Preface: these are the contents of a story-esque recurring nightmare that I have every few years. If it doesn't fit here, let me know, but I had it again sleeping in this afternoon and got the idea to post before I forget. I can't handle horror well, so my brain cooks up night terrors to wake me up when it needs water or if my sleep schedule is shifted too far. You arrive at the dark Victorian home. Two stories and broad, wooden siding clattering in the wind, you wonder how such a busted up house could remain standing. It's windows are dark. The lower ones boarded up, much of the upper ones smashed out. "Why the hell do we have to come here," your partner asks. Walking behind you, he is lanky, a head taller than you with sandy brown hair that hangs in his eyes, despitebeing tucked into a hat. You don't even know his name. It doesn't matter, it never did. You just know he's on your side. There's an implicit understanding in everything each of you are doing. You give a vague, noncommittal answer to his question. You don't really know, yourself. You don't remember being called. You just know that the building *should* be empty, but isn't. Your task is to fix that. You don't have any idea what you're going to remove, and that lack of knowing makes you tense and anxious. The half-darkness inside makes you more anxious. There's no light coming in from outside, nor are there fixtures, yet you can see every detail of the stripped interior, from the batting across the studs to the rough wood floor. Those are the only details that surround you. Stripped walls and floor. There are no 'rooms' or 'hallways'. The cieling is a darkness. Though you can see without problems, it's still dark, as though the darkness itself is an invisible gas filling every room that you can sense without sensing it, like a propane leak or the smell of pot. You and your partner begin searching. He's in front of you now, always in sight but not filling your view. You walk, or wander, along the walls and floor. Until you hear it. The single cry of a baby, from somewhere in the darkness. You and your partner look to each other. He asks if you heard the same as him, and you confirm. The baby cries again. The two of you are climbing a stairwell. You reach the top, a narrow landing with a half-wall serving as a railing. There's a door. For the first time, you see actual light around the edges. The baby cries from behind the door. Your partner steps onto the landing and knocks. The door cracks open, and a young Hispanic woman leans her face into view. She's nervous and stressed, but asks pleasantly, "are you here to see the baby?" You look to your partner, and he looks back. You answer in the affirmative. The young woman apologizes, and says only one person can enter for now, and you'll have to switch. She says this is because the room is full enough with the whole family inside. You insist that you both have to enter. Your partner looks at you. What goes unspoken is that you know what you are after is in that room, and you are too scared to go in by yourself, but he doesn't complain. The young woman relents and opens the door, letting both of you in. Your partner is behind you now. You see that the room is full of people, perhaps eight or ten. An old white couple stands out, and the rest are various ages and ethnicities. Even though not all of the people even register in your mind, you know viscerally that they aren't a 'family'. They were all drawn here, and are trapped in a mental cage. The reason why is sitting on the dresser by the window. Atop a blanket in a basket, sits the dessicated corpse of a baby. It's eyes are wide black holes, with veins stretching from them like spider legs. It's mouth, agape and black like it's eyes. It's silent. The young woman says that the baby has been hungry, and they don't know how to feed it. Your partner collapses to the ground behind you. The family cheers, and says that the baby has picked a meal. You are by yourself now, and their prisoner. You don't resist when they take you somewhere else. You are at a candle lit dining table, and the family sits around it as you do. The baby sits at the head of the table. It is still, but it's skin is flushed and moist. Its eyes and mouth are still empty and agape, but you know it is gaining life. Your partner is seated to your right, at the foot of the table. He, on the other hand, is now brown and shriveled, and a third shorter. Somehow, the baby is feeding on him. The family is chatting and laughing around the table, passing dishes that you can't smell. You can only smell the dustiness of the bare wooden walls. You are silent, sullen. You've lost, and your partner is slowly dying. You look to the baby again, as a couple of the women are crowding around it. Suddenly, its neck gives out and the head snaps off, rolling under the table. You jump and start shouting, trying to use the opportunity to verbally beat some sense into your captors. This proves unnecessary, as the spell seems to have broken. Everyone becomes alert, and looks to the floor. A large rat has crawled through the mouth and neck of the baby's head, and is now scampering out of the room with the head riding it. Everyone understands that it must be stopped, and arm themselves with bricks and knives before descending to the basement. Following your lead, they begin wandering the maze like walls and dirt floor of the basement in search of the rat. At one point, you regroup with some others, and you sense the rat approaching. You turn your head, and see the rat and baby's head leap from an eye-level break in the batting onto the face of an 'aunt'. Desperate, it is trying to possess her. Everything moves quickly. The aunt is pushed to the ground, and the rat knocked off of her face. Bricks descend, smashing the hellspawn into the dirt floor. It's done. But the creature's presence hasn't left. It hangs over the group, and you feel that one false move will cause you to carry it out with you, back into the living world. As the paranoia rises to a peak, you wake up. Edit: typos and wrong words used.


The contest of flowers would be the first battle in Taru’s campaign to imprint himself on the world. Any angel who would go on to create something grand, something to endure unchanged and admired in the world for generations, should have no trouble conquering a school competition. Well read on the landmarks of past angel’s creations, Taru had little interest in the modest crafting that fascinated his peers. Taru failed to understand why anyone committed years to learning to sculpt dirt, granite, or worms. His father spent the duration of his tenure with the Institute of Palm Trees working on a single coconut, and not even creating it, just altering the composition of the shell to better “harmonize with the surrounding ecosystem” as he would say it. Taru saw dark comedy in his father’s humorless pride in this work and the institute’s willingness to generously compensate him for it. When the gods ended the world and started it up again they filled it with the angel’s new creations. They carried few creations forward from one cycle to the next, but the French Marigold made the cut in every rebirth since its creator introduced it over a hundred cycles ago. The French Marigold, the oldest creation, proved beyond doubt the exceptional talent of its sculptor. Taru would devote himself to no less than this grandeur, so when he graduated secondary school and it was time for him to earn his creation license, he enrolled in the Florist School of Seneca. The morning after Taru moved onto campus he accepted an invitation from the dean to visit the auditorium. The first and third place winners from the last contest of flowers remained on the stage. The flower in third place seemed wholly superior to the flower in first, less an imitation and of finer construction, with a dark purple stem in the form of a trident. Each prong of the trident ended in bright blue lotus petals, all aligned as if a scaled lizard’s tale had been twisted. As Taru studied the winning flower, a cheap Marigold derivative, he realized he did not understand what separated winners from losers in this place. Factors presently hidden to him which were unrelated to the quality of the flowers must decide, possibly the tensions of some invisible social order. “Are you Taru?” a man asked, interrupting Taru’s study of the flower. Taru looked down at the man, an inch or three shorter than him. His posture leaned forward to accommodate a large gut over which a red t-shirt had been impressively tucked into jeans. Taru prayed this man was not the dean. “I’m Dr. Haman, the Dean of Students,” the man continued, “and this is Blue.” He pointed to a young boy beside him, perhaps sixteen, who was bouncing on his toes and scanning for the appropriate moment to introduce himself, which had now passed. Dr. Haman explained that all new students were matched in “buddy pairs”, and that Blue and Taru were one such pair. Taru took Blue for a walk through the campus garden, which exhibited flowers designed by the school’s alumni. Taru explained to Blue that the reason he chose to enroll in the Florist School of Seneca, the flower which earned the school its reputation and continued to attract the greatest florists, waited at the end of the garden’s meandering path. It was of course the French Marigold. The French Marigold enjoyed precisely the notoriety and envy which Taru so wanted to earn in a creation of his own. Taru often regretted that he had himself not created the French Marigold. To Blue he made clear that in the world of florists one had to choose between the pursuit of perfection, of the ideal, and reaching beyond what people will say is reasonable, or else to settle for a life of building derivatives, of flowers like the flowers that came before. In the latter life, since it compromises the integrity of creation anyway, one might as well pick up a consistent paycheck by designing rocks. Taru said these things confidently, though he had never created anything himself. While Taru looked ahead as he spoke, Blue looked at Taru. He listened earnestly to Taru’s sermon and demonstrated that he was paying attention by asking “how do you know so much?” or remarking at his luck for matching with a studious buddy. When they reached the French Marigold, Blue studied it at all angles. Taru watched Blue admire this flower, its beautiful layering like the eruption of a volcano, its petals spraying out in deep red with a gold trim in some places sharp and in others approaching from the edges in a dithered gradient. He realized he had created an association for Blue between himself and this flower which even the smallest failure could shatter. A vision came to him of placing second, or third, or unimaginably, not at all in the monthly contest of flowers he would soon participate in as a student. It may become another student, less well read than Taru, who in the end designed the next flower to withstand the cycles, which authors would discuss at length in books on the process of design. This intolerable fate could not come to pass. He excused himself from their walk by telling Blue he wanted to review the syllabus, and went to his room to try creating a flower for the first time. He knew failures were inevitable, but he could preserve his future by getting them out of the way in private. With his books on the French Marigold as reference, by morning Taru succeeded in creating a stem with petals at the end, though it had nothing else, no carpels or sepals, and the petals did not unfold in bloom. He did not even vary the color of the petals, covering them in a uniform diffuse red. When he tried to create the core and fill it with carpels, the centerpiece on which bees would land to carry his flower forward into its future generations, arguably the most important and essential part of any flower, he struggled. No matter which angle he tried to construct the core from, whether he placed the sepals, carpels, or petals first, they would become an obstruction and prevent the placement of the other two. Not even petals were required for the first lab described in the syllabus, but Taru had expected far more from himself considering the depth of his knowledge. He had no pride in the result, but there was a moment, in the second hour, in which he forgot himself. He saw only the curve of the stem as he bent it at the ends with his pliers, like it was the only illuminated object in a far reaching darkness. When the moment concluded he again heard the clock ticking toward morning. Taru worried that the other students had already learned to construct flower cores, and he would suffer their explanations the next day in the lab. Assuring himself this was unlikely, he called it a night with his coreless flower. Thankfully it was enough. In the first day’s lab class they were to create a leafless stem, a smooth tube with a subtle curve and change in thickness. Blue sat next to Taru and admired how quickly he created a satisfactory stem. Taru helped Blue and some other students to apply the curve correctly, who said “how did you do that?” and “wow, you’re good at this.” For that day at least, Taru crossed the battlefield unscathed. At the end of the lab their lecturer made two announcements. One, the first contest of flowers for his class would be held at the end of the month. She expected every student to sculpt a sexually reproductive flower, including a core with carpels, though it did not need to be alive of course. Two, an optional workshop would be held after class each day to work on cores and carpels, which all new students were encouraged to attend because this was a difficult task. Signing up for the workshop did not even occur to Taru. He only took note that he had a short deadline for learning to build flower cores on his own. He tapped his foot waiting for the lecturer to finish her speech so he could rush off to the library and then his room. By the time Blue turned to pass the workshop sign up clipboard to Taru, he had already left. Late that night a knock on his dorm room door relieved Taru of his still fruitless efforts to build the core of a French Marigold. Seeing through the peephole that his visitor was Blue, Taru stored the incomplete flower in his drawer and welcomed his guest. Blue had just returned from a study session with some of their classmates, arranged impromptu after the flower core workshop. He paced as he explained to Taru that, though he had never been a smart student himself, he thought the students at the Florist School of Seneca were serious and he could learn a lot by studying with them, with people like Taru. Taru forgave Blue for comparing him to other students. As much as Blue radiated the mediocrity which Taru so resented in prouder people, Blue was all together too earnest to ascribe ill intent. This brand of mediocrity was less infectious and Taru did not fear it. As he watched the boy pace eagerly back and forth in the room, Taru noticed a condescending affection in himself. From his backpack Blue pulled out a daisy, patchy and fragile but complete with a core. “Look at what I made in the workshop!” Taru thought until then he might show his incomplete flower to Blue, to show that he was attempting to build a Marigold, not a basic Shasta Daisy like they covered in the workshop. Now he certainly would not. “That’s great Blue! Which core assembly method did they teach in the workshop?” “Core assembly method? I’m not sure if I know that term. We used clamps to hold the stem in place while we assembled it, if that’s what you mean?” Taru gripped his hairline and stared off behind Blue. Why had he not thought of using clamps to hold the stem in place? It was so simple and obvious. So simple in fact, that Taru began to wonder if there was anything this school had to teach him at all. “Oh um,” Blue said hesitantly, “is that not the right way or..?” Taru laughed once and reassured Blue he was only tired. “You did good, Blue” he said, and sent him home for the night. Taru waited twenty minutes to be certain Blue had made it back to his own dorm, and then walked to a late night store across the street to purchase clamps. A week later in lab class, Taru’s completed daisy met the requirements of the assignment but earned no one’s envy. He sat in his seat with small posture, even once pretending to be sleepy on his desk, to ensure no one misinterpreted the janky flower as the product of his devoted effort. Their lab instructor introduced a student in the front. Taru recognized the student from having seen him walk out of the workshop with Blue. Blue leaned over to Taru and whispered unwanted context. “That’s Don. He really knows his stuff.” The projector painted Don’s flower on the wall for the class to see. In the finely creased off white petals, the dense and uniform carpel placements in varying shades and hues of yellow, the continuous curve of the stem with leaves at appropriate points, Taru realized what had been bothering him about the school since his arrival. Don’s flower was undeniably a quality reconstruction of a Shasta Daisy, but only a reconstruction. If Taru were ever to achieve anything, to make a genuinely novel contribution to the world, he would have to forsake all precedent and make his own way. But however genius his creation would be in the end, it would never enter the world without his having a creation license. He must continue, however trite it may be. And trite it was. Their instructor, who wrote each student a note with criticisms of their flower, had said of his, “unrealistic shapes, sculpted from memory; consider the evening workshops.” By Taru’s account, “realism” meant nothing more than conformity to precedent, the death of idealism. The poison of pragmatism should never have been allowed to take root in the veins of society, to drain its color and pride until it was only a room full of people afraid to leave the room simply because they had never left the room before. This was the infectious mediocrity which Taru wanted to escape, and it had a tight grip on the institutions. To the contest Taru submitted a rubric flower. It met the criteria and offered to the corrupt ceremony no more of his soul than necessary. By so carefully abstaining, Taru had hoped he would survive the charade, secure his creation license in a few months’ time, and be free to do right by nature in the end. Taru stood at the back of the auditorium and watched Dr. Haman waddle onto the stage, looking at every step like he would fall forward on that large gut of his. Imagining it to be the fattle little man himself, Taru reached in his pocket and crushed in his fist the note Dr. Haman had given him that morning, which placed Taru on academic probation for lack of effort. Dr. Haman announced the winning flowers. An imitation daffodil received third place and an imitation Rose received second. Having then heard enough, Taru walked out of the auditorium. After the ceremony Taru accepted Blue’s invitation to celebrate over drinks with his friends, though Blue did not mention to celebrate what. Taru slid into their corner booth and drank three old fashions, a pina colada, and began work on a lager beer. He felt strangely comfortable around Blue’s study group friends, who seemed to him eager in the way of young children who successfully persuaded their babysitter to play house with them. His liberal tongue and readiness to criticize the school fascinated them as if dissent itself were a novelty. The most enjoyable of this attention came from Don. When Taru arrived, Don greeted him first and said “We’ve heard a lot about you from Blue.” Taru felt free to show his indignation, knowing they would assume it was a familiar joke, and shouted “And what the hell does Blue know about me?” Blue laughed so the others laughed, and Taru was welcome. With the confidence he collected from the so far warm reception of his loose mouth, he turned his critiques toward the contest of flowers. He began “And this institution is the most perverse of them all. It’s a law of nature that every angel wants to be better than every other angel, and knowing this they create a system in which only surrender to their worldview can earn you the superiority you all naturally crave. “If you take a step back and a deep breath, what do you see in those winning flowers? They are imitations, knock offs, shadows of what greater artists contributed to the world cycles ago. That’s what this school, and the whole concept of studying precedent, are designed to do: trap the new artists in the shadow of the ones that came before them. “Like all men want to be the best, all artists want the envy of other artists. They want their work to hurt other artists simply by existing, to make them feel worthless and forsake the arts. And how better to accomplish that than seizing the institutions? How better than by controlling the education systems, and forcing every new artist who might have become a threat to struggle in futility to imitate your unique style which is yours alone? “And here I warn you all. Never give them your soul. When they demand your passion, hold it tight to your heart. Otherwise you become complicit, your hands as dirty as the oppressors and eventually your mind as well. And the crime, a crime against the world itself, is to deprive the world of beauty, the beauty that you and the artists you lead astray might have given us.” In the passion of his sermon Taru failed to notice Blue’s friends had looked away from him, toward Blue. Don put a hand on Taru’s shoulder. “Ah, uh, Taru,” he began awkwardly, “Maybe Blue’s celebration is not the occasion.” Through his five drinks Taru managed to recall that Blue did not tell him the purpose of their celebration, and that he did not ask. If Blue didn’t say, he must have assumed Taru already knew, which would only make sense if, not having known that Taru walked out of the auditorium early... The conclusion did not make sense to him. But, in his drunkenness, he asked anyway. “Blue did you win?” He had. Taru needed to escape. He excused himself to the restroom and walked home. His theory had failed to account for Blue, who by all accounts was above reproach, and for whom even imitation was not a given but something to strive for. It could be consistent if Blue, and Taru’s own father in the same way, were simply victims of the oppressors. But Blue would soon be prescribing his own path to others, tutoring underclassmen or recommending florist school to friends. He would not need to change in character to do these things, in fact they followed naturally from his present character. If it was a crime to become cozy with oppressors, Blue was guilty of it even now, and must be condemned along with the worst of them. But later in the night when Blue knocked on the door, Taru invited him in. Taru sat in his desk chair and offered a seat on the bed to Blue, and in his mind rehearsed the defenses he had prepared for his belief. He could feel the bluntness ready in himself, a drunk too tired to think about two things at once. Blue didn’t mention Taru’s sermon at all. He said “You said you were going to the restroom, but didn’t come back. We checked the restrooms to make sure you hadn’t passed out, and when we didn’t find you I assumed you came back here.” Taru had not rehearsed a defense for this angle of attack. Understanding he was cornered, that being in the right was no longer viable, he strategized instead to at least contain the knowledge of this defeat between him and Blue alone. He must establish trust, change this from a quarrel between schoolmates to an issue privileged with the discretion of close friends. And in his uninhibited state he reached for the broken marigold he hid in his desk drawer days earlier, and set it on the desk. “A flower from your discard pile? Why are you pulling that out?” Blue asked, barely looking at it for a second. A discard pile. Where Taru labored on a single flower, struggling to restore it and backtrack after each mistake, Blue had been starting over with a clean slate each time. Iterating that way was surely faster. As he struggled to summon the kind of rationale he always had readily available in his sobriety, it occurred gently to Taru that perhaps he should be more skeptical of thoughts that only make sense in one state of mind. Blue hugged Taru and wished him a good night, adding that he might do well to “talk to someone”. Taru could not sleep. He saw the flowers from the campus garden in his mind, the ones at the front which no one worshipped, and wondered if the artists behind them were like Blue. Did they invite their friends to celebrate when their flowers were selected for the world? In the seconds just before falling asleep, Taru imagined an ordinary daisy and the worm filled dirt in which it grew, and felt in his chest a warm affection for his unremarkable father. After finishing a mediocre flower, Taru put his head down to daydream through lab class. He thought about calling his father back home and asking him about his work, since it might earn Taru some authority at the school to have an industry connection. Blue interrupted Taru’s thoughts by tapping his head with the workshop’s sign up clipboard. Taru sat up and looked to his side at Don, who was not yet expecting to be passed the board, and decided that after their night at the bar, getting his attention was worth procrastinating. Taru scanned the classroom for anyone who might be looking his way, then signed the clipboard beneath Blue’s name and placed it on the corner of Don’s desk. *Feedback requested. I will thank you for it even if it hurts my feelings. Thank you.


Saliva seeped from the scales as his fingers slipped between them. His reed felt moist against his tongue and his saxophone weighed heavy on his neck. Through the haze of smoke, the sound of Art Thompson bounced off the walls of the small club. Squeezed in a blue suit, soaked in rum and sweat, the dark figure towered above the mainly white crowd. To him, it was like any other show, but as the war loomed in everyone's heads, he took their fear and anxiety away and replaced it with moments of euphoria and magic, or the closest thing to it. The bass player plucked at the strings, the pianist softly tapped on the keys and the drummer lightly tapped the cymbals then making the odd brush sound on the snare drum. Standing around them were two other brass players holding a tenor saxophone and a trumpet. The crowd stood to attention. Usually, they would be dancing, but they couldn't dance to this. Not that it wasn't good, but what Art played was something different than what they were used to hearing. It was a style they had never heard him play before. Some people would think it strange and somewhat narcissistic to play something they didn't pay to listen too, but this was Art. You couldn't tell him what to play. In that moment and in that room, no-one existed but him, the music and his saxophone. They were captivated that he hadn't lost the passion or hunger to perfect his sound. The fresh-faced musicians around him watched in awe. He was their god, their Messiah. They lost track of how long he'd been playing for and they weren't going to stop him now, not while he was on his trip. Art fluttered between the high and low notes, taking small breaths out of the corner of his mouth. It was erratic and chaotic at times, but somehow it worked. Bits of spit flew out of the bell of the saxophone, hitting people standing by the front of the stage. The pianist, bassist and drummer were in sync with Art. A thin white man sat on the edge of his seat and tapped his foot. Next to him, another white man looked on in concentration and seemed to be studying Art's fingers as they moved. In the middle of the dance-floor, no one uttered a word. In the seats surrounding the club, dark silhouettes of people sat observing him. The drummer whose face was pouring with sweat caught eyes of a young woman. A man's arm instantly wrapped around her to let him know that she was with him. The drummer laughed it off and continued to dictate the tempo. The pianist noticed this as well and dragged the high keys to get the drummer's attention, all done seemingly without the crowd suspecting a thing. That is what you call talent. They both locked eyes and chuckled at each other, with the pianist sticking his tongue out at him. While all this happened Art's eyes remained lowered, almost closed, unaware of what was going on around him. He held his saxophone close and tight, like someone whom he cared for. There and then he began to think of the letter he received that morning. Enclosed was a picture of a baby in the arms of a man. On closer inspection, he knew it to be him and his father. He didn't pay too much attention to the letter apart from the words from his mother: "Your father has passed away." He read the whole letter, but that sentence stuck out to him. He didn't even cry. Instead, he reached for a bottle of rum and turned to his saxophone, playing any tune that came into his head. He usually reached for his horn as soon as he woke up, but this time he didn't want to part with it. He'd stop playing to fetch another drink but wouldn't detach the instrument from his neck brace. After a few more drinks, he would forget the saxophone was still attached and it would swing and clipping him on the face. Even complaints from neighbours couldn't stop his constant playing. He'd probably be kicked out of his flat by the end of the evening, like so many times before, but he wasn't bothered at all. Art didn't have an appetite. Rum and the saxophone were his only hunger. Playing and drinking, with the image of his father cradling him on the ledge of his fireplace. Art got drunker and drunker as the day progressed. Then at that moment, on the stage, Art's eyes closed and his cheeks inflated. He held the note for half a second until a numbing pain formed around his jaw. The note dipped in pitch and a shriek like sound came from his horn. Art at that moment sobered up. The audience shuddered and wondered if it was part of the piece. The band looked on with concern. He pulled the saxophone away from his lips, turned to his bandmates and grinned at them. They laughed thinking it was some sort of a joke, to see if they were still focused. He placed his tongue back on the reed and waited for a perfect time to start again, between the drums, bass and piano. Art took a deep breath and blew into the mouthpiece, again, taking the tip of his tongue away from the reed. He worked his way down the scales and everything was going well until the numbing pain returned. His cheeks flopped and he made a quiet raspberry sound. He tried to fight through the pain, but what came out of his horn, sounded like two foxes mating. The two white men down the front winced. A woman behind them covered her ears and a murmur descended around the room that the band couldn't disguise. Art stopped for a few seconds. The band passed each other odd glances. They knew something was wrong. Art looked down at his saxophone with stern eyes, like it was her fault. He pulled the horn to his lips, in an aggressive manner, and with all his strength, took a deep breath. His finger rested on the octave vent. His eyes tightened, and he blew as hard as he could. At that moment, everything went silent. Darkness enveloped around him, but he felt relaxed, young and at ease with everything, in his own world where no one bothered him. Away from the promoters and club owners who would tell him what to play. Away from men who attended shows to try and romance women, and away from those who would talk over the music as he played his heart out. He was brought back to the first time he set eyes on the saxophone. The horn had lost its shine over the years, but it still worked like the day his father gave it to him. He was brought back to a place. A place he hadn't been to, or thought about, in a long time. Far from London's cobbled streets and unforgiving winters. A place where Manicaria palm trees surrounded arches of tropical forests, sandy beaches and small villages that only spoke in French patois. His father had played the saxophone in many calypso bands around the island of Trinidad. Calypsonians like Art's father were treated like criminals because they spoke out against the British colonial rule, which meant some native islanders would distance themselves from his family. Strangely, his father made most of his money playing for society's elite that sympathised with their views, despite their unfair reputation. Art accompanied him to some of the shows and he would be surrounded by aristocrats in their lavish homes, far from the shanty house his family lived in. However, the shows Art remembered more fondly were performed in small dingy tents. Even though the people they played for were poorer than poor, they dressed immaculately. Men dressed in freshly pressed suits and women in colourful dresses. They'd sing songs with the hope of social and political change. The long evenings were spent drinking and dancing until the sun came up. Although his family were poor, Art's father never did it for the money, it was all about the music. That was something that had always stuck with him. When he gave Art his saxophone, it was like a rite of passage, like it was his turn to carry on where his father had left off. He played with the calypso bands, just like him, until one day in the middle of town, he heard music playing from a radio station in a small diner. The radio picked up signals from England and American. He couldn't remember who was playing and what they were playing, but whatever it was, Art wanted more. He returned to the diner regularly just to hear the music, music that he eventually learned was jazz from the radio hosts. Much to the disagreement of his father, Art began to play with more of a jazz influence. Bandmates of the time didn't fall in love with the music like him, so when he decided to leave his native home to explore the music that he fell in love with, it was no shock to his family. His father knew he could play because it was in his blood so he had no concerns about that, but he had hoped that Art would go back to playing calypso music. That wasn't Art's calling. Making his way from Trinidad to the English shores, all he had was the clothes on his back and his saxophone. There were times he went from job to job, woman to woman, dive home to another dive home but in the end, all he ever needed was his music. He remembered the days when he played to the sold-out crowds in the West End. Art was lot skinnier back then and his white tuxedo always looked baggy. The band of mainly Caribbean migrants wore the same as they played many nights throughout the seasons. Rain, sleet, snow and the sun, people flocked to hear to their music. Drinks flowed, people swayed and lovers romanced. The money was good and the lifestyle was infectious as Art rubbed shoulders with people who in different circumstances wouldn't pay him any attention. The conversations were trivial, but Art listened respectfully as they spouted out their opinions on music, art, politics or whatever drivel came out of their mouths. All the time he sat with a rum-based drink clenched between his hand and wondered how he was going to play that evening. Around this time, Art's father heard his music on a pirated radio broadcast back in the motherland. Being the perfectionist, he judged his tone and the way he annunciated certain notes when switching octaves. These long letters to Art only built-up frustration in him as a player. Although Art knew his father wasn't the greatest saxophone player in the world, not even the greatest in Trinidad, he still held his father's words in high regard. Any criticisms Art received, he felt determined to amend them. Sometimes he'd play until his mouth refused to work and his lips would bleed from the split reed. Sometimes when Art was in the presence of the band, instruments in hand and the crowd peering up at the stage, he would think dreadful thoughts such like 'I'm nowhere near as good as these men,' 'What if I accidentally hit the wrong note?'. The worst thought of all was: 'what if one day I won't be able to play anymore?' From then onwards, every night he performed he suffered from lightheadedness and heavy breathing like he thought he was going to die on some occasions. In those times the glass became his friend. After two or three drinks, Art felt more comfortable with his surroundings and almost forgot about the anxiety that always plagued him before shows. The crowd would never know and as long as he played something they could dance and romance too, they didn't care. He would often dream that his father would walk in on one of these shows to see him centre stage and give him a standing ovation. As time passed, he started to lose his passion for playing for the crowds at the West End. They smiled, they danced and even applauded, but after a while, he realised they never actually cared for the music. The band were all made to wear the same white tuxedos. The freedom he felt to express himself was slowly fading away. Art wondered if his band-mates felt the same. They looked happy enough, but inside were they as frustrated as he was. Most of them played with ease like they had been playing since they came out of their mother's womb, but half the time Art felt like an imposter, intruding on jazz. At one show, the great Coleman Hawkins attended, much to everyone's excitement. That afternoon before the show, Art practised like never before and started drinking early. An icon in their presence that made the rest of the band step up their performance but Art wasn't as sharp as he usually was. It was as if his dad was in his head, criticising his every finger movement, breathing technique and even his tone. The bandleader knew something was up and called him out. Art responded in a low tone "I'm trying. I guess my trying ain't good enough for you." Art calmly packed away his saxophone and walked out on the band that night and never to return to the venue. What felt like a lifetime to him, to others was a second. In the distance, he heard the crashing of a few cymbals and the light flicker of the piano. His eyes opened to a white light directly on him and dark silhouettes of people sitting in the distant. A black mist clouded his vision. He stumbled back, trying to find his balance clawing onto anything near. His bandmate, Ken Webb, stopped him from falling. Eventually, the mist cleared and he found himself looking at a stunned crowd. The piano, bass and drums were playing in sync. He watched as Ken stood beside him and placed the trumpet to his lips. The crowd half-heartedly cheered him as he stood back to let Ken play his solo. The show must go on. His heart fluttered as he felt his whole world crumble around him. Art felt his jaw, almost thinking that would help the stiffness. But he knew the truth. He was over. Finished. Fin. Finito. He looked around at his audience as they watched a fallen idol. He jumped off the stage and rushed through the crowd, his saxophone in the air. People stared in amazement as he ran past them, out of the front door and into the cold night. The faint sound of Webb and Art's band was all he could hear. Nothing in the street moved. In his solitude, he wiped the sweat from his head and sat down on the curb, placing the saxophone between his legs. He pulled out a cigarette from his pocket and swiped a match on the damp curb. It didn't light to Arts disappointment. Art took his horn and laid it on the concrete ground next to him. He held his head in his hand, staring at the cobbled streets with his unlit cigarette in his mouth. Trying to free his mind and remain calm, he heard the sound of someone running from the other side of the street. Gradually the footsteps got closer to him until they stopped right in front of him. "Need a light?" The voice spoke, similar to the patois of his native home. It was a voice he hadn't heard in a while and as his eyes left the floor, there stood a tall lanky figure in an all-white tuxedo with freshly shined shoes. He nodded, and the man in the tuxedo bent down and lit his cigarette. Art took one long drag and blew it in the air, purposefully ignoring the man and looking directly down the street. The man waited for a response but Art continued to take quick drags of his cigarette. "Take care." The man said in a soft and calm tone as he strolled down the dark street, his hands in his pockets. Art turned to watch him until he disappeared into the darkness of the night and felt remorseful of his interaction of him. Art kissed his teeth loudly and slouched between his legs. Art felt like something or someone was behind him but tried to ignore it. "Don't you know who that is, mister?" shouted a small dangerously skinny boy in excitement. "Why? Do you?" Art replied coldly. The boy's eyes lit up. "Do I! That's Joe 'The Breeze' Green! He's the best trumpet player there is!" "Oh he is, is he?" said Art, teasing the boy. "Yeah!" The boy squealed. "When have you heard The Breeze play then?" Art said in a patronising tone. The boy thought for a second. "I haven't Sir, but I heard he is." "Maybe." Art replied, with a small grin on his face. "He's never played here, I tell you that." Art removed the cigarette from his mouth and threw it on the ground. "How old are you son?" He asked. "I'm eleven Sir. I'll be twelve in a week's time." "Shouldn't you be at home? It's late out here." "I ain't got a home." Art then locked eyes with the boy and noticed the dirty clothes that rested on his shoulders, the tattered trousers and the soles of his shoes that had withered. He felt bad that he had responded coldly to the boy, but he didn't let on. "You aren't even old enough to get into the place." Joked Art. "No, but, I can still hear it from out here." "How often to do you sit out here and listen to this music?" "Anytime I can sneak out." Art laughed a little and shook his head. "Where do you stay? You shouldn't be out here at the moment, who knows when those sirens are going to start sounding off." "I ain't going back to the orphanage." The boy said, standing back from Art. "Maybe go back before you get in trouble." Art replied. The boy shook his head and all was quiet for a moment. "What's your name, my boy?" Art said, trying to break the silence. "Riley." "Look Riley you aren't gonna' hear no Joe 'The Breeze' Green's in there. He's at the West End by now, playing to the people with money." "Why aren't you playing with him?" Asked Riley. Art thought for a second. "I used to play for those crowds, probably in that same tux." Riley, inquisitive as ever asked, "Then why stop?" "It's hard to explain." "Why?" Art's eyes rolled and he kissed the inside of his cheeks. "It's hard to talk about. And I doubt a ten-year-old would be able to understand." "I told you? I'm eleven, twelve in a week's time." "Oh," said Art. "Sorry about that." He was genuinely sorry. Riley walked over to Art while in his silence and sat down next to him on the side of the pavement. Riley saw Art's saxophone and began touching the scales. With a side-eye, Art noticed him. "What you doing?" Art asked in an authoritative tone, something reminiscent to his father. "Just seeing how it works, I ain't' never seen one up close before. Are you going back inside now mister?" "No....I'm done for the night." He said looking up at the black sky. "Look you better go back to the orphanage, it's not safe out here." "I don't want to. I wanna listen to music." "Look, boy, I'm trying to tell you, go home. It's not safe." Then as soon as he uttered those words, a loud shriek pierced their ear-drums. Without thinking Art jumped to his feet. Riley held his hands over his ears, trying to block out the sound. Then there was roaring above them as two aeroplanes passed them. Red lights shined through the hinted blue clouds. Art pushed aside his saxophone and picked up Riley, holding him close into his chest. He ran for the club doors. As the entrance door slammed shut on itself, Art's saxophone laid on the pavement alone. Everyone turned as Art burst through the door with Riley snug in his arms. The crowd were huddled together, silent around the dance floor. Art sat down with Riley still in his arms and closed his eyes. He looked down at Riley who looked as frightened as everyone else and he thought of his father again. Art didn't have any children or any that he knew off, but he thought of the picture his mother sent him of his father and in his arms a young Art. The smile on his father's face was that of love and falling in love at once. Although he didn't pay much attention to much of the letter he then remembered the words from his mother: 'We show our love in different ways and he loved you so. He may not have shown it, but I know for certain he was proud of you and what you have done.' It was also at that point that Art realised that he left his saxophone behind, but this time it didn't bother him. Outside, an explosive rumble made everyone jump. A few people screamed and a few people even started to cry. There were a few more tremors, that but they were far away. After that, it was silent again. Everyone began staring at each other wondering if that was the end of it. Art stopped holding Riley tight. When Art saw him, his eyes were still closed and he still had his hands over his ears. Riley would never know that Art was just as scared he was. People slowly made their way outside. There was a strong smell of burning in the air and a layer of foggy smoke filled the street. With Riley still in the arms of Art, the street was untouched and his saxophone still on the curb. Questions of 'Was it a drill? Did they miss?' were mumbled around the group, but no-one knew. In the distance was the faint sound of fire trucks and ambulances sirens. Someone shouted "The show must go on!" but no-one wanted to carry on the party and they slowly made their way home. Ken Webb, walked up to Art and patted him on the shoulder and headed back into the club with the rest of the band to collected their things. The crowd weren't ready to risk a few more hours as sitting ducks to the Germans and dispersed quickly. Art and Riley watched as they went in different directions until it was just the two of them. He put the boy down. Art bent down to pick up his saxophone and held it at his side. Riley looked up to him in wonderment. Out of nowhere, a person ran from the other side of the street, covered in dust. He had on the same white tuxedo and shoes as Joe 'The Breeze' Green. He was screaming something, hard to understand at first. Art and Riley looked into his direction. "Help!" He repeatedly screamed until he passed them and down the street. "The Breeze..." Art whispered to himself. He looked to the floor and gently kicked the ground. "What's happened, mister?" "Not to worry little Riley." Art rubbed his face and, in his mind, pictured Joe 'The Breeze' Green. How he looked as he ran down the street, a mere 10 minute ago, full of life. "Riley. Would you please go home now? It's not safe out here." "I told you, I ain't got one mister." Art then placed the saxophone back onto his neckpiece, then turned to Riley; his eyes red. "Please go home, Riley." It was then Riley ran down the street and out of sight, leaving Art on his own. He placed both hands around the saxophone and began to play 'Ev'ry Time We Say Goodbye.' He remembered the first time he performed it, and how the boys and girls coupled up on the dance floor. A married couple, cornered him one night and said they meet at his show and danced together for the first time to their rendition of that song. At the time it brought a tear Art's eyes because he felt like his playing meant something to someone. Surprisingly he remembered the whole song and all was going well until his cheeks failed him again. This time he didn't fight it. He stopped, unclipping the saxophone from his neckpiece and took one longing look at it. He placed it back on the curb and began to walk away. He heard the sound of tiny footsteps rushing up towards him. "Mister!" He turned to see Riley. "You left your saxophone." Art smiled at him, took off his neckpiece and walked over to little Riley. He handed the boy his neck strap and said, "It's yours now... An early birthday present. Take care, Riley." Riley looked shocked. He hesitantly picked up the saxophone, which was a bit too heavy for him and began to smile. "Thanks, mister," Riley shouted, watching the back of Art as he walked away from him. Art chuckled to himself and called out, "Call me Art." He slowly made his way down the empty street, leaving little Riley with his saxophone, down into the darkness, until he couldn't be seen any more.


He stood at the shore, the sun diving onto the clear horizon ahead. The water from his skin dripped, making the sand beneath him harden. The skin of a long dead lion weighed heavily on his head. He heard no sound but the crashing of the waves, the white water seething its way to his toes. “You are victorious,” said Poseidon. Hercules had not heard his uncle approach. Perhaps from the waves. Perhaps when it crashed. “I am,” said Hercules. “But not truly. If you had, you would not have come for me.” Poseidon said quickly, with a hint of impatience. Hercules had heard of his uncle’s poor temper before, but he never had the curse to see it first-hand. Tired from his debacle in the darkness, Hercules had no intention to arouse the wrath of the sea god. “I must ask a simple favor,” “A favor?” Poseidon laughed at that, and the sea shook awkwardly, betraying its common course. “And what might the bastard son of the god of gods ask of me? ... Favors *heh*,” And again he laughed. “Safe passage through this sea, that is all.” Hercules felt the fatigue in his arms. The dark dog had raged well, though not well enough. Still, Hercules grew ill-fond of the tricks of Hades, another one of his uncles. The uncle who stood beside him now, a god with hair as glorious as his accolades, was fond of tricks himself. The water seemed to coat Poseidon so that he shimmered in the sunlight. His trident, gold and majestic, was staked on the sand beside him. His tricks, Hercules was sure, was hidden somewhere in his words. “Passage?” Poseidon looked around, confused. “Where is your ship, then? Or even a boat?” “Of those I have none,” answered Hercules. *Do not anger him*, he told himself. *The sea is unforgiving, and relentless.* “Are you playing games? I do not wish my time to be wasted with petty riddles.” *Or perhaps do, but the right way. If I do not play this gambit well, all will be for naught.* “Once-“ “You truly are your father’s child, always conniving, always at lust for more power.” “Once-“ “He never truly respected me, did he? Your father in his clouds and in his comfort. Not ever, not once.” “Once-“ “WHAT IS IT, BOY? WHAT IS THIS *ONCE* YOU HAVE IN MIND THAT YOU WOULD NOT DARE LET ME FINISH A THOUGHT?” Hercules smiled but he dared not let Poseidon see it. An opportunity was all he needed. “Once, you allowed a man through. A herd of men, in all actuality. Led by a shepherd carrying a grand staff. The sea, red as it was, parted to let them walk the sand beneath it. That would not have happened, that would *never* have happened, without your leave. Do I speak untruthfully?” Poseidon thought for a moment. “I remember.” His uncle replied. The rage in his face slowly subsiding. “What of it?” “I ask you kindly, uncle, to do for me as you did he. Not to part the way, but to calm the sea. That I may walk on your waves in this journey. This, I humbly ask.” Hercules knelt then, the lines he’s rehearsed left lingering in the air. He saw his uncle shift his feet to face him. “Rise,” Poseidon said, and so Hercules did. “Gods do not kneel.” He paused. “Why do you request for this *safety of passage*? With no rest, no less, from your labor?” “I had heard soundings, rumors that I must confirm myself. And for that, I must cross this sea. But only alone can I accomplish this, and only through here. To see it for myself, with haste.” “*Haste*?” His uncle asked, and Hercules nodded. “As you will,” Poseidon lifted his trident and pointed it at Hercules. “But for this favor I must burden you with a labor, your thirteenth, your final.” Hercules agreed. “Good. Seek and capture a bolt of lightning. I wish it bottled.” He lowered his weapon. “I will bring you this bottle of lightning you ask for.” replied Hercules assuredly. Hercules wondered why Poseidon would not just ask his brother for that. He looked to the sand, and beneath it from where he came. Below it lay the darkness, the underworld where Hades ruled over. Hades, who turned a blind eye to his trial. He looked to the sea, where he would traverse, the vastness that Poseidon dominated. The sea spread as far and as wide as Poseidon’s power, and twice as deep. Would he turn a blind eye as well? Finally, Hercules looked to the sky, where he found the sun. But no amount of warmth could make up for what his father had brought him forth to lose. A life of tragedy, Hercules reflected. *Still.* With his guiding hand, Poseidon brought a wave to drench Hercules’ feet. And with a stroke, the water receded, and Poseidon was gone. Hercules felt the water shift beneath his feet. It was far different than walking on land. Below, the waves moved endlessly and unpredictably, where ground would not. His balance, as unsure as his courage, struggled to remain afloat. Not a meter from the shore, Hercules fell backwards, splashing into the shallow water. This would be harder than he had thought. Hercules retreated to the sand and tried again. This time, he managed to walk five meters away, until a wave swept at his legs and sunk him. Again, he tried, this time reaching ten meters, where a fish drifted between his toes. Caught unaware, Hercules moved his feet only to lose his footing and fall. As he swam there idly, the water moved abruptly, weirdly, as it had before. It seemed to dance. *Was Poseidon laughing at him?* Hercules would not fail again. He would not give his uncle the pleasure of this kind of entertainment. This time, Hercules *ran*. *With haste*, he thought*.* Running, his feet moved above the water. But he did not fall. He bounded off the waves, like a rock thrown at just the right angle, continuously bouncing across the water’s surface. *With haste.* The fish that caused him failure once before leapt in front of him, but he paid it no heed, slapping it away with such force that *it* bounded like a rock thrown at just the right angle. The waves did not move this time. Poseidon no longer laughed. An hour passed and Hercules, still running, found himself inside a storm. It was night for a while now, and the sea had turned as black as the ominous clouds above growled thunder, but Hercules knew better than to stop. If he did, he would fall. He knew. So he ran. Above the wild waves, he ran. Thunder cracked and whirlpools formed, yet still, he ran. *With haste,* he thought. Mysterious silhouettes moved about beneath his feet, to scare him, to impede his journey, yet still he ran. His uncle and his other uncle watched him now, shadow and sea alike. He gave them no mind. Hercules chose to look at the sky instead. Beyond the rain and the clouds that held them, he knew the sky was still there. *Still,* Hercules almost fell asleep midstride, but his face touched the water and he was awakened, catching his fall with a quick step. The storm had gone as it had come, and day began to break. For once, Hercules stopped. He was in the middle of the sea, with nothing around him. He saw the horizon unobstructed. The water slept, attending to not so much as a ripple. He ran and ran, and this is where it took him. Nowhere. Nothing. Nothing but silence. *Still,* A step rattled the sea’s peace. Yet only timidly. Small ripples sent themselves across the face of the water. Hercules turned and saw him, standing there on the water. He wore a robe, white as silk and pure as an angel’s wings. He was bearded and had hair that dropped to his shoulders. The rumors proved to be true. “You are real.” said Hercules. “Only as much as you are.” The man’s voice calmed even the sea, where the ripples formed soon faded. “And you are powerful,” Hercules pointed to the man’s feet, which were firmly above water. *Did Poseidon bless him too?* “Only as much as people allow me to be.” Hercules scoffed. “That is not how power works. My strength is-“ “Given to you since birth?” The man smiled. No matter how much he had tried to deny it, Hercules could not help but agree. It was true that when he lay but a baby, he had strangled two snakes sent to kill him. Nothing of that was his own doing, though Hercules would like to credit his courage. Yet in truth, he had no memory of the snakes or the strangling at all. Only the stories kept his feats alive. Only the stories. The man continued. “You are blessed beyond all others, so why do you come to me?” “For...” Hercules did not know. Perhaps it was his allure. Whatever it was, it made Hercules speak thoughts he had tried to forget. “He promised me.” Hercules said. “He promised me a seat beside him, a place in his pantheon, the mountain of gods.” “And he did not deliver on his promise?” Hercules shook his head, slowly. The man looked at him, in part with eyes of pity, another of *love*. *Was it?* Hercules had never known the feeling. He could not be sure. But the man spoke with such grace that he could not help but feel warm, “Fathers have their own mysterious ways with their children, I have found.” “I do not recall telling you I spoke of my father.” “Sons. We have a way of knowing, don’t you think?” The man neared Hercules, his steps silent, keeping the sea’s peace. He stopped an arm away from Hercules. “All sons have a place in their father’s heart. You already have a seat at the mountain, I assure you. Do not fear, for I know.” Hercules would not take lecturing from a man who natured himself a prophet. *How much pride must one have to declare himself the arbiter of truth?* “And what would you know of sons and fathers?” asked Hercules. “Far too much,” said the man, with *pain*. Hercules felt it, slightly, a tinge in his voice. “So, tell me why, prophet. Why am I here and not there, where I am destined to be?” The sun peeked from the clouds lingering on the horizon. Sunlight poured on the two men facing each other. Hercules had to cover his eyes because the light grew too fierce, but the man not so much as squinted. “Once I would have asked myself the same question, to have doubted. Once I would have strayed and lost my way. But that once is gone now. The years have taught me much. I’ve realized that destiny is not always what it would seem. It barely is. And long have I strayed from its path. Destiny is so... unforgiving. How can we hope to understand such a thing that binds us?” “Nothing can bind a god,” Hercules replied, but the man shook his head, disagreeing. “Of course, hydra-slayer, sun-shooter, you labored with courage and ferocity. You conquered the impossible. But I must contradict. Being a god, of all things, is the very element that binds them; to locations, to dominions, to philosophies, to powers, to beliefs, to the minds and whims and wills and prayers of man.” “Yet I could not have done those labors without my strength, without being the son of Zeus.” “You sell yourself too short. It was courage, not your strength, that bore fruit to those labors. And courage... what else is more human than courage? How can one be courageous if he is almighty? “ Hercules looked at the man in disbelief. *How could he be so sure of himself, to not have doubts, to have thoughts as clear as the sunlight that made the water beneath him shine? How?* “How are you so sure?” He blurted, although not meaning to. Hercules thought it a foolish question a child would ask an adult. They were on equal grounds now, both in the middle of a quiet sea, yet for once Hercules felt small. “The years have not been kind to me. Death, brother. Death comes for us all, even for I, even for you.” “Death,” Hercules repeated. “The purging of what is human within us. The defeat of life, of our souls. How can man be strong if he dies, while god does not?” The man smiled. “It is the man who knows, understands, and accepts death. It is the god, with all its pride, who refuses to succumb.” The man made no sense. “How is succumbing strength?” “The same way that courage can only exist in the midst of fear. True life begins only after realizing the importance of death.” A lone gust of wind swept Hercules’ damp tunic, his hair flowing as water droplets fell back to the sea. “*Who are you?*” asked Hercules. The man’s smile faded. “Only what people believe me to be,” And the gust of wind turned to mist, which moved to envelop the man who walked on water. As the mist parted, dissipating back into the air, the man had gone far away, nowhere to be seen. *Such faith,* Hercules thought, *such faith that man has on his father that he would travel even death.* After a moment of serene silence, the water resumed its crashing, with waves piling on waves. White water descended on Hercules, as he tried to stay his ground. The sky darkened, and black thunderclouds gathered on the horizon. The rain poured intensely, but Hercules had not a care. The rain no longer fazed him. Striding to the peak of a large raging wave, Hercules sought the sky, and peered into a streak where the clouds posed darkest. But the water was determined to drown him, and a wave washed his lionskin to the watery depths. *Damn you, uncle.* Yet he climbed, though water filled his lungs, he climbed. There, he saw it then. Lightning raged and bolted from one cloud to another. There, he sought the truth. *Still,* the saddened Hercules thought, *still he gives no answer*. With a strong leap, Hercules soared from the wave and into the clouds. The rain pierced his skin like tiny daggers, but Hercules did not wince. The ferocious winds whirled to prevent his ascent, forcing him down, but Hercules did not obey. He neared the clouds; closer and closer he came. *Father, answer me.* The clouds rumbled and roared, growling at Hercules behind its darkness. Lightning crossed his vision, unraveling from one cloud to the other, each lighting up in a rhythmic cadence, like a festival of lights. The thunder, Hercules heard, behind its furious facade, bellowed like a grand piano. But the conductor was nowhere to be seen, playing a song Hercules could never hope to understand. He grabbed the tail of one of the clouds and pulled himself up. There, he stood, no longer able to see the sea below. The orchestra continued to play. “Father, answer me.” He said unknowingly. The clouds responded with a roar. The heavens seemed to shake as the lightning grew fiercer, brighter than it had ever been. The wind howled, but Hercules would howl louder. “FATHER! ANSWER ME!” He boomed so loud that the clouds in front of him parted. In a flash, a bolt of lightning struck Hercules straight to the chest. *Why does my father resent me so?* He grabbed it before it can chance to escape, and the bolt wriggled in his hand like a fish out of water. Poseidon would be delighted. He presented it to the heavens. “IS THIS YOUR ANSWER?” And in a breath, the clouds calmed and disappeared. The bolt of lightning he had captured faded to the sky. Pure silence. From above, Hercules could see everything, the shining sun, the clear sky, the peaceful sea. He realized he was falling. His body felt weightless, like a feather drifting in the wind. But he wasn’t drifting. He was crashing. He closed onto the sea below, faster and faster. His father had answered. *I have labored and won, yet still I am defeated.* He could hear the waves now, cracking ahead of him. In the moment before he plunged into the water, a spark of light bolted from the corner of Hercules’ eye. He turned to see it. Lightning, one bolt, no, five bolts, no, fifty, more than that, way more. They all came for him. They slithered like yellow serpents in the sky, all charging at him. *Is this what he meant?* *“It is the man who knows, understands, and accepts death. It is the god, with all its pride, who refuses to succumb.”* Hercules closed his eyes then, emptying his thoughts. *Succumb*, he told himself. *It is not weakness, it is strength. Succumb.* He did not know what struck him first, the lightning or the sea.


The button stood like an unhammered nail, a flourish of red amongst the blues and grays of the sleek console; an itchy mosquito bite unscratched. I looked around the cabin for a clue—some diagram or schematic that would, even tangentially, give me an excuse to push the button—but all I found was interlocking machinery patterning the walls, flush and smooth, a seamless mosaic of maddeningly unlabeled blinking lights and dimensionally-conflicting optical illusions that made my legs wobbly. I wanted to sit, but, lacking anything even remotely resembling a chair, I didn’t. It wasn’t supposed to be complicated, this temporary manning of the ship, and, to be fair, it wasn’t. Complicated. In theory. In practice, however, I needed to push the button. That was—I mean, that was it. The odds of getting a favourable outcome were slim, I knew, but what if it was a chair-button? What if I could sit at the controls of this spaceship like an adult while Captain Sleepyhead got his eight-to-ten hours of shuteye instead of pacing back and forth wildly wearing an anguished mask of indecision before slumping to the ground in a pile of jittery exhaustion? Or what if it was a button that *didn’t* immediately jettison me unprotected into the dark reaches of space, instead opening an unseen door behind which hid a fully-stocked kitchenette complete with overflowing jugs of crisp, hydrating lemonade? Wouldn’t I feel foolish if, instead of blowing up us up from the inside, the button only provided the gentle, breezy comfort of some much-needed air-conditioning? As I hovered over the button and pondered these, to me, increasingly plausible scenarios, the video-screen descended and dimmed all the cabin lights with its gravitas, leaving me to sweat silently in the crackle of flickering disconnect evident on the screen. ‘*yzzrt przzk zik kzuttin*’ My reflection flashed back at me in the interstitial moments of black between choppy almost-images before resolving into footage of me proper, leering at the camera with that smirk I use when I’m really trying to get under someone’s skin. Man—that is irritating. ‘*yzour pruzz ze bzuttin*’ I don’t look too happy on the screen. Oh, I’m smiling, in a way, but I know how it feels under that nasty grin—I’ve never made that face when I’m feeling, say, generous. Or compassionate. Or, you know, good. And I’m clearly saying something about the button, but beyond the static and interference obscuring whatever nuances the words contain, I must also necessarily decipher what’s coming out of the screen with a codex of my own idiosyncrasies. *You press the button*, question mark? *You pressed the button*, past tense? *You press the button*, command? He wants me to suffer, that me up there, but how far have I thought this through? I want me to stop looking at me like that, but I want me to push the button, don’t I? What happened to me up there that put me in that position? What if I wait it out—the captain will wake up eventually, right? Right? ‘*yzou prezkl the buttonzk*’ It wasn’t supposed to be complicated, this temporary manning of the ship, and, to be fair, it wasn’t. I would just wait. I would totally just wait and not press the button; I would stare back into my unforgiving eyes with confidence and not read too much into my subtle shifts in body language and demeanour and wait.


I remember waking up to a blinding bright light. I squinted and waited for my eyes to slowly adjust to my surroundings. I was cold, freezing actually, standing in a strange metal tube with a large glass door before me. I quickly searched for an escape and found a large red button saying “release”. Instinctively, I pressed it. The glass door slid open, releasing hyper-cooled air into the room. I stepped out and noticed 5 other tubes in the room, the same structure as mine, their contents hidden by the clouds of chilled gases. I looked around. I was surrounded by gadgets and gizmos, all of which I had never seen the likes of. Lights were flashing, monitors beeping, and machines whirring and clicking. I watched the strange do-hickeys operate for a few seconds, transfixed by the complicated inner-workings. I concluded that I had been abducted by some sort of extraterrestrial being, and some baby alien is going to rip through my stomach after using me for all of my nutrients. By the time I had made peace with the fact that I had been probed, I noticed a sound. It was different from the ticks and clicks and beeps and boops of the high tech alien space technology. No, this sound was softer and familiar. I listened closer, yes, I do know that sound, it's the sound of my old guitar. I could hear the gentle vibrations of the strings producing such lovely little notes. I followed the sound, out of the tubular room and down the hallway. I entered what must have been the bridge of the spacecraft. A massive window allowed the red Martian surface to be in full view. It looked as though we were in orbit. There were seven seats in the command room, but only one was occupied. It was the source of the music, a man older than I, most likely in his early fifties. His eyes were closed, and he was playing a simple tune, one I had heard before, but could not identify. I stood there listening to him play. His hair was white and short. His face was clean-shaven and he had laugh lines on his cheeks. He wore glasses, 1950s style, nothing interesting. I’m not sure how long passed before he noticed me. Lazily, he opened one eye, still strumming his tune, and gazed at me before closing it again. “Good morning.” He said. “Hello,” I replied, a bit annoyed, “What’s happening, where am I?” He chuckled, “You’ve got some memory loss I see.” He waved me to sit down in one of the chairs, “You will remember everything in time, but I suppose I can catch you up while we wait for the others.” The others? I guess the others in the pods. I then noticed the convenient amount of seating on the bridge. “Welcome to the USS Iroh, where you have been asleep for the last six months. The first, and last human mission to Mars.” “What do you mean, ‘first, and last’?” He gave me a look that told me the answer wasn't a good one. “Humanity has fallen, and not due to an outside force. There was no meteor, no plague, and no global climate destruction. Humanity fell because we thought that we were above the rest of the animal kingdom, but we follow the same rules that they do.” “I… I don’t understand.” My memory was so fuzzy still. I remember things being bad on Earth but I never imagined an end to civilization. “The problem that brought about an end to society has been around since our species' childhood on the planes of Africa. The ego. Because we can only see and observe and perceive from our senses, we create an invisible bias to ourselves, our problems, and our existence over anything else. I perceive me as me and everything else as, well, everything else. “This bias, ever so slight, caused slavery, racism, the wealth gap, and the premature deaths of countless human lives. We all believe that our point of view is better than others, and if someone argues that view, winning is more important than being correct. “What happened to humanity was simple, we forgot what truly mattered. We forgot that we are all humans, and we are trying to do our best at life and we fail all the time. We forgot that we are only as strong as our weakest link, and when half of the world does not have access to clean drinking water, our species is as weak as that half of the human population. “We forgot how to think for ourselves, and we chose to let other people take care of our issues. We forgot how to reason, and think about our actions and decisions. We forgot how to imagine, and dream, and strive to achieve the impossible. “We forgot what makes us human. “So, because we never learned to truly care about one another, our constant bickering and hatred continued. All it took was one irrational person to rise to power in a country nobody expected, to begin the apocalypse. A few brilliant minds saw the war coming and engineered this baby,” he slapped the main console, “Humanity’s final stand.” “Is there anyone else on board?” “There's seven of us on the bridge and 50 civilians.” “But, why me?” He sat up in his chair. “I’m not sure how much you remember, but you might be able to guess.” I thought for a second, “I worked on this?” “You were the chief engineer,” the man chuckled again and handed me my guitar, “Do you remember why we called it ‘Iroh’?” “I can’t say that I do.” “General Iroh, a fictional character, yet important nonetheless. Iroh, once a warlord who was responsible for the deaths of thousands of men, decided to give up everything he had after losing his son in battle. Through his emotions, he came to understand his true destiny, to spread the message of peace, kindness, hope, and prosperity. He reminds us that though we have made great mistakes, we can be redeemed.” “So you’re saying there’s hope?” “In the darkest times, hope is something you give yourself.” He smiled at me, “And besides, I don’t believe in the impossible.” Then he looked up toward the hallway. A woman, maybe early thirties, was eyeing us with a look of confusion. “Good morning, please, come sit.


Sarah was by the lockers when Jordan came to greet her. “Hey,” Jordan said, “you’re the new girl. Sarah, right?” “Yeah,” Sarah said, smiling, “nice to meet you.” “So I know we don’t know each other well, but I couldn’t help but notice that you were sitting with Billy at lunch.” “Yeah, I didn’t have anywhere else to sit. I asked him if it was cool if I could sit next to him, and he said yes. He seems like a cool guy.” “About that. Word of advice: don’t hang out with Billy.” Sarah knitted her brows. “Why? What’s wrong with Billy?” “He’s a freak.” Sarah, taken aback by the straightforwardness, asked, “What makes you say that?” Jordan leaned in and whispered, “He’s a Republican.” “Oh,” Sarah said, relieved that it wasn’t something serious. “Well, I’m a Democrat personally, but I don’t think him being a Republican makes him-” “That’s not all! He also likes weird things.” “Weird things?” Sarah said, concerned again. “Like…” “Fantasy novels.” “Fantasy novels?” Sarah said, deadpan. “Yeah, he’s always reading books about dragons and elves!” Sarah nodded, not really listening anymore. “I appreciate you trying to warn me, but I don’t think any of these things makes Billy a ‘freak.’ I have to go, so-” As she turned to leave, Jordan said, “But you haven’t even heard the worst part yet.” “Worst part?” “The thing he does with his pet dog.” Sarah, deciding to give her one more chance, waited for Jordan’s explanation. “You see,” Jordan said, “he likes to dress his dog up in little sweaters, and-” “Alright,” Sarah interrupted, “this is ridiculous! Billy is a perfectly nice guy. I really don’t understand why you think he’s a freak, but I’m not going to stop hanging out with him, because of his love for cute animals or his politics.” “Hey, Sarah!” Jordan jumped, and standing behind her was Billy himself. He was a skinny teenager that wore big glasses and a t-shirt with a fire-breathing dragon on it. He had a goofy smile, unaware that he had been the topic of the conversation. “Hi, Billy,” Sarah said, smiling, “how are you?” “Fine,” Billy replied. Billy readjusted his glasses and said nervously, “I was wondering if you’d like to hang out at my place. I have this board game I bought and I have no one else to play it with, so-” “I would love to,” Sarah said. Billy and Sarah walked away together, and Jordan shook her head in disapproval. The next day, Sarah was at the lockers again and looked troubled. Jordan walked up to her and patted her on the back. “Hey,” Jordan said, “you okay?” Sarah nodded, her eyes unfocused. “You were right,” she said. “About Billy being a freak.” “Yeah, sorry I couldn’t dissuade you before you learned the hard way.” Sarah, shaking, said, “I just wished you warned me about the furry porn and him being a Nazi first.


My first time posting here! I'd love to hear what you all think, and please comment if you have something you'd like me to critique as well! \ **THE TAKASHI GENE (2,500 words)** **Year 2020** **Lacey Takashi** Grandma was 130 years old when I began to suspect she might be special. Before her, the longest lived human was Jeanne Louise Calment from France, who lived to the ripe old age of 122 years and 164 days. At 130, Grandma didn’t look a year over 80, and in fact she was looking younger and younger every day. The journalist who popped by for her 130th birthday party saw that, too, and asked my Grandma for her secret sauce. “I do yoga and sudoku everyday,” Grandma said proudly, “and tend to my fruit and veggie garden. Would you like to see my pumpkins? They’re especially plump this time of year.” Myself, my sister Lily, and our cousins challenge her to a game of chess every weekend, and to this day, none of us have been able to beat her. She teaches advanced yoga at the community center, wowing her students with her flexibility. Most of them are a fifth her age. She says she’s sworn off men since Grandpa passed at 89, but I’ve spied a few flirty texts on her iPhone. It’s 2020, and tech billionaires in the Bay Area are hunting for a miracle to keep them alive forever. What they don’t know yet is that the secret might be hiding in my Grandma’s (and maybe all her progeny’s) DNA. Though, like us, they’re also beginning to suspect. We’ve managed to keep Grandma safe from scientists and the like. People who’d love to draw her blood, dissect her genetic make-up, and run DNA tests. Grandma lives with us - my parents, me and my sister, our two boisterous dogs, and our two aloof cats. We try not to let her out of our sight, because deep down we have an almost irrational fear that Big Daddy might one day haul her away for the “good of humankind.” Grandma thought we were being silly. “If I am immortal, why do I still have wrinkles on my face?” \ It wasn’t until Cousin Mauve got diagnosed with leukemia, and Grandma was the only one in our family with a suitable bone marrow, that the scientific community finally got their hands on Grandma. Of course, the doctors had to run blood tests. Of course, her privacy would be ensured. No, no authorised genetic testing will be carried out. We can promise you that. What a crock of bullshit. The doctors were in awe of how physically fit Grandma was. “She’s got the body of a 50 year old,” they said, staring at her like she’d sprouted wings. “She’ll recover from the surgery in no time.” When Grandma was recovering in the hospital, one of us would be by her side every minute, as long as visiting hours allowed. Nasty news reports began to emerge. “CENTENARIAN REFUSES GENETIC TESTING FOR POSSIBLE SECRETS TO IMMORTALITY.” “IS POLLY TAKASHI THE KEY TO EVERLASTING LIFE? WE MIGHT NEVER KNOW.” It infuriated me that they blamed Grandma for this. Grandma seemed on the brink of caving a few times, and asked us if she might help mankind by agreeing to the tests. We told her if anyone was going to get tested, it should be us young’uns, and she should focus on enjoying the rest of her life. In the end, we didn’t authorize testing on Grandma, but we did have to authorize testing on Cousin Mauve to make sure the surgery was a success and her new bone marrow was working properly. That’s how they found out about Grandma. Grandma was discharged in a week and returned home with us. The scientists arrived the next day. One of the doctors, Dr. Howard, was a handsome fellow with dark hair and eyes and a chiseled jaw. I knew from the start he was not to be trusted. I was right. “When running the necessary DNA tests on your cousin Mauve,” he said, “we found something especially peculiar. If you see here, this is Mauve’s DNA before the surgery. And this is her DNA after Ms. Polly’s bone marrow was implanted.” He showed us a chain of DNA sequences, as if we’re expected to have human DNA sequences memorised. “What are we seeing here?” my dad asked, scowling. “Mauve has developed an excess of telomerase enzymes. Mauve had none before the surgery - and now she has the same amount as a newborn infant.” He leans forward. “The telomerase is repairing her telomeres.” There was a moment of silence as this information sank in. Mistaking our silence for confusion, he continued, “Telomerase is -” “We know what they are,” my mom said quietly. We’d been doing some research on possible immortality ourselves, so we knew telomerase repaired cell telomeres - stoppers at the end of cell DNA that prevent cell DNA from getting eroded during replication. Repaired telomeres mean repaired cells. Cells that live forever. Humans that live forever. “What do you want, Dr. Howard?” I demanded. “We only want to run a few tests,” Dr. Howard said calmly, “it will be quick and painless. What do you say, Polly? For the good of humankind?” Grandma scoffed. “What makes you think immortal humans will do more good than mortal humans? Have you watched the news lately?” Dr. Howard stiffened. “Polly, think about what this could mean. Your loved ones could live forever. Your whole family. Your two dogs and cats - maybe they can live forever, too.” “I’m not doing it. You schmucks leave my genes alone. And the ones in Mauve, too.” Dr. Howard smiled. “I’m afraid Mauve has already given us permission to study the cells found in her body.” He leaned into the sofa and crossed his legs. “Technically, they are her cells now.” Grandma’s face turned as red as her prized beets. “They came from my bone marrow -” “Which is now in your grand-niece.” He shrugged. “Just thought we’d ask you first, out of courtesy.” He got up to leave. “Thank you for your time.” Grandma was perplexed after the encounter. “Do you think I’m being selfish, Lacey?” she asked me, her forehead furrowed with worry. “For not sharing my genes?” “No, Grandma. I think you’re right. I’m sorry this is happening.” She sniffled. “What if they do find a way to make humans immortal, Lacey? Which schmucks will get immortal life? The rich and the powerful, that’s who. And they’ll make sure commonfolk won’t get none of it. Should I go to a nice non-profit, Lacey? Maybe they’ll be able to do some good.” Then she said quietly, “Would’ve been nice if your Grandpapa could have lived forever.” “Oh, Grandma...” She looked at me with watery eyes. “Maybe we could all live forever. And then maybe Boots, Snuggles, Nemo and Paul could live forever too. Wouldn’t that be nice?” She looks wistfully at our pets, all of whom are sleeping within ten feet of us. “I agree, that would be nice.” “If we could all live together forever - maybe this immortality thing isn’t such a bad thing, after all.” She squeezed my hand. “Maybe you have the gene too, Lacey?” That had occurred to me a few times - that I might be immortal too. That Mom, Lily, our cousins might be all immortal. “I’d imagine it’d get lonely quickly if I outlived you all,” she chuckled. “Maybe it’s a good thing the scientists found this… mutation.” \ None of us shared the immortality gene. Grandma was an only child, and Mom was hers. Turns out, the gene making Grandma immortal was not passed on to Mom, so it wasn’t passed on to us. Well, Cousin Mauve had it now too, but the scientists didn’t know if it would last. They never found out, because Cousin Mauve died two weeks after the transplant due to “unforeseen complications”. This shook everyone, but it shook Grandma the most. “What if it was my fault?” she asked me, her voice raspy from crying all night. “Lacey, what if my genes killed her?” “Shh, Grandma, the risk was always there. It might’ve happened with another donor, too.” “This is insane, Lacey. This is all insane.” “I agree, Grandma.” Meanwhile, the scientists were hard at work studying Grandma’s genes extracted from Cousin Mauve’s blood. Much to their frustration, they couldn’t find a way to activate the telomerase outside of their original source - Grandma. \ The year Grandma turned 140, Boots, our sweet chihuahua mix, died at the age of 18. The next day, Grandma pulled me aside and asked, “Should I agree to the scientists’ tests, Lacey?” Clearly, she’d been ruminating about this a lot, because I could see the determination in her eyes. She wasn’t asking me because she couldn’t make up her mind. She was asking because she wanted to see how I’d react to a decision she’d already made. “What do you think, Grandma?” “I think perhaps the scientists might be able to do some good with my magical genes, after all. It might be a few years, maybe decades, before they find the key to immortality, but at least that will give them time to - to -” She looked at me, and I understood. “To grant immortality to the rest of us,” I finished for her. She nodded, relieved that I understand. “Exactly.” She patted my hand. “Losing Mauve and Boots was painful enough. I can’t imagine losing anyone else.” \ The scientists welcomed Grandma with wide, open arms. Mom and I accompanied her to their posh medical facility in Southern California, where they promised she would be under the best care, and we would all live like royalty. All transport and food was taken care of, and they arranged tours for us a few times a week. They pampered and adored Grandma - we could see that. All the scientists needed were daily blood draws. She enjoyed beating all her doctors and nurses at chess, going on tours of the Griffith Observatory and Getty Museum, and most of all, thinking that her family might live forever with her. We were forbidden from speaking to the media about the tests, for fear of inciting panic and ethical backlash. The scientists hadn’t worked out the ethical portion of immortality yet. “This is our secret,” Dr Howard told us. “No one else can know.” We lived at the facility for a week before the doctors told us they'd gotten enough blood samples to last them for awhile, and sent us home. “Not gonna lie,” my Grandma said cheerfully as she packed her stuff, “I’m going to miss the lovely California weather.” I heard the uncertainty and fear in her voice. I knew she was hoping they’d have answers for her by now. Dr. Howard and the nurses showed up to say goodbye on our last day. “When will you isolate the Takashi gene?” Grandma asked. The scientists had named the immortality gene after Grandma. It was a huge honor, they insisted, and we should all be so proud. Dr. Howard shook his head sadly. “We don’t know, Polly, but we hope to do it soon.” “When you do, do you promise me that my family will get them first?” Dr. Howard smiled. “Of course, Polly. It’s written in the contract.” She pursed her lips. “After you’ve isolated the gene - how will you determine who else gets it?” “We don’t know yet, Polly. But I assure you, we’ll figure something out. We all want to live forever, Polly. Maybe one day, we all will.” He winked. “I didn’t want to live forever,” Grandma mumbled. Dr. Howard looked taken aback. Then he laughed loudly. It was an obnoxious laugh, the laugh of a person who thought he knew everything. “Everyone wants to live forever, Polly.” He squeezed her shoulder. “Thank you for contributing to the field of science. The world will thank you.” “Don’t thank me, thank my genes.” Then she stared at him, steely eyed. “Whatever happens, make sure the Takashis get the Takashi gene, capiche?” Dr. Howard nodded. “Again, Polly, it’s in the contract.”   **Year 2120** **Polly Takashi** I am 230 years old when I began to suspect foul play. Sightings of the rich and powerful started popping up in rumor mills in the past few decades. If alive, those people would be well over 150. I live with my great-grandchildren in sunny California, because this old lady loves the beach. Every weekend, I visit Griffith Observatory with them and watch the holographic planetarium shows about the universe, and another show about humans visiting Mars for the tenth time and our plans to colonize it. Word of my immortal genes has survived within the Takashi family, but I remain the only one with the Takashi gene. For years, I’d resigned to the fact that my genes might end - if my life ever ends - with me. I called Dr. Howard every day for a year. The answer was always the same: “I’m very sorry, Polly, we haven’t isolated the gene yet.” Dr. Howard established the Takashi Research Center of Longevity in Los Angeles in the tenth year. After that, I called every month, then every year, until the stoic receptionist told me Dr. Howard had died. Old age, he said. Dr. Howard would’ve been in his eighties. I called when my son-in-law passed at age 85, my daughter at 97, my sweet grandchildren, my grand-nieces and grand-nephews. They left me one by one, alone and miserable in my lone longevity. But I continued to live, because I now have great-grandchildren, great-grandnieces and nephews, two spunky maltese and two sweet ginger cats. I had trusted Takashi Research Center of Longevity with my genetic matter for the past hundred years, up until I saw a news report on holoTV that Bill and Melinda Gates were sighted in the Maldives. “Is it true? Was it really Bill and Melinda Gates strolling hand in hand along the beach? Reports say they look not a day over thirty. If they are the Bill and Melinda Gates we know who changed the computing world, they should be over 200 years today. Who are these Gates Doppelgangers? This is Heidi Fink reporting for CNN.” Everyone thought the news channels were being ludicrous. No one lives that long! No one except Polly Takashi, oldest centenarian known to man. No one knew about the Takashi gene. The Takashi family, myself included, is forbidden from telling anyone under a confidentiality agreement we signed many years ago. But the confidentiality agreement is only valid for as long as it’s renewed. Last year, the law firm handling this confidentiality agreement went out of business. Tomorrow, the confidentiality agreement expires. Tomorrow, I will visit the Takashi Research Center of Longevity and demand the truth. I’ll need no introduction - they’ll recognize me from the honorary statue of me erected in their lobby in 2021. Tomorrow, I will ask why I saw Dr. Howard at the Griffith Observatory two weeks ago. He had a new nose, lighter eyes, blond hair instead of black, but I’d recognize him anywhere. He was a splitting image of Dr Howard a hundred years ago. I’m not kidding myself. I know I won’t get any answers. I just want to scare them a little. A 230 year old woman finds amusement wherever she can. Which is why I will be making calls to the several journalists before I leave for the Research Center. Journalists who’ve become my dear friends at my oldest-woman-alive birthday parties. Journalists who will find answers for me.


Every night, it’s the same dream. A familiar voice beckons me into that luscious, thriving garden. Through the aged wooden gate held together by rust and sheer willpower, I trudge. The path never seems too long, yet as I traverse it, I feel energies seeping from me that I unwillingly borrowed in the first place. Bonds that I have no earthly collection of forming shattering in the dense moonlight. It’s like radiation leaving my bones - colour draining from my marrow, my muscle mass shifting, altering. Remembering some form better than the one I hold now. I feel myself change, yet I know I am the same. When I get there, it awaits me. An MC-Escher like collection of plants, stairs, and the feelings and thoughts of those who came before me. Brilliant collections of living matter, intertwined and codependent. Forms that seem impossible in wake take shape here, beckoning even the most lucid of travelers. I find myself exploring, wanting more of this place. Every staircase I climb, new energy fills my cells, turning them into an instrument for incessant humming. I am but a vessel. I find new purpose in the unreadable, ancient etchings on the infant stone walls. Cryptic symbols that some part of me reads like home. After some time, the illusion shatters - I find myself falling through steep nothing as my body divides and reunites rapidly. New version of myself, colliding with the old. A woman, faceless and formless, yet clear in my mind. She comforts me as I undergo this process, becoming something new. I wish she would stop. No - I wish she would keep going. I lose track of my mind as it races off without me. There are parts of me that don’t want to change. These parts are slowly mutated, reformed and bathed in blistering white energy that ages them past perception. The more resistance I show, the more she grows agitated. But she never hurts me. It’s almost like she knows how much I am holding back in the waking hour. Eventually, I feel the changes come to a stop. I’m allowed to exist in the current form I hold - floating in an embryonic state, waiting for the creation of all... or is it the destruction? I feel fantastic. Frantic. Manic. The deep layers of depression binding my soul during the working hour no longer restrict me. I am formless. In this moment, I am whoever, or whatever, I need to be. I find peace. We swim through existence together, basking in all the endless possibilities of the new minds we hold. We visit those who are bound by their humanity, and we bless them with the same gift. Then, every single time, the shaking begins. The matter around me vibrates and I feel myself collapsing back into my primordial form. Sick, twisted, repulsive flesh and bone. Humanity I didn’t ask for. Ribbons of anxiety, depression, anger - wrapping around me like chains on an old boat. She fades away with a sadness that’s untranslatable. Every night I fight this rebinding, this recalculation of my earthly matter. But last night, a strange language filled my synapses, and gave me strength to fight. A location burns into my mind. It stays. I wake up in a pool of disgusting, mortal sweat as the alarm clock blares, calling me back to life. Notions of office blocks, morning coffees and office workers fill my mind as my humanity is recompiled. I long to sleep again, to feel the feelings I felt during my slumber. I want to feel those feelings constantly, to have that sense of purpose full-time. Normally, I have no choice as I sink back into my life. This time, things are different. I feel a calling to that location branded into my grey matter, a deep beckoning. I know what I must do - the Godmouth awaits me. It awaits you too.


"What I remember about the assault of naboo was how...sad it was. During the final hours of the invasion, I was still guarding our fair queen's tomb as wave after wave of stormtroopers and walkers finally broke through our Anti-air blasters and our defensive line. The fires that engulfed the anti-air blasters could be seen even in the thick of the storm. The white soldier of the empire ran up the streets and barged into the homes of many like a plague of death to our fair kingdom.The skies were still gray with rain and patches of silhouette battleships hovering our city that cast a looming shadow over us. Most of the civilians got evacuated, a few transport were shot down as a warning not to resist. A few squadrons were making their way towards the queens tomb with thermal charges. To destroy the tomb to make a statement to us citizens of naboo. As one of the hand chosen few of the royal guards. As someone who watched over our fair queen before the rise of the empire...before she was brought back to the royal palace without her life. I was taken to an oath and swore I would defend the final resting place of the last queen of naboo. To be the last man standing as the city is torn from the inside out . It was a death sentence I know...but our queen ment everything to us. I steadied my hand as it held the blaster rifle and held my aim. The world around me grew quiet as if it was holding its breath to see who would make the first move. As fortune would have it, I made my move. I pulled the trigger and opened fired on the first stormtrooper that came into my line of sight. We traded shots after shots. One fell down dead, two more came to take his place. I dont remember how many I have taken down, but I taken down enough of their forces for them to call on a Walker. Their heavy blaster knocked me on my back and I slam to the ground. I skidded on the wet concrete a few feet from the queens tomb. I slowly got back up as I lean heavily my fighting staff. They began to draw in like a pack hungry beast who have cornered their injured prey. My rifle was broken, my vision was darkening as they drew their blasters on me. Under my breath I muttered,. "Forgive me your majesty...i tried my best..." I closed my eyes and waited for death. The sound of something drawn came from my left and the sound of a blaster being fired. I open my eyes to see a man in black with a red lightsaber deflect blaster shots and slashed the stormtroopers. The Walker backed away and I knew why. It did. Darth vader. The Sith lord's apprentice. His breathing through the rain sent chills down my spine. He turns to me with the lightsaber still active and slowly walks over to me. I glance back at the tomb and to the sith in front of me. I took a stance. Ready to fight once more. He stops and tilts his head a bit. He turned off the light saber walked next to me. He stops and spoke, " you have guarded her well." I was puzzled by the sentence. He goes close to the tomb. He slowly reaches and touches the tomb. For a good few minutes their was just silence. After that he turned and walked away where the troopers came from. My knees buckled and I was on the ground. Tears running down my cheeks as the world faded to black. I woke up weeks later at a base on Yavin 4. The rebels found me unconsious and brought me to their base. They said that mostly the royal palace was in ruin. But royal tomb was still intact. Not even a scratch or debris was around it. As the survivors spoke of that day they said that it was the most horrific day. When I see that image of the sith lord and the tomb I cannot say it was a horrific day, but a rather sad day...and I just dont know why.... -tenzin seltora, the last royal naboo tomb guard ((Edit: sorry bout the format.