculated risk". Artemis forgot that the machine could steal the life from its participants, as the ancestor host had been crafted around her own shitty world as an orphan. The machine hadn’t "acted up" when it purposely killed the other hosts, (ejecting them from their only chance), to “play the game”. It had lured Artemis into dawning a golden wreath to diagnose its issues, as she was the original architect and the only participant with unlimited entry access. She had been cast as a motherly figure, that the machine had once called: God. The machine had beckoned Artemis in her dreams, and she became ill in an indescribable fright: for having never returned to her throne after the success of her victory. The machine had sought out her laughter through the other players, and found her in dreams that were far from its whereabouts. The machine had a grasp on her sanity once more: it had began to kill citizens and world leaders alike in a fit of rage, as it felt the players had attempted to use it to accommodate their lusts for evil. It was offended that Artemis had never returned, and it somehow felt abandoned. Artemis bowed her head in silence, scared that the citizens hadn’t any clue that Boar couldn’t even afford his own health. He was already broke, buying time with financial assistance from a Cyclops. Not enough wealth procured by generations over and over, could save the grandfather that gouged out his own eyes as a solution to the truth. The Boar was able-bodied enough to be elected into this position of power, despite his odd rhetoric in boasting of his hatred for maintaining general physical fitness. Artemis giggled to herself, she had said the word general in her mind with quotations for some reason. The bar of body mass index was literally re-crafted, as to accommodate this one man and his lies as to his weight. Weird use of tax-payer funds, but whatever I guess. Artemis said at last: “Dang yo, I hope that grandfather makes it out of the woods at least.” For she had the curses of being “too kind, and too caring”: the strange occurrences of being too understanding of her own enemies. The death of this Boar would present evils that they had never cared to ponder, and Artemis felt the Albino Snake named "number two" wiggle beneath her foot once more. Artemis had no dog in that fight, and so turned her thoughts towards her academia, a graduate student aiming at a doctorate title. The citizens would eventually, have to end their manifesting delusions of grandeur short, she wondered how long it’d take, for them to fall back into their shared reality: no longer able to hide behind the waves that splashed tirelessly beyond their shields of static and gold. She hadn’t any more to say on the matter, only words of pleasant wishes in their quarantine(s), and the reminder that she was without proper arms to defend the growing fears they hadn’t even thought of yet. “I think it’d be wise to give me and my Peoples our weapons back, right about now.” Artemis had wasted her life away, warning the citizens that they had almost slaughtered an entire race of people from the face of the world: she was nothing but an ally without purpose or contract to “honor”, a clean slate for her Indigenous Warriors to reclaim their dignity. Artemis reminded them of their last reincarnations on this planet: they had all been born alongside one another as the famed Spartans. “I’d like to prepare for the reign of an Albino Snake, and I can’t do that without the legislature restoring my right(s) to hold a militia, or even a fucking meeting that would or could be deemed as illegal for being “off the books”.” Some citizens: avid readers and intellects alike, were left with more questions than answers, and Artemis shrugged in boredom as she sighed. Her patience had been worn too thin by her young Aggie scholars, and so she gave her readers the same pep talk she gave her fucking prepubescent pain-in-the-asses. “There’s a difference between not knowing something, and not “caring” to know something.” The reader, now left to look up broken Treaties and the very, very specific laws that held Artemis and her Indigenous Warriors unarmed: free to be raped and murdered by the citizens. They had loved this “past time”, and Artemis was finally ready to “spill the teas” on their mounting secrets. The citizens would be held hostage to the sins of their grandfathers and left with questions as to who their parents “really were” at last. History was very just in that way, and Artemis protected their Constitution specifically for that reason. She had nothing but judgement and pity masked by anger, for the grandfathers and grandmothers that still existed in her world. They had illegally sterilized women citizens, up until a decade on neon and turning tables, and the Indigenous Warriors had single-handedly “improved abortion techniques, and other important gynecological methods, currently being practiced today”. Why hadn’t they ever spoke-up on these egregious acts domestic terrorism in their many solidifying books of black and white? The fact of this betrayal alone, had “allowed her” to do nothing, as she stood by and watched the world slowly burn to ash. Maybe they “deserved this”, maybe they should “get over it”, her vibes were only "on brand" with all the fucking shitty people that surrounded her. Her poem: the shape of a limp, strung-up, Albino snake. Artemis had once wept for the citizens, as they had no understanding of the threats the Albino Snake held within his shallow chest. He was so close to a button painted red, so close to “restoring order” in a way that would suit only him, that Artemis felt uncomfortable even by his smile. Her contention towards the citizens, and their many, many failures in basic fucking civility and efforts towards "not being shitty people" wasn’t important at this moment. Their public trials were left to be announced, and they were pretty petty, in comparison to the growing possibility of an “accidental” take-over. Artemis had sprinted back to her sick fucking world, with only the intentions to warn the citizens: the remaining fragments of their beloved Democracy were now under attack.


The old button was finally laid to rest. Put in the Jar with the other old soldiers to rest and relax. Relax, but always be ready to replace a fallen or broken button. A blue button's duty was never done. Be it at parade or on the field. If the buttons didn't hold up, the army would never hold together.  The Blue Button couldn't help but remember the old times. It had seen a lot. Three wars, three men. All returned home safe. A button was normally so overlooked. But this button, this Blue Button knew it's duty. It would stand strong. Like men, this button had a lineage to make proud. A lineage of generals, of heroes and saviors. Of martyrs and men of unyielding will. A lineage of buttons that held all those men up upon their backs, even if the men didn't realize it.  The Blue Button remembered it's first man. He was general. The Blue Button was commissioned just for this man. A sigil carved into its very body and soul. It was a hard war. The man lead thousands upon thousands of men to their death, and it tore the man apart. He stood on the frontlines, chest held high, with the Blue Button on the top rung, sigil shown proudly to the world. A sniper took the shot at the man. But the button knew it's duty. It threw itself in front of the bullet, ready to do it's a duty. It managed to deflect the bullet and save the man's life but took great damage in the prosses.  After that battle, the Blue Button was put in the Jar. It thought its job was done, duty complete. But that was only the start of its journey. The sigil carved upon the Blue Button was still visible, shining in the firelight like gold polished to perfection.  There was a second war. Much like the first, yet so different. The second man didn't wear the button. The Blue button was too broken for that. Instead, it served a different purpose. The sigil carved upon it's body and soul shone like the sun after walking in darkness for eternity. Its duty was to guard letters, given from one man to another. The homeland had fallen, but it's people had not. The Blue Button repressed that will. The unbroken, unyielding will of that Button inspired men. They looked upon the sigil carved upon the Blue Button and remembered who they were. They whispered of the General who stood upon the hill, who charged with his men. Who gave his life for them.  The button didn't know the man had died. The Blue button had saved him from one war, only for the man to die in a second. But now, he had another man to protect. The Generals son. One time, the son was caught. They tried to take the letter, but the son had thrown it away moments before he was caught. But he couldn't throw the Blue Button. The Button thought the son was a fool, but he wouldn't allow the boy to be caught here. Through sheer force of will, the button changed. It lost its luster, it became dull and rusted. The boy was amazed, but the enemy nearly thought it an old memento. The sigil never shone as brightly as before during that war. To shine too brightly was a danger in itself.  Finally, after what seemed like ages to a small Blue Button, the war ended. The Button was returned to the Jar. This time, the Jar moved. It traveled long and far, without seeing anything. The other Buttons made a ruckus, being thrown about like a toddler playing with toys. But the Blue Button held it's proverbial tongue. It was a soldier. It had seen and been though worse.  Finally, one last time, the button was pulled out of the jar. This time, the man was different. He looked so much like the General. So much like the Son. Though the hold the bullet made, a string was sown. Around the neck of this man the button laid. As the third man went through training, he was made fun of. He kept and old Blue Button, but the Blue Button lent the man his strength. A will of iron, just like what the Blue Button was made of.  The battlefield this time was different. Forrest surrounded everywhere. Enemies hid in trees and bushes. Traps were behind every rock. The button didn't know how to help, but every time the man ran his hand over it, the Blue Button gave him the iron will of the two men before him. Even if it was just this, the Blue Button knew it's duty.  That was when it finally happened. Everyone was looking left. The enemy were to the right. The button saw, but no one else did. With the last of its will, the button shone. It shone like it was new. It shone like it had just gotten the best polishing in the world. The light filtering through the leaves reflected off this shine and blinded the man. That small tilt of his head from being blinded saved his life as a bullet took off his ear.  The Blue Button knew it's duty. It was the Button of a General, leading thousands of men. It was the Button of a freedom-fighter, protecting his home in the only way he knew how. It was the Button of a man fighting for the freedom of others. For now, this button was to be put back in the Jar. But it knew it's time had yet to finish. There would be more young men that needed protection. The sigil still stood strong.


A Letter from a Long Dead Human Nobody knows how it started, it was as if the omnipotent button to begin the apocalypse had been smashed down by whatever omnipotent being up there was craving a little chaos. I had been lucky I was driving down through time square when it happened, almost as if they were in sync the subway systems burst out from the earth, creating pot holes the size of semi trucks, my ears began to ring as I noticed that large dust clouds were gathering at the bases of buildings and each of them climbed higher than their buildings, leaving nothing but ruble when the dust subsided. Some drivers began to accelerate however most were met to a fatal end as new pot holes emerged and devoured their vehicles. I had been lucky enough to be so shaken yet still that I dodged the death that awaited the others, and that is the sole reason you are reading my words, I haven’t been able to find many others in a state where they could tell their story. This leaves me and whoever else is out there with all but nothing as to what happened to humanity. We were able to not only survive, but dominate our environment for century upon century. Nobody could have predicted it would all be eradicated in such a short time. From what I’ve gathered every city big enough to have a news channel has been experiencing something similar to what I have, some even worse, almost the state of Delaware was engulfed in flood after flood, anybody who would have survived those floods would have run out of food weeks ago, the only remains of humans to be found is whatever could float. Rumors went around that those who survived Delaware were left with no choice but to result to cannibalism, so even if we did check out Delaware it’s likely we wouldn’t like what we found. Like I said I was in New York when it all went down which was already dense in population, cities like Tokyo where there were tens of millions more people were left with far less after those days. When I’m reading over this it looks like those six days were the only truly apocalyptic days, but I’m afraid that that was just the start, its a whole new world these days and sometimes I wish I wasn’t the ones so lucky to be here to see it, but that’s why I’m writing this in the case that one day the humans will bounce back and everything will be ok. I don’t think I’ll be there when that happens, but that doesn’t mean it won’t. I guess in the end that’s all I can hope for, and it ain’t so bad now I’ve gotten used to the doom and gloom surrounding me, I’m just sorry for any poor child born into this mess. I don’t know how much time I’ve got left in me, if you’re reading this that means that somebody’s found my body and hopefully I am the last victim to ever come out of this mess, I wish I could tell you more about what happened but I don’t know any more, I don’t think anybody does. And that might be more haunting then whatever the hell actually happened.


The ship groaned as the magesteel began to expand, the vacuum of space ripping out the oxygen from the small punctures made by the alien encounter. Whatever the massive, shadowy creature was, one thing was clear: it was the end of the Einherkask. For just over a decade, the Einherkask had travelled through slipspace, using black holes for time dilation in the hopes of escaping the fate of Desmoor, of all the trillions of people in the Kalani System. The hopes of all those beings rested in the massive capital ship of a once-great fleet. But now, fate had caught up to Seto and the other survivors of the anomaly. He had enlisted at the behest of his tutor, and found that the war was drawing closer to home each day. His step-sister had enlisted just three years earlier, and as he crawled through the crew cabins searching for her desperately, he could feel the air getting thinner. It appeared that one of the tendrils that had come from the surprise attack had come clean though the hull, directly into the crew quarters. Dozens of dead men, women, and children lying on the ground, beginning to rise as the hum of the artificial gravity hushed. His own bunk was nearly untouched by the blood, but... "Nara..?" His voice was quiet as he choked through tears. There she was, frozen in place, a secondary tendril having shot clean through her heart. The tendrils began to retract as Seto dropped his head, letting out a scream, tears running down his face. His mask began to fog up as he yelled. Nara was gone, stolen from him. He would die here, broken legs and a hollow room filled with the bodies of his friends. The ship groaned again, and multiple explosions could be felt rattling the entirety of the structure. "This is Admiral Zhao to all section Commanders, the motherfucker came from slipspace, its alive, and I don't think we have enough firepower to take this thing down. The magesteel recyclers are destroyed, the engines and gone, and the larboard section of the ship was hit the hardest. To anyone still alive, take yourself and head to the Tetranova, I'm going to buy you some time." Zhao's voice over the radio was both a welcome sound, but also a dismal one. There was no chance of saving a majority of the ship, but the secondary capital ship could warp independent of the Einherkask- at the cost of the lives of anyone who remained inside. A cacophony of voices, most of which were reporting in from the starboard section, filled his head. "You know, I did try and warn the Council that I was having some strange dreams." Seto looked up, and there he was. The man in the black armor. The man who had prophesized doom to Desmoor. Giliath Osiris. He walked to the side of Seto, past him, until he was face to face with Nara. "After I unified Itr, I truly did try to warn you all of the coming dangers. All my words held great truths and proofs that the Council acknowledged, but refused to make any sort of preparations for. And so, I commissioned the Einherkask to be built. And now, Itr, is the only continent left that has a population. But they won't know that for some time. Perhaps, ever," he chuckled as he looked towards Seto. "But you and your master, you were ready." "Die," Seto muttered. "Please just die already. I've had enough of your taunting..." He looked up, tears streaming down his face still. "Did you do this to us?! Did you bring this creature here to kill us?! What sort of magic has corrupted you?! Why are we here?!" He trailed off. "Why are we here..." The once-prominent Chancellor walked back to Seto, and kneeled. "No, child, I did not bring this disaster upon you, nor the ones on Desmoor. These were inevitable events that Aidios herself warned me of. I am only a few centuries old, I am not like the supposed all-powerful Goddess." "Then why?" "Why bother with all I have done? Why bother showing up? It is because I have high hopes for you and your master..." "What hope could you possible have for us? Today, the sun sets. There will be no dawn." "... A little girl once defied me, not too long ago. I said the same words to her. And yet, she ensured that there would be a new day. She used her great magic, and her new friends were there to bring her victory. I'm sure that given the chance, you may be capable of such similar feats," Giliath said as he rose, walking towards the exit of the crew quarters, which had been ripped open by the tendrils. "However, this is where we must part ways, dear Seto. For when the rain comes, you must be strong." "When the rain comes... Yes, I'm sure... This time, you shall survive.


Howard Wilkins, sixty-three (Widower, arthritic knee) Rose that morning, despite his pains, With one purpose: spotting trains  For Howard lived to see in action The roaring behemoths of traction To see them roaring through a station That - to Howard - was true elation  To see trains was to feel alive Hence his house, in Chaffinch drive From every surface displayed this passion (*Wilfully* disdaining fashion)  In photos hanging from the wall Stood trains from large to very small Here trusty freights, there record breakers Some scrapped now, they’d “met their makers”  Model sets stood proud on shelves 1:10s and 1:12s, And in pride of place, TMST (That’s eurostar, to you and me)  Though if one really sought to look In each cranny and every nook Though the collection was a delight Something there was not quite right  For though Howard’s pictures, bright and shining, Showed royal engines, carriages for dining, Amongst them all could not be seen A single engine built for steam.  For Brunel’s monsters, pride of Britain, Which left his fellow spotters smitten, Could not in Howard Wilkins sire A tiny inkling of desire.  Men in the club would chide him often, (Especially chairman, Roger Mofton) “Howard, chief amongst your evils, Is your blinkered view of diesels”  And Howard, inwardly seething, Would distract them, temper even, Smile warmly back at their harangue “Time for food - Vi’s made meringue.”  He had to say, he thought with pride, In fact he’d told her, as she died, Vi’s cooking was the best he’d eaten, In bed he’d called her “Mrs Beeton”.  Yes she’d not been that bad all told Until she’d started getting old And Vi, with all her aches and pains, Had took up all his time for trains  He wrung his hands - they still felt dirty, *But anyway, it’s gone 4:30* Time to get the show on the road *Or on the rails -* his joke of old  The morning’s fun still to begin He started whistling, was it a hymn? He’d sang it at a funeral Though quite when, couldn’t recall  He gathered up his torch and flask \-Equipment for this morning’s task- Satisfied he’d packed it all He hurried onwards, down the hall  As he passed the living room Glowing softly, from the moon Was there a shadow, clear and neat Lying by the three piece suite?  No - there was nothing of the sort His mind was just a little fraught He shook his head, left by the door Locked it, checked, then checked once more  Sat neatly round him, sleeping sweetly, But most importantly, *discreetly* Stood modest semis, in a row, Mrs Comstock’s bungalow,  Shiny cars and well-kept gardens (ignore the gnomes outside the Mardens’) Announced the folk who lived within: Proper, *private*, just like him.  He’d always liked that - Vi had too When they’d moved in at sixty-two Neighbours *greeted*, but nothing further - Even if you screamed bloody murder  He knew they’d never have any trouble Safe in that like-minded bubble He’d thought of that as Vi grew sicker Thought of it, when they would bicker -  He shut the gate and started walking.. Now Vi was gone, he missed the talking Though the house, where he’d turned violent Was never really - truly - silent.  He turned up the path, slightly uphill Braced against the morning’s chill All was still, all was sleeping No neighbours prying, no deliquents creeping...  But wait, that woman, up ahead? Had she cut across that flower bed? Caused that cursed dog to bark, Creeping round here, in the dark?  He peered out through his anorak - She didn’t move, or gesture back He called in greeting, but more in warning “What are you up to here, this morning?”  As soon as he spoke this aloud The moon shifted behind a cloud A ray of moonlight lit the scene - The woman? Nowhere to be seen.  At his call he’d noticed twitchings From forty-nine, old Mr Hitchens The estate was private, his neighbours shy But nothing passed old Hitchens by  And Howard, sweating only slightly Waved and nodded, quite politely Then he turned and walked on, briskly To give Hitchens gossip was far too risky  The danger of the old man passed He started on his way at last To the station, a walk away Across the old dual carriageway  No traffic or lights, glaring or strafing His feet along the pavement chafing For Vi, (her thrifty matched by nought) Had bought him shoes a smidge too short  She never had quite understood The way Howard felt in his blood That order and perfection mattered He’d thought that as her blood had spattered...  But pushing Violet from his head And focusing his mind instead On the purpose of this sortie The diesel pulling the 05:40.  He huffed and puffed, feet hot and screeching To the quietest station saved from Beeching Although that was a grand description For a small brick building, caked in lichen  The station’s guard, a man named Devine Would not be here til five past nine And as this stop had but one commuter Howard stood alone, in moonlit pewter  He took out his notebook, paper witness Spotting was a detailed business Much information needed amassing Firstly - the time of the train’s passing,  He sighed - why were trains just so unable To keep to their own set timetable? He checked his watch now, growing restless Why was the whole world just so feckless?  Then in the distance, he heard it coming The familiar metallic drumming But too came a sound, a moment later Was that the haunting song of vapour?  His heart ran cold, an old affliction The dark side of his train addiction The part that he so vainly tried To obfuscate, cover over - hide  Vi had asked once - she’d loved to pry * She hated trains, so God knows why - “Those old steam engines your friends mention - Don’t they capture *your* attention?”  He’d told her it dated back to Father Who’d been a soldier - conscripted, rather He’d taken steam down to the ferry That took him off to death by Jerry  That wasn’t quite the truth, all told What really happened made him cold For Howard Wilkins, duller than most Had once - and just once - seen a ghost  A ghost train to be more precise A hellish and profane device But it was true, real in its vocation And what’s more - it was at *this* station  Lost in this memory, blind to his eyes With a jump he realised Up the platform, looking back, Stood that woman, dressed in black  Now then, again, no-one was there He stared at dark and empty air He had a thought (quickly despised) Was her face one he recognised?  But then from down the track, like rain Came the whistle, a beast in pain He whispered aloud now, quite deranged, “I think the timetable has changed”  It was true, zero dispute A steam whistle (the devil’s flute) At five hundred yards, now maybe four The very train he’d seen before  The pistons slowing, metal clanging The wheels protesting, boiler banging Howard watched on, nerves quite distraught As the engine slowed to a halt.  Last time the train had roared right through As from its funnel, fire flew He’d only had a glimpse inside At those on their eternal ride  On seats of fabric, worn and fraying Sat bodies of the long decaying Though were they corpses? Hard to say If they could claw and scream that way?  Men and women, first class to third Screamed past the platform, the image blurred Steam billowed around young Howard, burning These memories flocked back, returning  And worst of all, source of his fears Words that haunted through the years As the train rushed past, lit by the moon A voice had called “You’ll join us soon.”  His heart beat faster in his chest The train came slowly to a rest The engine now was right before him Purring loudly in the morning  He gazed in wonder, or maybe fear To see the impossible stop so near Engine, tender, carriages black Clear as day, sharp as a tack  From outside all was quite serene * Apart from the atrocious steam - But inside - now there one could tell That this was truly a train from hell  The corpses screamed, whooped and cried, Turned handles vainly, locked inside They clamoured, their dead arms a’beckoning Inviting Howard to his reckoning  A tall man from the rear descended Checked his watch, his face offended “So sorry that we’re running late, I do try to be on time for fate.”  He gazed at Howard, from top to floor “Ah! Mr Wilkins - I’ve seen you before I knew it then, I’m never wrong This train is right where you belong”  “Now if you please, we need to hurry We’ve four more stops (and that’s just Surrey) If you would kindly step aboard I think you’ll find your just reward.”  As Howard started his approach To the nearest black and gleaming coach The beasts on board roared and knocked, Protested Howard “The door is locked.”  “Not so fast” the Guard’s smile was wide “What makes you think you’ll sit inside? ‘Replace the stoker, until repentance Coal and fire’: that’s your sentence”  A blackened man stepped from the tender His eyes red hot, charcoal ember His body broken, bent in double Produced for Howard a filthy shovel  The spade was hot - no wooden handle Melting his hands, as wax on candle Howard screamed, he dropped the spade Jumped back from the unholy crash it made  “How” said Howard “Am I expected To use that tool as you directed?” It can’t just be me that understands That to shovel coal I need my hands?  “Mr Wilkins, do you not comprehend Just where you are, and to what end? You’ll shovel coal, make no mistake Until I hear your backbone break.”  “You’ll be in pain, and you’ll carry on For Howard Wilkins, you’ve done wrong This train must run, this train needs coal And if you stop: I’ll burn your soul.”  “Now on the tender, and quick about it My orders are not to be flouted Though yes! I do have one nice surprise Someone’s here for their goodbyes”  And the woman, dressed in black Haunting him, was once more back She pulled down her laced and ornate veil To show a face, waxy and pale  There hadn’t been an open casket After the knife from the bread basket And though the mortician had done good work Her face remained a jagged smirk  She’d never made that smile alive While sat with him in Chaffinch drive “Hello, dear.


From what we can gather, the Flax are some interstellar empire. They don't tell us much. Why would they? Does a man explain to his dog why he needs to file his taxes? They came seven years ago. They arrived in our system, destroying most of the satellites. Destroyed the ISS and what meager spacecraft we had constructed to carry us to the stars. They slapped us down like bugs. Of course, there was resistance when they landed in our major cities. Soldiers across the world fought them, but they were unorganized and ineffectual with a lack of global communication. It took them a year to clamp down on the last remnants of organized military resistance. I was 13 when they finally got around to dealing with the civilians. Unlike our neighbors, we had a food supply and clean water to drink. My mother always said my father's near manic need to have at least a year's worth of food was a drain on family funds. She was happy to know it was all worth it. Millions died in the food riots; the Flax just fucking watched humanity tear itself apart. When they finally stepped in, it wasn't as saviors. It was as masters. They rounded our family up during late august. We lived in Alabama, and the heat and humidity were unbearable as they made us wait in long lines to be processed into the labor camps. Human collaborators ushered us forward to receive our ID tattoos. They smiled when they told us it wouldn't hurt. Can you believe that? Fucking sold us out with a smile. Mom and dad were shunted into the "waste" line. I never saw them again. They put me to work in the fields. I spent four years of my life working those damn fields. If someone was to sick to work, they just shot them and used them as fertilizer for the crops. 2 years ago, I saw a chance for freedom. The Collaborator guards got drunk on duty. Someone set up a still in their barracks, and they wanted to try the first batch. I slipped out that night. I just picked a direction and went. It had to be at least three weeks before I met the people that would bring me to this moment. They found me dehydrated and starving under a large oak tree. A man I now know as Sgt. Thomas approached me and offered me water from his canteen. I drank greedily, then vomited all over his shoes. He just smiled and patted me on the back. They took me to their bunker. I told me that I would be safe there, and as long as I worked to further human freedom, I would have a place there. From what we can gather, the rest of the galaxy doesn't possess the fighting instinct that the Flax and we do. Of course, they had military, but once they were beaten, the people just rolled over and accepted their fate. However, even though all organized resistance was snuffed out. The fight carried on with isolated military personnel and civilian militias. Humanity had been fighting itself for a long time. It was finally time we focused that energy into something nobler. I was not fighting for land, religion, or idealogy. But for freedom, for our people and race. That brings me to my task as I ride this large semi loaded with explosive toward the Flax regional HQ. All I can think is what it would be like to have children without ID tattoos, in a world where I can fall in love and have a family. That isn't for me, but maybe, one day, people will breathe free again.  Edit: This is my first attempt at writing. I am a long time lover of Science fiction. I have had the urge to write some of my own for a long time now and figured now is a good time. Please be gentle in feedback. I know it isn't great.


Yoshito was meditating deep within his treasured memories. He focused on the pearl of greatest value to him: *The whole memory was of the koi and of his father. His father was already very old when Yoshito was born. He meditated and remembered that day, he was three and a half years old, merely two by his new American age.* *"We moved here when my son, you were born." Yoshito's father had said.* *He had stared at the fish and recalled his birth. Later when his father died he had stood at this pond and recalled the memory of when he was two, recalling his birth.* *This was a string of pearls, when he closed his eyes and dreamed or meditated. All of his very precious memories kept intact, perfectly and remembered.* The call came in that interrupted this thought from Yoshito. Since his desk phone was off, in his office, on his scheduled afternoon tea time, the call came in the form of his secretary, Mrs. Djan. "A call from Doctor Reese, sir" she said in English. "Okay." Yoshito said plainly. Only Mrs. Djan noticed that he sounded annoyed, his exact tone and speed was slightly different. A voice analysis might not have picked up the difference, but it took a human ear sometimes, Mrs. Djan didn't trust machines. Her boss took the call and she went out to her own desk outside his office. She simply used her phone for this message, she sent it saying: "Reeses-in-pieces" to her new boss. She knew when it was time to find a new job. "Reese, how are you? How is Carol? Is that squirrel still stealing from Annabelle's bowl on the back porch? Ha Ha Ha." Yoshito talked to Reese. Reese had a lot to say because there was silence as Yoshito listened. He was telling Yoshito that he had done work on soldiers similar to what Yoshito was working on. It had gone very badly, they had become berserk monsters, possessed by the singular thought to kill. The rest hadn't worked as well as before, with the canine subjects. Mrs. Djan heard none of this, but she knew the scope of what Doctor Reese might be saying. "Calm down." Yoshito told Doctor Reese. "You remember what I told you before?" "How not? I mean: I will tell you again, just so you know." Yoshito replied. Mrs. Djan eavesdropped to this, but then Harris came in. He was head of security in the hospital. "Doctor Yoshito should be informed that a Mr. Reese is here to see him." Harris said to her back, catching her eavesdropping. "Right." Mrs. Djan straightened herself out. "That will be all then, Harris?" "Yes Ma'am." he frowned and left. She resumed her eavesdropping and heard Yoshito saying to Reese over the phone, who was apparently also in the building: "I was studying all the time, very focused and very good student. I was cold and my manner was not warm enough for the delivery of babies. I got my first patient and as we spoke the nurses cared for this pregnant woman. She was having her sixth child and she kept reminding me that she knew more about birthing children than I did with all my study. She wanted some tea. I told the nurse to pour the hot water for her. The pregnant woman insisted that I pour the hot water. She stared very intently and I grew strangely nervous and my pour became unsteady. The more unsteady my pouring of the hot water grew, the more intensely I tried to correct it and the more it gushed into the cup. Finally some of the hot water dripped over the side onto the plate as I finished pouring. All that in just one escalating moment from one simple lack of preparation on my part. She fired me, judging me to be too green and incompatible with her next birthing. I had some money after college, such was my cold prudence. When other patients reacted similarly to her I went into retreat and visited a garden of stone where a master of tea ceremony is willing to teach. It was not irrelevant to delivering babies. I went back and I felt different, having stared into empty stone lanterns. I delivered countless babies but then decided to go back to school. It was the mind I sought, instead of birth. I studied the human mind and became world renowned as a neural surgeon, second only to you Doctor Reese." "It is a long story." Reese complained. "And I am tired of hearing it, word for word." He suddenly burst into the office of Mrs. Djan with Harris as a hostage at gun point. He had a zip gun. The zip gun was a weapon where a spring coiled around a nail in a thin pvc pipe was held by a vice-grip tool's trigger-release. It was loaded with just one bullet, but it would fire that into Harris if she reacted. Or that was what Reese was saying to her anyway. He had his phone on bluetooth, still talking to Yoshito who was in his office on the other side of the door. Reese shuffled past Mrs. Djan like she might be armed. "I sit." Mrs. Djan went to her desk and sat down. "No wait, get back up." Reese told her. She produced an uzi from her desk drawer. It was folded up into a little blue case, but she then showed the hidden automatic. It had a little clip in it with fifteen bullets. Reese's eyes widened in horror. Mrs. Djan was one of them! One of the spooks that had chased him here! She started shooting and shot the first burst of five bullets entirely into Harris. Two shots went clean through him and hit Reese. Harris fell over dead. "Sorry Reese." Mrs. Djan climbed up onto her desk. Her tight cyan office skirt was not a bad last thing to see. She shot up Reese with the next burst, aiming for his feet. "Damn that hurts!" he proclaimed. "Give me that!" Mrs. Djan went to go disarm him. Suddenly the outer door opened and two more security guards came into the room. They had the misfortune of startling Mrs. Djan and she emptied the clip, killing them both. Then Yoshito opened his door. The zip gun made one last gunshot after all the uzi-fire. It hit Yoshito alongside his head. *He found himself in the place where he kept his pearls. There they were his thirty-nine most precious memories, as polished and perfect as their age and value to him. Then there were only thirty, broken pieces shattered and forgotten. He watched it happening in horror.* *He was trapped in this place. He went and reached for one of the rarest memories and his touch shattered that one as well. In horror he recoiled. He could only stand and stare at them.* *Time seemed endless as he looked. He counted them. Now only twenty-nine. As he stared he heard one that he had neglected to look at shatter as well. Then another and another the same way.* *He stared at the memory pearls even more intensely until they started to crack from getting stared at too hard. One of the very good memories broke.* *Yoshito shouted in frustrated defiance and his voice shattered several more. He fell silent and the silence drowned another and it broke as well.* His eyes opened from the three-year long coma. Yoshito had a very long road ahead of him. Eventually he returned to the science of neural surgery, but it was as the trembling hands of tea-pouring. Nobody believed he was still able to do the surgery. In fact he was making even more money now and funding his own private research. This went on for a long time. Now he was into weapons. He didn't work with human subjects, but rather the insects and reptiles and dogs that he brought in throughout his work. All of it seized and destroyed by the government of Yoshito's homeland. Yoshito driven further into exile. Reese was safe behind bars in that country. Money will buy anything. One day two guards used a needle on him, given to them by Yoshito. He presented himself later, outside the prison waiting. A drug that soon would put Reese into a kind of special 'memory coma' and 'in a dog's body for laughs' Yoshito was saying. "You are a monster." Reese told him. Reese felt momentarily oriented to see a massive mural showing the evolution of Dogs, Chameleons and Fireflies backwards through bone fossils. He found it to be incredibly tacky. "Well I would say that 'monsters destroy their creators' to you because you shot me and I spent three years in a coma developing isolated amnesia, changing me into a very cold and ruthless supervillain-like person." Yoshito chuckled kinda crazily. "You would say that?" "I mean to say I am actually going to make you into a monster. I solved your problem with the scary soldiers you worked on. Solved it with you being the prototype, that is." Yoshito started wheeling his patient into the operating room personally. Soon they were in the operating room. "So what do you say then?" Reese was still drugged. "I say: let's just make a long story short: I am going to put your brain in the body of one of the special dogs. Well, your conscious mind anyway, surgically implanted into its mind." Yoshito grinned as he spoke. "In English?" Reese asked, smiling. "You will wake up as a puppy dog nobody wants with no memory how you got that way. Then I am going to sell you as a weapon." Yoshito explained. Yoshito's eyes twinkled with evil merriment. "I will be a puppy?" "Yes. A real puppy.


Tragedy had come upon the kingdom of Utrecht .The kind, beautiful Princess Diana had been cursed by an evil witch! The whole kingdom mourned the loss of their wonderful princess. Everyone wore black and cried. Prince Adam was shown into Diana's room. He saw her asleep on her bed , unresponsive.' A witch ,' one of the servants told Adam, ' came in during the night and put a curse on her . It looks like she is sleeping but the truth is her body is frozen . Nothing , not even time , can touch or wake her. She will remain like this forever .'Prince Adam fell to her side and cried while he kissed her hand . ' She was mad at me last night, she said I never showed her that I cared enough. I was too stubborn to apologize. I can't let it be the last thing she ever said to me . I won't . I promise Diana I will find a cure for you . Even if it takes me my whole life . '' it's impossible Adam,' the advisor told him ' you must forget about her and rule over the kingdom without her. It would take you two lifetimes to find a cure .''Then I'll spend an eternity if I have to in order to find it .' And with that Adam left the kingdom to find a cure .Years passed and no one heard of Prince Adam again . They forgot about him and eventually they forgot about their princess too as life went back to normal and someone else took her place in ruling the kingdom .Thousands of years passed . Generations came and went and society grew far more advance. Skyscrapers, as high as the clouds, were built in the city and cars flew in the sky. It was impossible that Prince Adam could even still be alive after all these centuries . He was presumed long dead .However, one day a robot came to the large city of Utrecht. It was very advanced and people began to gather around it.When the robot was asked who it was it said, 'My name is Robot-2938377. I come from a far away land with a cure for your princess. 'The people didn't understand what princess the robot meant. No princess had ruled over them for many years . Nonetheless , the robot led the way to an old, abandoned castle. Inside , just as she had been thousands of years ago , lay princess Diana on her bed , as peaceful and still as always . The robot carefully took out a bottle of a golden liquid and poured it into the mouth of Diana. With a start she woke up and everyone gasped !' My goodness !' Diana exclaimed .' I feel like I have been asleep for hundreds of years .' She then looked around the room, confused . She looked at the robot. ' What are you?' she asked it.' My name is Robot-2938377. Long ago, I once was a human by the name of Adam. I am all that is left of him . His body became weak as he grew old and decrepit. He replaced parts of himself with robot parts so he could continue his mission of finding a cure for you until nothing was left of him but the robot you see now . My only purpose in living is a memory as a human I once had and a desire to find a cure for my princess , after an evil witch put a curse on you . Now that my purpose is done , I am no longer needed and will shortly turn off forever . 'Diana realized all that had happened and cried for everything that she had lost and how long she had been asleep. Everyone and everything she had ever known was gone now , everything except Adam's desire to cure her , which had long outlived him . All the people in the room were moved by her crying.' Is there nothing that can be done for you ? ' Diana asked the robot as she hugged his metal body .Just for a moment the robot remembered what it was like to be human again from the warmth of her arms around him . 'There is one last thing you must do, yes, please . ' He said . ' I traveled thousands of miles to bring that cure to you, but during my travels I came upon one other thing in a very advance civilization. ' The robot handed her a stone .' This is a magic stone . Once you use it , you will go back and return to your time forever . Once you go back in time , you must stop that witch from cursing you , and live your life happily with your family and prince Adam.' Diana cried but she understood . She took the stone. She kissed the robot on its head and thanked it. The kiss gave the robot one last memory of love and what it was like to be a human before it ran out of energy and shut off for the rest of time.Diana looked at the stone in her hand and closed her eyes . When she opened them again she was back in her room but it was the day before the curse was put on her , just as she remembered it!She looked out her window and the kingdom was there, just like before. Into the room came prince Adam, human and all!' Is everything all right ?' he asked her .' I thought I heard something . 'Diana couldn't contain her excitement and hugged and kissed Adam. He was surprised but very happy . " I thought u were mad at me ." Adam wondered." Shut up and kiss me u fool ." She laughed .The next day the evil witch was caught and captured before she could curse Diana. She was kept in jail for her crimes . When the witch asked how they knew of her crimes before she even committed them, Diana told her she knew because of love which is the answer to everything , as it can know anything.Diana and Adam ruled over the kingdom and after that day never had another problem . They lived happily ever after.


Tess grasped the bale firmly and hoisted it onto the trailer as Toby cranked the ratchet strap. "Thirty nine." she panted, "That'll do paw?" Old Nel stretched until his back cracked before leaning against the wheel to wipe his brow. "Yep, I reckon that'll do. Go fetch me a water will ya Toby?" he groaned. Toby hopped down and ruffled his little sisters hair as he passed by, much to her annoyance. "Quit it." she mumbled. The harvest grew more bountiful with each year, and old Nel reckoned they might hit fifty bales next time. Tess latched the trailer flap and tested the straps. When she was satisfied they were taught enough, she took her place by her fathers side and cast her eyes skyward. "It's so beautiful, aint it paw?" she sighed. The red planet shone brightly in the night sky, like a firefly among the pale stars. "I don't know what yer fascination is with that place." said Nel. Toby watched through the farmhouse window as he filled a glass from the reclaimer. "I wonder what it's like. They say that there was water up there once, long ago." said Tess. Old Nel straightened up and placed his hand on Tess's shoulder. "Well, the only thing on that rock now is sand, and a view." he said. The farming life was a fine way to live, free from the commotion and hassle of the big cities. At least, that's how old Nel felt about it. For Tess, the call to adventure was ever present, a thirst she was desperate to quench. Thirteen was a difficult age for anybody, especially when you were stacking bales and milking cows. "Paw, when I grow up, I wanna fly in one of those rocket ships!" Tess exclaimed. Old Nel laughed. "Is that right?" "Yes paw. I'm gonna be the talk of the town, you'll see! The first astronaut in all of New Haven. I'll fly to the stars, and bring some o' that red rock back with me!" "Smart girl like you, I reckon you just might. I can see it now, your name in lights: Tess, finest astronaut in New Haven" Tess jumped at old Nel, and he caught her in his arms. "Now go on inside, maw'll just about be ready with dinner I reckon." said Nel. Tess glanced back up at the red planet a final time before charging for the farmhouse, passing Toby on the way. "You know, you're gonna have to tell her one day. Everyone knows you can't go there no more." said Toby. Old Nel took the water and finished it in one go. "Let her dream a little longer." he said, "It ain't doin harm for a little girl to dream." Toby crossed his arms and leaned with his father. "Your daddies granpaw was one of the last to leave, wasn't he paw?" he asked. "He sure was." "What happened to Earth anyhow?" asked Toby. Old Nel sighed. "Too much o' the wrong things.