Trigger warning: This story deals with themes of mental health, suicide, and substance abuse. There's a secret stage of grief at which you accept something so bitterly that you dare the universe to make a fool out of you with a miracle. It's a stage that's diametrically opposed to bargaining. Imagine that anger and acceptance had a kid and that kid went off and beat bargaining up on the playground. But it's not reverse psychology. It's not muttering, "I wish I didn't have a million dollars right now" as a kindergartener because you're realizing that the powers-that-be always seem to give you the opposite of what you want. It's not pretending you aren't watching the pot to see if it will boil faster. It's turning off the lights, skipping town without even bothering to lock the door, and letting the stupid pot boil until the power company cuts the gas. "He could still wake up," my sister insists hollowly as she shifts her weight on the unyielding plastic seat. "If he makes it, I'll eat my hat," I retort. I refuse to acknowledge the pallid glow of the lights above and the way my insolent inner child won't give up the hope that one of them is an angel. Hospitals exist because angels and miracles don't. But they keep a chapel open for those who still need to pretend. Speaking of which, I need to talk to my mother and see if she found his keys. The last time any of us spoke to him, he said that he was going to look for them at work on his next shift -- today -- but he never showed up. My mother was supposed to stop by, but I get the feeling she isn't going to leave her knees anytime soon. The truth is, I've mourned Jack a thousand times before this moment. Every time I've talked him off the ledge, he's been fine, but I haven't. I've lived on that ledge for decades, from his first attempt at age fourteen to his last overdose (until now) two years ago. Once you hit your thirties, if you're lucky enough to make it that far, your body isn't as resilient as it used to be. That's what he told me last time, when he said that he'd found what he was looking for and didn't need to chase it anymore. I always took that with a grain of salt, and even as months and years passed, I never let myself fully believe him. Like I said, I don't buy into miracles, and I've spent enough time bargaining for them. I don't need his keys -- I don't need to open the door into his final moments -- but I know that over time, his home will become its own kind of chapel for those who still find solace in supplication. So I'll bring his keys to my mother and my sister, and then I'll find something else to do while we wait for the inevitable. The streets are warm despite the hour, and this afternoon's rain is still returning to the sky. I feel like I'm rolling over expanses of glass that could break open at any moment, and yet there's a strange sense of serenity in this glittering minefield. The bar where Jack worked is on the other side of town, and I don't mind when the lights turn red or the car in front of me makes a turn at a snail's pace. It's just nice to be on the way there. I've only met one of his coworkers, Brian, who isn't on shift today. As far as Jack told me, the place should only be open for another fifteen minutes -- they close at 3am on Saturdays -- but it's surprisingly packed inside. No, not packed, and not crowded, either. More like cozy. Everyone looks unbearably comfortable, like they've always been here and they don't ever plan on leaving. None of the staff are making moves to hurry them up or kick them out. It's a bit of a wonder to me that Jack worked here for two and a half years, since he always seemed to have sought disquiet whenever pleasantness was an option, and was never anything less than desperate to avoid delaying "the next thing." I find an open seat at the end of the bar, and one of the two men behind the counter offers me a disarming smile. Before he can ask, I tell him, "I'm not here to drink. I'm just looking for my brother's keys." He cocks his head, and I add, "My brother is Jack Baker. He works--worked here." The man nods. His smile doesn't change, but seems to land on me differently. "Yes, he does," he murmurs, and he beckons me toward a dark violet door to the left of the bar. "There are a few things here of his," he tells me. "I really just need the keys," I say. And then it strikes me that I know something. That I asked Jack if he was going to be able to watch my dog today, back when I had some silly, now-forgotten plans, and he'd said no, that he was going to be at work. That was his plan up until today, as far as any of us know. But this guy doesn't seem at all curious about why Jack isn't here. "Did my brother tell you he wasn't going to make it in today?" I blurt out, embarrassed at the way my voice tumbles up to a higher pitch. "Yes, we knew," the man replies, and since he's leading me down a hallway now, I can't see his face. I feel suddenly dizzy and focus on the back of his neck, where the clasps of a gold chain cling tightly to each other. Jack knew he wasn't going to be here today. It wasn't an accident. It seemed so much like one ... and I feel foolish. I'm the one who always says I don't believe in miracles, and that includes accidents. "Here is Jack's room." The man has stopped in front of another door in this hallway that seems to stretch onward forever. I feel so out of sorts that I almost don't even think to ask, "Wait -- room?" Wordlessly, the man opens the door and ushers me in. The first thing I notice is that there is no bed. Instead, there's a wide wooden platform in the center of the room, like the stump of an ancient tree, and scattered on top of it are several items, some familiar, some not. A ladle, a rocks glass, a bottle of rum. A cast-iron pot, a baby's sock, a jar of red jelly. An herb I don't recognize (and I'm a professional chef), the limp tail of a rodent, a glistening stone of indeterminate color. My eyes sweep the walls, which are lined with hooks and ledges and shelves upon which rest all manner of at once delicious- and poisonous-looking things. In the corner -- no, the room is round -- at the furthest point from me there is a woven basket full of clothes that I know don't belong to Jack. I see the frilly sleeves of a dress, and hanging from a hook behind the basket I see a smaller scrap of the same fabric, though it appears to be wet and dripping from one edge with a dark, viscous substance. No, it is becoming the substance, I intuitively understand. I whirl around to face the man who brought me here. There are so many questions that I don't even know which one to ask first. "Did Jack live here?" I demand, my voice still quivering. "Jack is more alive here than anywhere else, I imagine." Does he mean to be patronizing? "Jesus Christ," I mutter. "Some people convince themselves so, but no," the man responds, to a question I didn't ask. "What?" "When people see miracles, he's the first person they think of," he explains (if you can call it explaining), "but there are all kinds of miracle workers in the world. Too many to count. In fact, almost everyone becomes one eventually, if they allow themselves to." I stare at him. "Like me. Hale. Or like your brother, Jack." This is truly too much for me to take. "The only miracle Jack ever worked was staying alive as long as he did, despite his own best fucking efforts," I spit. Hale laughs. "That wasn't a miracle," he says, "that was just luck." "Well, if anyone can be a miracle worker, how is a miracle any different from the random tragedies and strokes of good luck that happen every day?" I hate that I'm even entertaining this line of thinking. "No wonder you rarely encounter a 'miracle' that makes any difference," I add sarcastically, and yes, it does make me feel better. "He came here, broken, with the last bit of luck he had, and I myself helped him to find what he was looking for. More than good fortune, I helped him find a resting place. Has anything ever made a bigger difference in his life, or in yours?" The man's words chill me. They remind me of Jack's own words two years ago, just a few months after he'd begun working here and supposedly stopped chasing whatever he'd always been after. "You helped him ... end his life?" I'm struggling to get the words out. Okay, maybe I didn't entirely bypass the denial stage. Hale doesn't answer, but instead makes his way over to the little cauldron and, seemingly without a match or a lighter, starts a fire beneath it. Somewhere to my right, I suddenly become aware of the incessant thrum of dance music. I suppose it's been going on this whole time. The bar is right next to a nightclub, I vaguely recall seeing when I parked down the street. He takes the frilly fabric off its hook on the wall and tosses it into the pot with a few herbs, the rat's tail, and the entire bottle of rum. "What the fuck are you doing?" I ask him. "Just finishing up something Jack was working on," he answers casually, as if I know exactly what he's talking about. The pot bubbles seemingly in slow motion, the solution inside lazily oscillating between the deep violet of the door we first came through and a brooding but idyllic green. Hale abruptly extinguishes the flame and ladles the mixture, which doesn't appear to be hot, into the rocks glass. Still silent, he moves toward the door and opens it. On the other side is the man who was working with him behind the bar when I came in. "For Sylvia," Hale says, and the other man smiles, nods, and departs. Hale shuts the door again. "What happens if I drink this?" I ask, gesturing to the leftovers in the cauldron. For some reason, when I look at it, I feel like a child with her face pressed up against the window of a candy store. Hale chuckles. "Nothing. It's powerless on you, to help or to harm." I frown. "To help?" "That's what we do." "For Jack." A defeated question is still a question. "For Jack, yes. And he did it for many others." He turns abruptly and pulls a book down from one of the shelves. When he opens the book, I feel my blood rush through me like wind. No, I feel the wind penetrate my blood, even though there are no windows. The pages flutter to a halt, and I am faced with a familiarity that I refuse to comprehend. "Jack?" "This is what he was looking for," Hale says, "and what he created. These are recipes. Those who need healing bring items of personal significance -- a daughter's wedding gown; baby shoes, never worn; you get the idea -- and a recipe appears for then. We mix the items into a cocktail and with a little magic, they find what they're looking for, too." He pauses as if to allow me to ask a question, but I remain silent. "After we did it for Jack," he continues, "he knew he had to become a healer himself. But the thing is ... each recipe is unique -- both to the healer and the person being healed. And they are complicated; some have as many as a dozen steps, none of them easy. Jack could only help so many individual people himself, but he had the desire, and the intuition, to help countless others. So he created one final cocktail for himself. The last two ingredients were his body -- its act of drinking the brew -- and this book. Now his soul is bound to these pages the way it once was bound to his body. He surrendered himself to something greater so that others could more easily find what he did. And in that way, he found himself." He hands me something: Jack's keys. Then he tucks the book under his arm, leads me out of the room before I can protest, and starts down the hallway toward the door. I turn back and grasp at the cool, leathery handle, which to my surprise feels more like skin than metal. I just want to see his room one more time, to get one last glimpse at the place where he thought he found peace. It won't budge. I know there is no key to the one place I actually want to go. A fleeting, agonizing distress passes over me, through me, and is gone. The handle lets go of me. I storm back down the hallway, which seems to only take me a few steps, whip my baseball cap off my head, and slam it onto the bar. I gaze around briefly; everyone from before is still here, and no one looks up at the noise. Outside the window, it looks like the moon has emerged from the clouds. I look back at my hat, at Hale standing before me, and feel like I'm breathing air for the first time after being trapped under ice. He gives me an inquiring look. I slide my hat closer to him and I ask, "Can you make me something with this?" He smiles, picks it up, and lays the book down on the bar. It opens automatically without a touch -- again, no one around me seems to notice -- but I don't wait to see what it says on my page. When Hale turns around to grab a bottle of gin from the shelf behind him, I slip off my seat and out the door. No one watches me go.


“Bye, Davis,” I said with melancholy. “Hey, don’t worry, Kate,” Davis said over the phone, “I’ll be back to Denver in no time.” Davis was my best friend since birth. Our moms were roommates in college and we were born on the same day. Davis became a consultant a few years ago. Ever since then, he has been traveling the world. He is currently in Paris, France.

Right as I hung up, the doorbell on my apartment door rang. As I slid off the couch, I heard a weird cawing sound. I opened the door, but I didn’t see anyone. I heard the cawing again louder this time. I looked down and saw a bird with a red ribbon on her. “CA-CAW!” she shrieked. “Well aren’t you a pretty girl,” I cooed, “Where is your owner? Hmmm…, oh look, there’s a note.” “To a very special girl,” the note read, “Love Davis.”

I took the bird inside and plopped down on the couch.. I did a little research and decided that she must be a partridge. After staring at the bird’s red face and gray chest for a while, I decided not to get too attached. I held the small note in one hand and twiddled it with my fingers. I flipped the handwritten card over and saw a few words scribbled on the back.

“Her name is Holly,” the note read. “Great. Now I can do nothing but get attached,” I sighed. Once again, I heard a knock on the door.

“Coming!” I called as I opened the door with a fake smile on my face. “Surprise!” “DAVIS!” I exclaimed. “Hi, Katy Kat!” he said excitedly. “You know I don’t like it when you call me that anymore,” I said trying to hide my real smile.

“Remember? You were my Katy Kat and I was your D-Dog.” Pretty soon, I couldn’t hide my smile anymore.

“CA-CAW!” Then I remembered Holly.

“Why would you send me a bird?!” I yelled as I hit him with a throw pillow, “I can’t keep a bird in my apartment! Actually, I have an idea. You are going to stay here in my apartment and help me take care of Holly.” I heard a slight squishing sound. I slowly looked down at my brand new pair of boots. I had stepped in bird poop. Davis chuckled. The next day, I woke Davis up and instructed him to go down to the pet store across the street and buy Holly a bird cage. “I don’t have any money,” he said. I threw some cash at him.

“Deal with it,” I said laughing to myself. After I made sure that Davis had left, I started loving on Holly. I realized that Holly wasn’t messing around. She got irritated by me pretty fast. The sassy partridge flew over to a wooden fruit bowl and started nibbling on a pear. “Knock-knock,” Davis said, trying to fit through the door with a large box and bulky bags. “What are all those bags?” I asked, “I only told you to get a bird cage.”

“Well, I did some research and turns out, partridges eat seeds. I got a bag of assorted seeds.” “What’s the other bag?”

“Frozen pizza, chips, popcorn, candy and that movie that just came out,” “But we have to take care of Holly,” “I’m only here a week,” “Fine,” I obliged.

“Hey, why is Holly eating the pear?” “I don’t know,” I sighed tiredly. “ I was just wondering. It’s really ironic.” “What do you mean?” I asked as we watched Holly devour the top half of the pear. “Come on, you know the song,” Davis sang, “On the first day of Christmas my true love gave to me, a partridge in a pear tree!” I stood as still as a statue. “Kate, don’t you dare tell me you forgot!” Davis said playfully disappointed, “When we were nine years old, we went caroling at Miss Hailey’s house. She was sick and couldn’t visit her brother for Christmas.” “I remember. I tripped and dropped my candy cane. I felt like crying. You gave me yours.” “That was fun,” Davis whispered.

“Okay, let’s get this bird cage together,” I said breaking the silence. With a lot of struggling, we finally got the bird cage together.

“Now that I think about it,” I started, “I don’t want to put Holly in this cage.” “Seriously?” Davis said shocked, “I got poked in the eye six times.” “I know, but look at her! She doesn’t want to live in a cage,” “She has demolished a pear and half a bag of bird seed. She also has pooped on the floor seven times. That’s only in forty five minutes.” “Toshay,”

“Lets just put her in for tonight and she how she does,” “Okay,” I agreed. We watched the movie and ate the pizza. Then, we put leftovers in the refrigerator.

“CA-CAW!” “Hey, before we go to bed, do you want to go to the pet store to buy Holly something for her cage to make it feel like home?” “Sure,” Davis replied, “I’ll pay for it!”

We walked into the pet store bundled up in scarves and hats. The bells on the door handle clanged against the glass. Dogs and cats started hissing and howling. “Hey!” the man at the counter shouted, “Be quiet, you bags of fleas!” “Hi, Darien,” Davis called to the man. “What’s up, Davis?” Darien called back. “This is Kate, my friend I was telling you about,” Davis said urging me forward. “Hello, I’m Kate,” I said as I shook his hand. “Wow!” Darien exclaimed, “She’s even prettier than what you said about her!” “What are you talking about, Darien?” Davis said through gritted teeth. I laughed underneath my breath.

“We’re going to buy an accessory for a bird cage. Do you know where we can find one?” I asked. “On isle number four,” he said.

“How do y’all know each other?” I asked.

“We were in the same class in fifth grade and were pretty good friends,” Davis said. Once we had picked out a bird swing, I asked Davis,”Why did you come back?” He was silent for a second, “I guess,” he paused, “I felt guilty. You are my best friend and I haven’t seen you in four years. I felt like I was losing my home.” “Remember that poem we wrote for your mom on mother’s day when we were eleven? ‘ A house is made of wood and beams, but a home is made of love and dreams. Home is where we come back to. Not where we try to make a new home.’ This is always going to be your home.”

“Thank you, Kate. But can I ask you something? I know you didn’t want to get too attached to Holly. You are attached. Why is that?” “Maybe it’s because you gave her to me,” “Wow…, I didn’t think you felt that way about me,” Davis said, almost too quiet to hear. “Honestly, no offense or anything, I didn’t think I did either.” “You’re a really great friend.” “You too.”


Dusk was setting in, and everyone had gone home except for Johnny. It was the last place he wanted to be right now. Instead, he gazed at the stars that began to emerge in the indigo twilight for their debut now that the sun was taking its exit from the stage, leaving nothing but a burnished glow on the horizon. He clenched the chains of the swing as if it were a lifeline, tilting his head back further until he was looking directly up into the center of the universe, where the blue had deepened to black, and the stars all peered at him like a tiny billion eyes. They had come to watch the trainwreck that became his life. It wasn’t long before he heard footsteps approaching, lightly trudging their way through the grassy lawn of Toro Park towards his place on the swing. He closed his eyes for a moment, somewhat agitated – he recognized those steps anywhere. It was amazing that someone with such a boisterous and obnoxious personality could carry themselves so lightly across the earth, as if they were raised among mice. He knew the truth though – it was the rats that raised them. Reopening his eyes but not taking them off the stars, he listened to the footsteps transition from grass to tanbark, crunching their way to take a place in the swing next to him. The whine of chains screeched against the weight of a body that bore itself on the seat, groaning its last resistance as they settled in. They sat so quietly that Johnny almost believed a ghost had been messing with him.

“You’re too quiet, Kayleigh.” He barked at his sister, finally unsettled by her silence. It was not within her nature to keep her mouth shut for more than five minutes. “What, you mean you want me to talk this time?” she retorted. Johnny huffed, more annoyed with her now that she had a valid point and glanced at her. Kayleigh’s head hung low, her amber hair acting as a wispy curtain that covered her face, and she seemed to be looking down at her hands clasped neatly in her lap. She was grinding her dirty sneakers into the tanbark, burrowing her foot into the ground as if it sought to hide from the truth of everything. Then, as if right on cue, Kayleigh blurted out the thoughts she seldom put through a filter or kept to herself. “I don’t think dad is coming back this time.” “Yeah? How so?”  Johnny was indifferent to this revelation, but decided to humor her for once, glancing back up at a sky obscured by the metal pipeline of the swing set. “It’s been two weeks since he left. Normally he’s gone for five days at most, and even then, he calls at least once. He would tell us if he won big at the slots, or if he crapped out and was coming home. No matter what, he would call. This time, it has been what? Nine days since we last heard from him…?” Kayleigh had launched into her anxious tailspin of recounting the last two weeks with a cadence like she was gossiping about the latest drama amongst her friends, as if Johnny needed the recap. He sighed as she continued her tirade, continuing to look up at the sky. There were more stars - more bright eyes - coming out to watch these children on the swing. “Not to mention in his last phone call dad said he found another girlfriend – what was her name again? Holly? Hannah? Whatever it is, he did that thing again where he swears that she’s the one and he’s gonna bring her home to be our new mom and its different this time …” Johnny knew the tale all too well; he and his sister lived it many times. Their father would bring home some bimbo he picked off the Vegas strip and demand they call her mom. Things would be hunky-dory for two weeks at most, until dad ran out of money and “mom” would up and disappear. Dad gets depressed, drinks himself into oblivion talking about “the good old days”, then decides he’s going to get back to the strip to make his fortune. “We’ll live like kings, kiddo, you’ll see.” He could hear his father’s voice echoing in his mind, the same thing he always told Johnny as he stepped out the front door for the umpteenth time. Like a rat on an exercise wheel, the man was running to the same place and going nowhere. “So, what if he’s found another girlfriend, doesn’t that mean he’s coming back soon – y’know when the cash piles up, Detective Monk?” Johnny asked his sister in a dismissive tone, kicking himself in a light swing, the chain grinding in protest of motion. Kayleigh stopped digging her foot and shot him a look; in the bleak lighting of nearby streetlights flickering to life, he could see that he hit a nerve. “No, Johnathon , that’s exactly my point…” She drew out his full name in retaliation and he clenched his jaw. He hated being named after the deadbeat that was supposed to be taking care of them. Before he could deliver a comeback Kayleigh looked away from him, hearing her draw a shaky breath. “What if he has found the one…that makes him never come back?” Her voice trembled in a way that made Johnny angry – at her, his dad, the stars, everything . “So?” He snapped, kicking himself into a full swing now “So what if that rat bastard never comes back?! It’s the best thing he ever did for us! No more empty promises, no more fake moms! We’ll be free of him!” Johnny thought many times about what he would do if his dad never returned home, anticipating how to make ends meet. He thought how he was old enough to get a worker’s permit and would have to quit school to get a job for both of them to get by. He didn’t feel bad about leaving high school; it sucked anyway, all his friends had moved or were getting ready for college, which was never his scene to begin with. Plus, he thought to himself, I can always go back in a few years after Kayleigh graduates to finish my degree. With each pump of his legs, the swing groaned its displeasure with each attempt to catapult him into the universe. Johnny looked at the stars, drawing closer and then farther away as he made himself a human pendulum. He felt envious of those stars. They mocked him with their consistent indifference and the distance they held from the world’s problems. So, on his next upswing, he shouted his truth to the heavens, the one that had been building up for two weeks when his so-called father walked out the door for the last time. “I’m glad he’s gone!” Johnny fell back to the Earth, his feet contacting the ground again. He roughly skid himself to a violent halt with chunks of dirt and wood spraying out beneath his heels. Panting heavily from his effort, he snarled victoriously towards the night sky before giving way to devastated sighs, tears leaking from his eyes. He resented that he had to think about this stuff at seventeen years old; rather than living up his last summer before senior year, he instead had to figure out how to put food on the table and keep the roof over his head. “I’m scared.” Kayleigh whispered to him, her voice shaking and uncertain. Johnny quickly wiped his eyes and turned to look at his younger sister. Despite the warmth of the night, she trembled in the dark, gripping her hands together so tight that her white knuckles glowed against the darkness. She was two months from her thirteenth birthday, and already the weight of the world was pushing heavy on her shoulders. Johnny decided that although they shared the same name, he did not have to share the same fate that befell his father. “Me too.” He responded to her softly, and then stood from his seat, letting the swing drift gently away from him. “Let’s go home – I’ll make us some bacon mac.” He bribed Kayleigh with her favorite meal, offering a hand to help her up. She hesitated momentarily before nodding and taking his hand to walk the half mile back home. The swings drifted gently in the empty air for a little while after they left before finding their stillness, suspended in abandoned silence. The stars, blinking and flickering, continued to watch the world as they always did, before disappearing within the bleary dawn of a new day.


 The 2019 Christmas staff party, thus far, had been an absolute disaster. Despite paying £50 a head all 26 of us were crammed into the small function room at the back of a grubby pub that had an overall rating of 2 stars. It didn’t look festive in the slightest, apart from a small, barely decorated Christmas tree in the corner and a few crackers that, when pulled had nothing in them, sat on the table. A buffet of sausage rolls, triangle-shaped sandwiches and a selection of crisps in bowls had been laid out like we were children.

Fairytale Of New York

was playing from the jukebox for the 11th consecutive time thanks to Steve from IT.

 Married Mark was chatting up newly single Sarah, Tom was staring glumly into his plastic cup containing who knows what cheap liquor. Tracy and Kim returned from their adventure to find an off licence that sold cigarettes as they’d already smoked their 20 decks within the first couple of hours of being here. They had barely sat down at the table with me when they decided to go for another. At times like these, I wish I was a smoker.

 Against my better judgement of keeping my lungs healthy, I went outside to join them. Tired of sitting myself waiting for the party to liven up.

 “It wasn’t like this last year,” said Kim, sparking up a cig. She turned to me. “You remember, Amy?”

 I did remember. Last year we were treated to a lovely 3-course meal and told the drinks were already paid for, so go wild and drink as much as you like. Had we drank too much last year and were being punished for it this year?  “That restaurant was lovely,” I said, picturing the beautiful, melt in the mouth salmon I had ordered.  “This is an absolute joke,” said Tracy, taking a long draw and blowing smoke into the air. It was freezing outside and I’d left my jacket inside. “50 quid to watch Steve sing the Pogues AND we have to buy our own drinks! Not even a small glass of bubbles to thank us for all our hard work this year?!” She took another long draw, practically smoking the whole thing. She stubbed it out with her heel and left it there. A pile had accumulated by the backdoor. Entirely down to them, I presumed.

 “It’s a disgrace,” Tracy continued, holding the door open for us. Music drifted out. The Pogues,

Fairytale Of New York,

again. She rolled her eyes. “Oh for the love of God.”  We returned inside and down the contents left in our glasses. Kim went to the bar to order a round of drinks for us, shots and all. Dave, one of the sales advisors, came and sat down at our table. He had a bottle of beer and a paper plate filled with sausage rolls.  “Want one?” he asked.

 “No thanks,” replied Tracy.  I reached across for one, starting to feel the hunger. I hadn’t eaten much today, I don’t like to eat when I know I’m going out for a meal. Better to go starving than feeling too full to eat a thing. That had been my first mistake. There was no Christmas dinner this year.

 The sausage roll was dry and lacking in flavour. The flaky pastry clung to the roof of my mouth. The desire to spit it out into a napkin was tempting. Thankfully Kim returned with a tray of drinks and shots. I picked up what I presumed was my vodka and lemonade, desperate to rinse out my mouth. I felt better after drinking, vowing to eat no more sausage rolls. The sandwiches didn’t look very appealing either. Mark had eaten one and said the bread was a bit stale, they looked as though they had been sat out all afternoon.

 “I don’t know about you, but I’ll never be able to listen to this song again,” said Dave.  “Tell me about it,” replied Kim, “and this was my favourite one!”

 We all looked over at Steve, sitting directly below the jukebox, as though he was guarding it from anyone wanting to put anything else other than the Pogues on.

 “We paid £50 for this,” said Kim.  Tracy looked at Kim. Kim looked at Tracy.

 “Smoke?” she asked.  “Smoke.”

 They left, again. Leaving me with Dave and his sausage rolls, and Steve with his Fairytale. Mark and Sarah came over to sit with us, both of them frowning.

 “This is a bit shit isn’t it?” he said.

 “Remember last year?” said Sarah.

 I nodded.

 “Oh my God!” Mark said suddenly, “Oh my God! He’s moving! He’s moving!”

 We all followed his gaze. Steve was standing up, for the first time it felt, most likely to get another drink or use the bathroom.  “Now, Mark!” said Sarah with a giggle.

 Mark was over at the jukebox with a pound coin in a flash. I had never seen someone fire songs on so fast. Once he ran out of credits he added more coins, clearly uncaring of the money he was spending. I was just relieved it would finally be over.

 “ All I Want For Christmas! ” cried Sarah.  “Something non-Christmassy!” said Dave with a mouthful of pastry.

 Tracy and Kim returned as Mariah Carey started. They smiled and cheered, dancing across the dance floor. Steve came out of the gents, seeming entirely unfazed by the change in music. Like he hadn’t even noticed we’d been listening to the same song for over half an hour.

 Despite our happiness from new music, it couldn’t lift our spirits enough for us to forget how rubbish tonight was.  “I say we find somewhere better to go,” said Tracy, “I can’t stand this for much longer.”  “I would, but this is what we paid for, and the drink is relatively cheap,” replied Kim.  “That’s because it’s cheap drink and most definitely watered down. Come on, it’s Christmas. Let’s go somewhere classier, have a few cocktails and dance the night away.”

 I had to admit I liked that option more than staying here. We began discussing where to go and Tracy went outside to book a taxi when Tom finally tore his gaze away from his plastic cup and stood up to address the room. He was the manager, and he always made a speech at staff parties. He liked the sound of his own voice.

 “May I have your attention, please,” he announced, “Is everyone here?”  Tracy wasn’t, but I figured whatever it was he had to say I could relive to her. His Christmas speeches were never that important.

 “I’m sure you’ve all noticed a change this year from where we usually have our nights out.” There were a collective muttering and agreement from the staff. “Well, the reason for that is… is, uh-”  Tom was looking down again, staring deeply into his cup. “As some of you may know, or perhaps guessed, the company hasn’t been doing so well recently.”  I had figured out as much. It didn’t take a genius to notice sales had been dropping.

 “With that being said, I regret to inform you all that this… is the end.”  Kim and I exchanged glances. There were mutterings around the room.

 “The end?” questioned Dave, still munching on sausage rolls.

 Tom couldn’t look at him. Judging by his troubled expression all night, I wondered how long he knew. “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this… but it’s over. We’re shutting down, effective immediately.”  The crowd erupted, drunk people were yelling, someone was swearing loudly at Tom, it sounded like Mark’s voice. I said nothing, too stunned to speak. Dave had discarded his plate and was yelling too, flakes of pastry spitting out his mouth.

 Tom attempted to calm the room, trying to explain. Nobody wanted to hear it. Cries of how unfair it was echoed around the room.

 “He should have told us on Monday when everyone was sober,” said Kim.  “I don’t think we’ll have a job to go to on Monday,” I replied.

 The reality seemed to hit her. “Oh. Shit. Well, I want my money back for tonight then. I’m not paying for this crap night out.” I watched her barge her way to the front of the crowd, shouting, “Oi! Tom!”

 I suddenly became aware of a draught of cold air. Someone had opened the backdoor. That same someone came to stand beside me.  “Taxi is booked. What did I miss?”

 Tracy smelled strongly of cigarettes. She was observing the carnage kicking off with a gleeful expression. She wouldn’t be smiling in a minute.  “You may want to go out for another cigarette,” I replied.  “Why?” she asked.

 “Trust me, you’re gonna need it.”  She gave me a puzzled look as I lead her outside to break the news. In the background of the chaos, not that anyone else seemed to notice,

Fairytale of New York

started playing again.


The Promise “Think about it,” Alex said one day. “They have offered me the big promotion. And you can work from anywhere. You’re portable.” He stretched his arms in front of her, palms open, shoulders hunched, defeat already tensing his features. After two years of dating, it made sense to move in together, but first Hannah couldn’t leave her sick dad, then she couldn’t leave his house, and Alex continued to drive the 260 km to York every Friday. After a demanding week at work, he travelled to spend the weekend with her. She wondered whether he regretted pursuing her after they’d met at his friend’s wedding just over two years ago. She knew the bride from childhood and rejoiced when she announced that she’d met someone special online. After the ceremony, Alex introduced himself to her, and she was aware of eyes watching the two single people. That led her to spend most of the event avoiding him while simultaneously seeking him out--to ensure he hadn’t lost interest. The easy chatter in the marquee grew more animated as the summer evening wove its intoxicating magic into the music of the moment. Shared celebration and memory-making brought bubbles of laughter cascading from everyone’s lips. Cheeky champagne cocktails mirrored these bubbles until eventually, the merriment drew to a close and late evening brought with it a new agenda. For them at least anyway. “I will never stop asking you to join me.” His voice nudged her from her memories. He took hold of her hand, pulling her towards him. His face close to hers, “You’d love living in Edinburgh and I know of a perfect apartment that’s coming up for sale soon.” He tapped the side of his nose and winked. “I know I know.” And not for the first time, she searched for words to fill the holes where indecision lingered. Now, a year after her father had passed away, she looked out of her window and registered it was just such an autumn day when her father had made his promise in the park. The sun penetrated the amber leaves on the branches, illuminating them with its Midas touch. It tempered the growing chill in the air, and while it did not prevent people from wrapping their scarves around their necks, it didn’t stop them from smiling either. It was her father’s perfect day—a crisp, sunny autumn day that invigorated you. Later, hospital odours replaced the earthy smells of Autumn. Grimaces replaced smiles and harsh ward lights became the suns of her father’s life. The arms that tickled her childhood and carried her dreams lay limp, skinny; blue veins slithered across his hands like snakes. His hollowed cheeks and pallid complexion bore no resemblance to the man who brought her up. She almost recoiled at the stranger who they said was her father, and that guilt etched itself onto the pages of her life. Where is he and why isn’t he here? She posed the question to no one in particular and wished that she were religious. With her mother gone by the time she was two--not cut out for family life—her father was her life supply. He never missed a school show or parents’ evening; he held her when her heart was broken from a lost toy, then a lost boy; he washed her bloodstained underwear when she had her first period. She recalled her childhood and the happier times when he would playfully tease her, yet always allow her to get the better of him. She remembered how once when he had stomach pain, she asked, “are you going to die Daddy?” and he replied laughing, “of course not, it’s only indigestion.” That was when he made the promise. She was sitting on his knee on the park bench, pulling at the patterned woollen scarf they had chosen together for his last birthday. He told her he had no intention of dying until he was ancient. “And when I do, remember that I will always look out for you. Bending down, he picked a single marigold flower. “You should never pick flowers in the park, but this is a special exception because I want you to remember my promise.” When they arrived home, her father pressed the marigold in his copy of Vikram Seth's An Equal Music , and there it remained. The sun caught the glass on the picture of them on the wall and added impossible life to her father’s immortalised smile. A faded postcard of The Matterhorn stuck to her fridge still bore the words As a writer, you’ll flinch at the cliché, but ‘wish you were here’ Dad xx . In a second, she could locate his last texts on her phone. She always checked, just to see whether when he died everything remained as it was; that nothing disintegrated like disappearing pixels; that his cards, messages, images, all the manifestations of him—but not him—were still there. The pear tree he planted stood vigil by the back gate and was probably the main reason she never moved from this cottage they had shared even after Mum left. A knock at the door startled her from her reminiscence, but when a seemingly innocent parcel arrived, it unsettled her. She tensed as the mail deliverer asked her to “sign here please, madam.” He then shifted awkwardly as she looked up at him, expressionless. Her dog’s bark pulled her back to the present. There she stood, still on the doorstep, still trying to fill holes, while holding a brown parcel with Alex’s handwriting on it. She stared at this unexpected object in front of her. She couldn’t deal with seeing Alex’s neat letters on the front; her body felt heavy whenever she thought of him, which was every moment that she didn’t fill with pointless doing. She struggled daily to fill her head with anything that numbed the memory of his leaving, of the hurt that spilled from his eyes when she said she couldn’t go; she couldn’t commit; she wasn’t ready to sell her cottage. With a heavy hollowness, she carried the parcel to the kitchen and placed it on the table, tearing at the brown packaging. A tear fell onto the address, smudging the ink. Her postcode was now a blur. Hands trembling, heart beating, she lifted the lid of the brown paper box and stumbled backwards, and gasped. Inside the shoebox was the gift they had chosen for her father’s birthday many years ago. She thought she had lost it, but it must have become entangled with Alex’s paraphernalia like her life had with his. Holding the scarf to her cheek and inhaling its familiar scent, something wrapped in tissue caught her attention at the bottom of the box. She eased the paper with delicate fingers and happiness released both a smile and a sob. A single dried marigold flower fell from the paper. A subtle sheen veiled its faded beauty, and pastel golden hues evoked what was long gone. Joy and heartbreak all mixed and mashed into one undecipherable code of emotion. A small card bore the words, I found this scarf inside my sleeping bag, from our last camping trip. The flower was inside the book you lent me, I thought it might cheer you up. I bought two vintage bedside-table lamps yesterday, just your style. All my love, and still waiting for you, Alex xx Her thumb and forefinger gripped either side of her forehead as she attempted to steady herself. “Thank you,” she whispered. With unexpected calm, she wandered outside and listened to the leaves rustling in the autumn breeze. She hoped to hear secret messages of reassurance. A chill nipped her ankles above her sneakers as she made her way along the stepping stones to the pear tree with a basket in her hand. Only when the basket was full, did she sink her teeth into the yellow-skinned flesh of a freshly picked fruit, juices flowing down her chin, meeting rivers of tears that now flowed down her cheeks, silent and uncensored. Inside, she cut the pears, extracted the seeds, and lay them out on damp paper towels. You are portable, she thought. Then she eased them inside plastic bags before placing them in the airing cupboard to germinate. This meditative activity settled her, and she managed to smile. This was my home, she mused. With a newfound resolve, she snatched her phone from the kitchen table. It took no time to find the number saved in her contacts. Her call was answered immediately. “Hello, Peartree estate agents, sales department, how may I help you?”


        “Hey Carol, we’re going to the store for some munchies want to come along?” Brenda asked her friend.          “I don’t think you and Sarah should leave the apartment tonight, did you see the moon?” Carol absently said as she gazed out the front room window.        “Why should we stay home?” Sarah wanted to know, just catching the tail end of the conversation.         “Carol is afraid the moon looks strange” Brenda joked.         “Are you now into some new age mysticism or something Carol?” Sarah frowned. Carol frowned back at her two roommates, Brenda never took anything serious and nine times out of ten, Sarah would follow Brenda’s lead. With a sigh Carol went into the kitchen, leaving her roommates to joke about the scary moon. She wasn’t really upset with them, just frustrated. She felt something was off tonight but what she didn't know. Being annoyed with her friends was a common accurance, they were all very different and sometimes their personalities clashed. They had been friends since the beginning of sixth grade and now they were in their junior year at Barcley University.  Their differences are why they got along so well too, because they balanced each other out. Carol was a very serious person, but she was extremely introverted and quiet. Brenda was an extrovert, loud and boisterous and take charge kind of person, and Sarah was the easy going, she liked to make sarcastic remarks about almost anything. tension relief and ice breakers she'd call them. The best thing about their friendship was how the girls dragged her out of the shell, getting her to have fun and open up.             Tonight though, she had a bad feeling when she gazed at the full moon. It was brighter than normal and it had three rings that seemed to run thru it, unlike Saturn the rings looked like they went through the middle of the moon not around it. She’d never seen anything like it.  She’d just gotten off the phone from her mother when Brenda had come into the front room. That was part of the reason she was unnerved. Her Mother was very superstitious and the moon had set her off on a tangent. She had kept going on and on about the bad omen. Something terrible was going to happen, she didn’t know what but she made Carol promise to stay inside tonight. After hanging up the phone Carol had went to the window and looked at the moon herself, it gave her an eerie feeling,  No stars were visible tonight, and the sky had a cloudy over cast but the moon shown dazzlingly.  The rings emphasized it. The outer ring had a hazy orange luminous tint, the next ring was a pale blue and more defined, the center ring was very distinct, it was a pure white band that seemed to pierce the center of the moon.  She could kick herself for falling into her mothers melodramatics. It was a bad habit she was trying to dispel.              She went back into the front room as the girls were getting ready to leave.              “Hey Carol, if the moon eats us you can have my purple sweater.” Brenda laughed.              “Oh! And Carol if we’re zapped by aliens, you can tell Todd that I did like him, I wished I had accepted his invitation to the dance.” Sarah told her seriously.              “You wished you had gone out with Todd?” Brenda exclaimed with surprise. Sarah looked at them with a sorrowful expression, then instantly burst into gales of laughter. “Heck No! But you should have seen your faces. Gotcha!”             “I hope the moon falls on your heads.” Carol yelled to them as they walked out the door.  She followed them as far as the porch and watched her friends cross the lawn on the way to their car. She looked up at the moon, a chill ran down her spine. Her gaze was forcibly torn away from the moon by screams. Brenda and Sarah were frozen in place, shaking violently, their screams piercing the quiet of the night.  Immobilized in terror Carol watched her friends withering in pain. It was only when they both collapsed on the ground that she was able to move. She rushed to them crying out their names, she gathered Sarah’s body to her chest rocking her. Her head bowed and tears rushed down her face in anguish. After a moment she felt Sarah’s chest move, joy filled her she’s alive. Slowly she lowered her to the ground, her chest was rising rapidly, so was Brenda’s she noticed, but their eyes were tightly closed and both were making muffled noises. It only took a second for her to realize that they were both trying to stifle laughter!             “I thought you were dead!” Carol yelled at them as she jumped up and kicked Brenda in the leg.             “Oww, that hurt” Brenda choked out between bursts of laughter.             “Oh momma, hold me again” Sarah chortled rolling on the grass.             “I can’t believe you just did that to me!” Carol cried out. She turned to run into the house but Brenda grabbed her pants leg and pulled her down to the ground between them. Sarah wrapped her arms around Carol and Brenda grabbed her hand.            “I’m sorry, it was a bad joke, we didn’t mean to make you cry.” Brenda told her.            “Me either, but don’t you think that maybe it was a little funny?” Sarah cajoled her. Carol wiped the tears from her eyes and gave a small smile.

           “Ya maybe little”             Brenda reached over and gave Carol a big hug then Sarah wrapped her arms around both of them. All three sat there laughing and rocking.            “Get a room!” Someone shouted from one of the apartments. This caused the girls to collapse in laughter again.              “Time to go.” Brenda said standing up. Just as she reached down to grab Carols hand, a brilliantly bright light shined down, temporarily blinding them. A sudden chill over took their bodies like they had just walked into a meat freezer. Almost instantly freezing winds enveloped them. Then as rapidly as it had started it was over, the cold was gone and all was quite.

            “What in the world was that?” Sarah asked shakily, rubbing her eyes and blinking to try to clear the multitude of spots away.              Brenda glanced around, everything was dark.

             “What happened to all the lights” she wondered aloud. Sarah finally able to see again, she stared at her surroundings. It was to dark to see anything but faint impressions. There were no lights anywhere, no porch lights, no street lights, even the moon, now covered in clouds barely shone.

            “Carol, what do you think?” Brenda asked.              “Obviously it’s a power outage, you won’t be going to the store now.” She laughed.

"Why wouldn't we still go to the store?" Brenda crossly asked. “With no power they won’t be letting anyone in the store.  Well Mom was sort of right, but a power outage wasn’t too terrible for a bad omen." She chuckled, wiping sweat off her brow. Wow, when did it get so hot? She had thought the weather was cooler, probably from humidity, a storm had to of knocked out the power and would be hitting them soon. That had to be it.             “If a storm is coming we should go in.” Carol told them.             “What storm? I don’t see any signs of a storm.”  Sarah exclaimed.             “What other explanation would account for the power outage and the sudden heat.” Carol asked.             “I thought I was the only one sweating, but I don’t see any sign of a storm, no wind, no lightening and no thunder. So I don’t know if that’s it, but we should get back to the apartment just in case.” Brenda told them.             “There was a lot of strong wind, a moment ago. I thought a blizzard had landed on us for a minute.” Sarah shivered thinking about how cold that had been.             “We need to get back to the apartment, what if that was a tornado and now we are in the eye? I’ve never been in one but I’ve read that there is quiet and no wind in the eye of one, sooo.” Brenda shrugged.             “There has never been a tornado in this state, ever.” Carol argued.             “First time for everything.” Sarah mumbled as she headed off toward the apartment. Sarah had only taken a few steps when she fell flat on her face. Brenda was right behind her, and followed her down when she tripped over Sarah’s leg.              “What the Heck!” Sarah yelled when Brenda fell on her. Carol started laughing when she saw the vague outlines of the girls on the ground.              “I thought you two knew how to walk”              “Very funny Carol, I stepped into a hole, that’s why I fell. I don’t know Brenda’s excuse.              “My excuse is a clod fell in my way, now help me up Carol!”  Once they were all standing Sarah grabbed the phone from her pocket and turned on the flashlight. Instead of the nice manicured lawn they were use to, the ground was uneven, covered in rocks and weeds. Slowly Sarah moved the light over the area, none of it was as it had been. The lawn was gone, there were no vehicles in the parking lot. Actually there was no parking a lot either. Bordering on panic Sarah turned the flashlight toward their apartment. A building was there but different. It was elevated, so where their apartment had been now it was just structure holding up the floor above. The floor above was dark, nothing illuminated it. Vines shrouded the whole place.  Dumbfounded the girls stood there staring at what was once their home.             “Well, we aren’t in Kansas anymore?” Sarah stammered quietly, her voice sounded like she was close to tears. Brenda stepped closer to Sarah, she was shaken, and usually she was the strong one of the trio, but now she felt lost. Brenda had no answers for what they were seeing.               “It was the moon, my mother told me to beware.” Carol spoke up with certainty.                “The MOON!” Brenda shouted. “Give me a break, I am sick of your loony mom’s warnings.                “Do you have a better explanation? Miss I’m the boss and know everything!” Carol yelled back.                “STOP! Both of you please, we need to work together to figure this out and get home.” Sarah cried. Brenda and Carol wrapped their arms around Sarah,               “I sorry” Brenda whispered. I’m frightened, I don’t have any idea what to do.                “So am I, we can’t go snapping at each other now. I know you don’t want to hear what my mom said,” Brenda started to interrupt her but Carol put up her hand and raised her finger, silencing Brenda.. “My mother said the rings through the moon were a bad omen, she must have heard something about it before.”                 “Okay so what do we do now?” Brenda asked.

                “I don’t know” Carol uttered in despair.                 The girls froze, something was moving out beyond their sight. They heard a growl and a clicking, no it wasn’t a clicking exactly, it sounded like teeth smacking together.                “We need to hide.” Sarah whispered.                “But where?’ Carol quietly asked.              “To the building thing.” Brenda yelled when whatever they’d been listening to started crashing toward them. The girls ran to the building searching for stairs, but there were none to find. The creature was getting closer and its roar was sounding more ferocious, it was closing the distance in a frenzy.  Frantically the girls looked for a way up, occasionally glancing over their shoulders fearing the creature would be right behind them.                 “Here, Here, we need to climb hurry” Brenda excitedly tried to push Sarah up a thick vine.                 “I can’t climb a vine, I’m not Tarzan!” Sarah whined.

               “Just go! Now” Brenda demanded as she shoved Carol to the next thickest vine and followed behind Sarah. They scrambled up the vines as the creature reached the building. Carol screamed when the creature grabbed the vine she was climbing. It shook it like a dog in a tug of war battle, but with none of the playfulness. The violent twisting was making her sick, she felt her shoe come off and she almost lost her grip. I’m going to die she thought, clinging to the vine.

             Sarah and Brenda came to the ledge and crawled over. They both tried to see what was happening to Carol. They could hear her screams between gasps and quickly uttered prayers but they could barely see her. The ledge they were on shuttered from the violent attack on the vine. Carol lost her grip of her left hand and swung uncontrollably with each jerk of the vine.             “Give me your phone.” Brenda screeched, grabbing it from Sarah before it even cleared her pocket. She turned on the flashlight and swung it toward the creature below.   It was hideous, it was black with mossy hanging fur, it had 6 incredibly muscular legs. It was using its front two as hands grasping and tearing at the vines. The claws at the end of each appendage looked razor sharp and long. It gave the vine a mighty twist and Carol went flying. The creature turned toward Carol as she lay on the ground frozen in terror. Brenda shown the light directly at the monster to try and get its attention and as soon as the light hit its body the creature started shrieking and withering in pain, it smoldered for a few seconds then it went up in a puff of smoke.              “What the h……” Sarah started to say.              “Come on let’s get down there and make sure Carol is okay.” Brenda shouted and swinging her legs over the ledge, she scrambled down the vine. Sarah followed at a slower pace, all the while complaining, “When did I suddenly become a monkey hanging from vines”.              “Are you alright?” Brenda panted, sliding to a stop beside Carol.              “Is it gone?” Carol peeked around Sarah who finally climbed down the vine and joined her friends.              “Yes, it just went poof when the light hit it.” Sarah laughed slightly.              “Wow! I was sure I was going to die.” Carol cringed. The relief they felt was short lived though. Out of the corner of Carol’s eye she saw movement, and she stiffened. Brenda became aware that they weren’t alone about the same moment.               “You should have seen yourself……..” Sarah stopped mid sentence when she noticed her friends rigid stance and followed the direction of their eyes, there were black shapes coming toward them. Probably twenty or more. Carol stood slowly up next to Brenda and Sarah scooted closer too.             “The phone Brenda.” Sarah whispered. Brenda took the phone out of her pants pocket and tried to turn it on, when it didn’t immediately come on she brought it up to her face and tried to turn it on again. It wouldn’t work, it must have gotten broken when she slid down to Carol. The girls crept closer together as they watched the figures silently close in around them. The moon was slowly peeking through the clouds and illuminating the area. The girls could see that the shapes looked vaguely human, they had two arms, two legs and one head. But there the similarities ended. The moonlight was bright enough now to see that their skin had a grayish tinge to it and their arms hung longer almost to their knees. Their heads were proportionately larger too. With two extremely large red eyes.  Carol almost wished the moon would hide again so she could take her eyes off the creatures.  The creatures/people encircled the friends, there was no where they could run. Each second the moon shone brighter, the rings eerily glowed and the horror of their features became more distinct.

             Carol glanced up at the moon, her fear soaked brain could only wonder how something so beautiful could be the death of them. Simultaneously several things happened; the creatures started shrieking and rushed the friends. The girls hugged each other tightly and closed their eyes and waited for death. An icy wind blew frigid gusts around them and a brilliantly bright light shot down from the sky and engulfed the friends.              Brenda was the first to open her eyes to the silence around them. At first she only opened one eye to peek around. She saw a street light in front of her.

            “You guys look! Were home!” she shouted. Sarah and Carol let go of each other and looked around, they were home. They were standing on the nice green lawn in front of their apartment. Their relief was so overwhelming Sarah screamed for joy and Brenda and Carol joined in, all three were jumping up and down, like over stimulated toddlers in a frenzy of excitement.                “Come on you three shut up! People are trying to sleep.” Someone yelled from one of the apartments. Still laughing, but quieter now the three friends linked their arms together and headed to their apartment.                 “I don’t think we should tell anyone what happened tonight” Brenda told them as they reached the door.                  “No one would believe us, except my mom.” Carol sighed.                   “Yep, they’d think we were nuttier than a fruitcake.” Sarah tried to get a little laugh. Except no one laughed, but each knew that from now on they would be cautious and beware the strange moon.                                                                                CJStevens


Sarah Jackson held the small leather journal against her chest excitedly as she nearly skipped her way out the campus. The words of her physics professor, Adrian De la Rosa, were still fresh in her mind, none of which had anything to do with the subject.

The young woman had found a kindred spirit with the older man the moment he’d begun to share his fascination with the world of spiritualism and how he utilized his expertise in the field of science and applied it to the world of magic.

Every end of his class, Adrian would take some time to share with his students his vision of the world with passion and fervor. And while everyone listened, very few gave merit to his words, content with having half an hour spent in anything else other than the college's curriculum.

Yet that soon differed. It had promised to be another typical lecture about the balance and order of the universe up until the man had produced a small leather bound journal from his jacket, the very same that now in her possession. As soon as Adrian had brought out the journal, everyone's attention was focused on him, the air shifting inside the classroom to something akin to shock and awe, but also fear. And for the first time since their professor had begun to impart with them his beliefs they listened, hanging from every single word the moment he’d uttered two words.

Astral projection. It had caught everyone off guard, Sarah being the most affected by it. The words sent a pleasurable shock of electricity straight to her brain. The older man handed the small journal to his students, instructing them to pass it along as he began explaining what the concept of astral projection entailed, detailing the process that went into reaching a paradoxical state of mind -both dreaming and awake- required to partake in such a practice. And with each excited and fascinated explanation, Adrian continued to assure his students that it all related back to Plato's old school of thought about the true world resting above theirs; the world of ideas . By the time Sarah was finally handed her professor's journal the bell rang, signaling the end of today's classes. One by one, her peers trickled out the classroom as they often did, talking excitedly amongst themselves as they left. Sarah herself purposefully moved slowly, eager for the moment where only herself and the professor remained.  When the last of her classmates had left, Sarah mustered enough courage to approach the older man. Dozens of questions poured out of her mouth before she had time to give them order, allowing for very little breathing room in between. Yet Adrian seemed unbothered by her excitement.

The man smiled fondly at her despite Sarah not noticing in her feverish questionnaire. It wasn’t until the man had uttered two singular words that her questions were brought to an end. “Take it.” Adrian had offered sincerely. Sarah was at a loss for words, unable to process what had just been said and resulting in it being repeated once more.

Soon confusion turned into pure delight as the words finally settled in. Sarah wondered if there had been a gleeful gleam in her eyes with the way Adrian's flashed with recognition and pride. That was how the journal had come into her possession. Everything afterward seemed miniscule in comparison. Sarah could barely hold her excitement in, spoiling herself to a few entries before reaching the privacy and safety of her apartment. Yet another emotion lingered at the back of her mind, gnawing away every second she’d spent reading the journal. Fear . Her heart raced with eagerness as soon as she reached what appeared to be one of the more detailed travels, her fingers caressing the worn pages as she read about a seemingly infinite and ever shifting city of white sand and salt where shadows old and new coexisted in harmony. The usual transit time Sarah endured each trek to Kabata university and back appeared to be non-existent, easing her mind until she finally reached her destination.

By the time she’d crossed the threshold, Sarah plunged her room into darkness, perturbed at the idea of prying and curious eyes questioning her on what it was she was about to do. A soft short lived breeze cooled her face as the pages were turned until they were back at the beginning, where a series of experimental first projections from her teacher had been recorded until a considerable success had been achieved.

Eighteen. It had taken professor Adrian eighteen attempts before he'd reached the fabled world of ideas, and with some luck she'd be able to reach it in her first try. It all came down to whether or not she followed her professor's established rules perfectly, though the consequences that were constantly implied at the end of each entry remained unclear to her. Even then, the night couldn't come quickly enough. Utilizing what little sunlight remained, Sarah accommodated her bedroom for the coming night while familiarizing herself with the rules that came from interacting with the world above theirs. By the time the blue summer sky turned black and the stars began to glimmer into existence, that initial delight and excitement was slowly fading away. She couldn't explain why, but Sarah was overcome by this oppresive fear of the darkness in the corners of her apartment. It was as if a thousand eyes watched her every move from every miniscule shadow that the light could not dispell, the feeling only growing more unbearable the closer she was to finalizing the necessary arrangements for the projection. Sarah was beginning to get cold feet, but still pushed on.

It was difficult to ignore the feeling of being stalked like prey when she settled into her bed.

She could sense the invisible eyes burning through her behind the blouse covering her eyes, she felt as they pierced her flesh until they were staring right at her soul. Whispers and murmurs echoed in the dark, hidden beneath the white noise of the soft pitter patter of the rain playing through her speaker. None of the rules Adrian had written in his journal had spoken of such things, but the fear of stopping now, of taking the blind off and seeing the dark, of seeing what it was that stalked her inside of it made her continue with the rite.

Soon the cacophony of sound and sensations reached its maddening crescendo and Sarah screamed desperately in an attempt to drown them out in her own sound and pain.

She wanted out, wanted to rush out her apartment and into whatever light she could find. The journal could burn for all she cared, her interest in that which remained unseen be damned, tainted by the sentient darkness.

She was this close to taking the blind off when she saw it. It was dim at first, barely noticeable, but all her attention was placed on it as a last attempt to ignore the horrors she had unwillingly invited inside her room. A light, not of her room, shone beautifully, bathing her in colorful hues she could not begin to describe or understand, only admire for its beauty.

Suddenly, the darkness exploded with that impossible light, yet it did not blind her, instead filling her with warmth as the terror that consumed her no more than a few moments ago melted away.

The entries could not do the sensation any justice, for there were no words in existence that could even begin to describe the ethereal. The whispers were gone now, and so too was the feeling of being watched. It seemed as if they had retreated under the might of her protection's light, acting as a shield to the lurking darkness that accompanied the cosmos. Still, the prior run-in with such a bizarre and paralyzing nightmare would be impossible to forget, even when witnessing a beauty beyond words.

Poor Sarah wished she could have at least caught a glimpse of the shifting citadel of sand, or the howling forest even, instead she now found herself wishing she’d never been offered the book in the first place. The experience now tainted and distasteful.

She tried to stir awake, forever done with the unknown, yet as she hoped for the bright light to subside and let the dark of the cloth take a hold once more, the storm of colors only grew in its intensity. Sarah continued to fight the pull of the light to no avail, growing panicked when the world shifted beneath her. Something dark and humid slithered all around her, moving over each other as snakes yet flowing seamlessly like a river. The tendrils creaked and snapped as they kept expanding, snaring her feet where she stood. The feeling was harsh against her exposed skin, scraping away small bits of flesh with every minuscule movement she made. Wood . Sarah thought in surprise. The empty space had been overtaken with a sea of roots.

Sarah had thought that perhaps she had been rewarded with the sight of the howling forest, yet that possibility died as quickly as it had spawned. There was something different from what the book had described, and even if she’d hadn’t read the entity the sensation of wrongness would have lingered still.

Life was often related to the image of trees, but such a concept was not transmitted by that thing. Whatever it was, it used that image mockingly, twisting it with its vile nature. Appearing more like thorns than roots. The ground suddenly shook, pulling her away from her musings. The world shifted again, and the sea of thorns parted like the red sea under the tremor's might. And from the newly formed pit, large figures shifted within. Sarah squinted her eyes in hopes of getting a better look, but it was like staring at a static screen. A thousand lines moved from within, but she was slowly starting to make out some silhouettes from inside the darkness.

She counted two, maybe three large humanoid bodies wriggling from within as they continued to ascend. Their bodies convulsing as the thorns convulsed, spasming violently as the black thorns snaked across their bodies like veins. It wasn’t long before Sarah could see the divine bodies more clearly, their white emancipated bodies sat proudly on their thrones.

What might have been a proud and powerful race now laid dead before her, their carcasses towering over the corrupted world were thorns now reigned supreme. Her mind cowered at the thought of something celestial dying, of it being possibly killed. Sarah suddenly turned her head to the side, swearing that something, someone had been standing beside her. A voice echoed inside her mind, speaking her name urgently before vanishing just as the figure had done.

Then a new voice told hold of her brain, speaking her name with a more mocking and vicious undertone. Sarah. Sarah. Sarah… With each uttering, her skull vibrated painfully, bringing her to her knees.

The roots from the bodies shifted once more, the dead gods collapsing from their thrones as the thorns escaped from the corpse’s frame, leaving only a hollow shell behind. The sentient roots converged above the three thrones, creating a mass of snaking wooden tendrils that expanded and fell in on itself. The voice kept growing louder inside her mind, driving her closer to the edge of madness. And as the mass of roots kept becoming larger and larger, flashes of a creature birthed of thorns invaded her mind, its branching arms burrowing themselves as roots into countless worlds as the one she was standing in, a sea of dead gods laying at its wake. Join us. Join us. Join us. Join me. Be whole with me. Sarah kept desperately trying to wake herself from the projection to no avail, her mind too overwhelmed to properly focus back to her physical body. She continued to try over and over again, meeting with failure each time, provoking the cruel laughter of the demonic being. Then, like a miracle sent from the heavens, Sarah felt the connection with her anchoring body. It was a barely noticeable connection, but it was a connection nonetheless. Eager to escape the clutches of the monstrous thorn god, Sarah let herself be taken by the same warmth that had enveloped her when the rite began. The nightmare finally appeared to be coming to an end, yet as she began to breathe easy again the amalgamation of roots shifted once more. She'd barely any time to scream when she felt her body be pierced by a thousand needles. Her skin bulged outward as the smaller roots turned her body into their new home, threatening to tear at it with their violent thrashing. By the time the pain finally settled in her mind, her vocal chords had already been cut by the thorns growing inside her. And as the darkness overtook her no last time, the voice whispered into every crevice in her mind eight words that sealed humanity’s fate as she felt herself finally return to her body. Together. Freedom.

Together. Awake. Together. Nothingness. Together. Rebirth.


“Seth? You’re up.” The words hung in the air, waiting for a response. The door had just swung open in acknowledgement of Jamison’s knock. A man, thinly framed and sweaty was on the other side of it. He had his hoodie on – hood up. He said nothing. Jamison let the words sit – only now realizing that the client hadn’t the breath to respond even if he had known what to say. A moment passed while Jamison expected a follow up – it did not come. He stood firm, waiting for the client to catch his breath. It was not uncommon for them to take a minute. The client finally conceded: “Sorry, what?” A ridiculous question, mainly because Jamison knew the client damn well knew what this was all about. “You’re up.” Jamison came back, uttered with the same tone and business-like drawl as it had been before: Simple and absolute. “You are Seth, correct?” This time the client was slightly more alert to the words. “Oh. Okay, alright. Yes. That’s me.” He said, almost whispering. “What next?” Answering this question was half of Jamison’s job. The other part was the driving. He much preferred the driving. Though, over the years, he found the best way to explain the process was to put it all out there at once. It was easiest to barrel through and not let the client interrupt. “Well,” Jamison spoke with the clinical efficiency of a doctor who had to break bad news, “you’re going to gather one bag. Just one. While you do that, I’m going to take a look around. I’ll see what we need to clean, if anything. I’ll make a note of everything we might have to add or get rid of here. I’ll send that to my boys who will do the rest.” He paused briefly to make sure the message was sinking in. The client nodded just slightly enough to confirm. “Then you and I will come back out here and down these back stairs to the bottom of the apartment building. A van is there. You will get in the back and stay quiet.” The client remained silent, his head simply bowing. Jamison preferred this quiet shock. It let him get through his speech much faster. “Then we will drive. It will be a long journey. There are some snacks back there, but eventually, we’ll get far enough away that we can stop at a diner or something. Ultimately you will end up in Nebraska – out in the woods, in a cabin. Alright?” Customarily, Jamison let the words sit, just as he had when the client had opened the door to him. He waited for a response, though sure to take a few moments, as the words Jamison said needed their time to sink in. This would be the last respite Jamison would give the client. The work would begin upon acceptance. “Oh…okay.” The words came back a little more haunted than Jamison had been used to. But it began nonetheless. “Go on now.” Jamison commanded. The client reluctantly recoiled back into the foyer of his own home and looked about for a bag. Jamison began to take in the scene. The apartment was neat, orderly, and very spacious. Two medium length couches stocked a marble walled living space – both paying homage to the ridiculous flat screen TV to the left of the doorway. Large windows framed the wall opposite the entry. Specialized blackout curtains mostly did their jobs, but there was a thin column of light from the city that crept in. Jamison quickly walked across and squeezed the curtains till nothing could be seen in or out. He moved his way through the rest of the apartment – the bedroom, the bathrooms, and the like; each spacious and grand. Each holding nothing of note. He finally pulled to the side of the man, who seemed to be finishing up his task.  “You ready?” The bluntness of the question seemed to catch the client off guard. “I think so.” “Come on then.” Jamison led the way with the client herded behind him, mimicking an upgraded pace that Jamison had taken. As they weaved through the spectacular apartment, Jamison pretended not to notice the man taking it in – It would be the last time he saw it, or anything like it. They reached the front door again – Jamison swung it open. “Is there anything you guys need to do here?” The man plead more than asked. “You know, to the place?” “Don’t think so. Looks good now. We’ll have someone double check though. Come on.” Jamison grabbed the nostalgic man by the shoulder and pulled him gently out the door. “There’s nothing for you to worry about here anymore.” As Jamison stated earlier, they moved through the hall past the ornate elevators and to the stairway at the end. There was less of a chance they would be seen going down the stairs – especially from this high up. Both men sighed heavily as they began the move down the floors. Presumably for very different reasons. For the client, this was the beginning of the end of his old life. For Jamison, it was simply a lot of stairs. The only noise was the echo of their steps as the two went down, step by step, floor by floor. By the time they reached the bottom, both men had broken such a sweat that the normally harsh entrance into the bitterness of the city night was more relief than imposition. True to his word, Jamison had a van parked right by the sidewalk. It was pale white and had little to no markings on it. It was more professional looking than a typically run-down creep van, but not by much. He wasted no time in moving towards it, the client in tow. He pulled the latch– the door obliged and slid back. “Get in.” Jamison said. “No time to waste.” Jamison added the last part to emphasize that the time to look around was over. Thankfully, the man conceded with a small nod, and stepped in. He sat down in his car seat obediently and looked at Jamison for further instruction. Jamison noted that this was the first time he really looked at the man. And, in the study of his face, began to discern in his face that he was younger than Jamison had pegged him to be - much younger. Maybe in his late teens. He shook it off. “Alright. Get comfy. I’ll talk to you in a few hours.” Jamison said. He shut the door and deftly moved to the driver’s side door. He opened it, got in, and quickly turned the key. The vehicle shuddered to life. He contorted his upper body to look back at Scott. “You’ll find the papers on the floor there. Just tap me if something doesn’t look right.” Without waiting for a response. He turned his head back toward the road and began to shuttle off. “Okay… Thank you, sir.” Was the response a few moments later. Jamison was in the business of getting rid of people. More specifically, it was taking people who were in harm’s way – no matter who – out of harm’s way, so long as they had the money to cover it. This was done by getting someone “off the grid.” He and his team would take someone, give them a new name, a new social security number, and a new solitary life. It was essentially witness protection for those who wanted it, rather than needed it. If someone was in danger of being killed, abducted, tortured or arrested – Jamison was the man to speak to - if they were lucky enough to know how. Though by nature, those who knew how were not good people Jamison had been in this business for years, transporting a little less than a thousand people out of harm’s way. Murderers, drug lords, gangsters, thieves, hitmen, etc. You name it: if they could pay, Jamison would take them. He asked only a few things of the person who called (it was always a call – only his number had been selectively given out in the circles of the uber wealthy). First, that they pay up front. Next, that they give their name, pickup address, and an honest account of why his services were required. Such was the case of the man in the backseat. Another millionaire who had gotten in deep, deep trouble. Seth – the client – called just a few hours prior. Apparently, he had drunkenly stabbed a man to death in the back alley of a club. Though he did not say why, nor did Jamison care. The fact was that after the client had done this, he looked up to find a CCTV camera looking right at him. Thus, he spent the next hours frantically searching for a way out – asking everyone he was close to. Such is usually the cycle; it must have been another crook or creep with something to hide that gave him Jamison’s number – and here they now sat. Jamison now in the middle of a workday, and the client in the middle of a life-altering move. As Jamison drove through the night, he was thankful for the relatively smooth outing this had been. He thought of how the hard part of his job was not so hard this time. Occasionally, Jamison had met clients who were calmer – resigned to their new lives, or eager to move on. But Jamison did have to admit he was struck by this one. He could tell the usual exasperation had its hold on the man, but without the usual hysterics of one who’s used to having so much getting it taken away. As he thought more of it, there was also a working-class obedience in his initial interactions with the client. “So, everything look good back there?” Jamison broke the long silence. It had been a few hours of midnight driving. By now, nobody was on the road. “Oh. Yes.” Echoed to the front. “Good. We’re just about halfway through Ohio. At this point it’s safe to say there’s probably nobody on to us.” Jamison said. “Good.” Came back. Jamison admitted to himself that he wished to have gotten back a little more. “So,” he began to prod “we’ll probably stop somewhere in Indiana if that works. Couple hours. You hungry?” “I could eat.” “You know – usually the fellas I pick up either won’t talk no matter what or won’t stop talking. You’re quiet, but not too quiet. You know?” As Jamison finished his sentence, he could hear an uncomfortable shift coming from the back seat. A muted voice replied: “I don’t have anything to say I guess, but I can talk. If you want me to. I don’t know.” “Your name’s Seth, right?” Jamison pressed, not fully sure as to why. “Yes sir.” “Why are you calling me sir? How old are you?” Jamison asked, reminded once again of the youth in the client’s face. “19 – I’ll stop if you want. Just, I don’t know your name.” Seth was “And you won’t.” Jamison spoke matter-of-factly. “But - I don’t mean to pry, but most people don’t need me…so young.” “Oh.” Came the response, confirming that Jamison was prying indeed. Jamison retreated. “Sorry, kid. Just, not used to…kids. And frankly you’re a little more obedient than most.” It was now Jamison’s turn to shift uncomfortably, especially as there was no response from the back. At least for a while. “How can you pay for this anyways?” “Inheritance. From my parents.” Seth said back, with nothing else added. Thus, provoking another small silent period. “So, why’d you do it?” Jamison trudged on. A moment passed. A small sniffle preceded the lines that came next. “I…didn’t mean to.” Seth said, intrinsically knowing what Jamison meant. “Ah.” Jamison said as he digested. “I guess often that is the way it goes. But it is what it is.” Jamison pressed for more details – at this point the coy nature of the client had moved Jamison to be more inquisitive. “So, caught at a club huh? On camera? Party a little too hard with all that money?” The comment was a little more condescending than Jamison had intended. “No sir.” Seth said, a little more together now. Though he did not know Jamison took the words as if they were an insult. He turned his head around to clearly view the client. “No sir?” Jamison spat. “You telling me you lied to me on the phone?” Immediately panicked at Jamison’s new tone, Seth defended himself: “Oh, no. Just about the place. Please, Just that. I still need help – this isn’t anything wrong for you.” Jamison felt the betrayal of trust as a threat to his own safety. He had to make sure this wasn’t the reality. His voice rose, “Listen boy you better tell me what’s real here and what’s not real quick or I will drop you off right here and call the police myself.” It was no longer a matter of interest for Jamison in the situation of Seth, but a matter of immediate need-to-know. There was no latency in Seth’s response. “Listen. I did. I mean I killed someone okay. That’s that. But it was in a church. I promise. Not a club. Everything I said is above board – I just. I panicked. Thought you might be a religious type. I don’t know what I was thinking. I was scared and was thinking stupid.” “The religious type?” was all Jamison managed to say back as he digested the information. He simmered on it silently – still driving, but stewing. Jamison spent 30 seconds or so saying nothing – he could tell that Seth was anxiously awaiting a decision from his driver. “Anything else?” Jamison said with a sigh. “Cause I will find out, and remember, I will be the only one who knows where you are. So, is there anything else?” “No sir.” The response was so full of fear that Jamison knew it was the truth. He sighed another deep sigh and resolved to move past the revelation. In the end, it did not matter much for his job, but he did not like being lied to – especially when it comes to business. He did feel the need, and the right, to ask why. “So. Why lie? Why call me? This is need to know now.” “I…” Seth started, but then elected to regroup. He started again. “I went to church – with my Aunt. First time in a while. A long while. I…. the pastor was someone I knew as a kid.” Again he paused and regrouped. “Someone they told me went away. I guess he came back, and I guess he noticed that I was there. That I was trying to find my faith again.” Seth stopped there, exasperated. He took a deep breath and resumed.  “He winked at me… and he… I…” The sniff was back. The weight of Seth’s words hit Jamison with a weight he hadn’t encountered in all his life. He needed not to say anything else – though he did. “I went back later, and I was so mad that I…” He did not need to say what they both knew. So he skipped the deed. “As I walked out – I saw the cameras on the building.” Seth shut down after that. Jamison only heard a soft, somber sob coming from the back. Jamison’s emotions backflipped into a state of deep depressive shock at the thought of this boy’s predicament. He genuinely did not know what to say. In all his years doing this job, he had never come across this kind of job. Someone who needs to be moved - made “missing,” though probably didn’t deserve to. If what he said was true, how could Jamison blame the kid? How could anyone? He must be telling the truth – there was no reason not to. It wracked Jamison’s brain. “I’m sorry,” was all Jamison could mutter. “I’m so sorry.” It was silent after that. Neither of them said a word for hours. When Jamison passed by a diner in rural Indiana, they stopped to eat. They sat in silence. Seth now only looked guiltily down at his food. Jamison eyed him and noticed the lost look in his face. He guessed that it was the same look that met him when Seth opened the door to let him in. Though, he did not note it then. The truth was that Jamison always believed himself as a puzzle solver rather than an enabler. Most of the puzzles he solved depicted some angry, wrathful man in the end – but it was still the pieces going into shape that Jamison found comfort in. Jamison felt as though he was breaking an ornate glass sculpture now – complicit in the uprooting of a boy. When he dropped Seth off at his new log cabin home in the woods of Nebraska, he went over the code of conduct with Seth. Seth was to do nothing with anyone - no strangers, no friends, nothing to do with anyone – at least for a year or so. He was to live a solitary life, for now at least. It was all he could do with the money he had left anyways. Seth looked at his new home and said, “Thank you sir.” Jamison could tell he did not mean it this time. “You’re welcome,” was all Jamison thought to say. As he climbed back into his van and started the engine, he looked at the motionless Seth, standing in front of his new home. “I’m so sorry.” He whispered. Jamison was in the business of getting rid of people. Over his career he had transported a little less than a thousand people out of harm’s way. These were murderers, drug lords, gangsters, thieves, hitmen, and one boy Jamison felt to be entirely innocent. It was his last client. Though, like the others, his life was broken all the same.


In the suffocating confines of an office tower, where the air pulsated with the dissonant symphony of ringing phones and clicking keyboards, I found myself immersed in a world of concealed machinations and sinister undertones. Amidst the labyrinthine maze of cubicles and flickering fluorescent lights, I prowled with silent intent, my long auburn locks a flame in the dimness. My light blue eyes, like frozen pools of uncertainty, held secrets buried deep within the recesses of my soul. As I meandered through the shadowed corridors of the office, the whispers of unseen forces echoed in the recesses of my mind. Each fleeting encounter with Sarah, the gossiping receptionist, and Marcus, the brooding IT specialist, sent shivers down my spine, as if their very presence threatened to unravel the fragile facade I clung to. But it wasn’t the petty squabbles of office politics that gnawed at my sanity; it was the gnawing weight of a legacy I could scarcely comprehend—a legacy woven from the strands of ancient sorcery and unspeakable power. For I was no mere mortal bound by the chains of mundane existence; I was a vessel for the legacy of my bloodline—a lineage steeped in the dark arts and veiled in obscurity. And it was this legacy that ensnared me in a web of deceit and treachery, where the line between reality and nightmare blurred into oblivion. Within the labyrinth of my own mind, I unearthed fragments of a forgotten history—a history shrouded in darkness and steeped in mystery. In this alternate reality, a profound absence loomed—a void where knowledge and enlightenment should have flourished, but instead, ignorance and superstition reigned supreme. Armed with the weight of this revelation, I embarked on a perilous journey into the depths of my own soul—a journey fraught with peril and riddled with uncertainty. Each clue unearthed and obstacle overcome brought me closer to unraveling the enigma that bound me to my fate. But lurking in the shadows, a malevolent force conspired to thwart my every move—a force driven by insatiable hunger for control and domination. As I delved deeper into the heart of darkness, I realized that the true enemy lay not in the shadows, but within myself—a manifestation of my deepest fears and darkest desires. With my very sanity hanging in the balance, I faced off against the specters of my own mind, my auburn hair aflame with the fire of desperation. And as I teetered on the precipice of oblivion, I knew that the fate of humanity rested in my hands. As I walked to the kitchen, I accidentally stumbled upon Annie, our new Intern. I tried to steady her as the box in her hands tumbled out from her grasp and thumped to the ground. With the fall, the box’s lid shuffled over to the side, revealing a rectangular object with a sturdy cover and thin, flexible sheets bound along one edge, adorned with colorful designs. I couldn’t believe my eyes. As I stretched out my hand to reveal the object within, Annie hesitated, her expression unreadable, torn between conflicting emotions. Before I could decipher her reaction, she forcefully shut the lid back on and sped away with the box, leaving me with a befuddled ache and lingering questions about her sudden departure. The encounter left me with a haunting sense of unease, as if I had glimpsed a fleeting glimpse of a truth too dangerous to comprehend. Later that day, while passing by Marcus’s desk, I casually asked him about Annie, hoping to glean some insight into her mysterious past.

“Hey Marcus, have you noticed anything unusual about Annie?” I inquired, trying to sound nonchalant.

Marcus glanced up from his computer screen, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “Oh, I see what’s going on here,” he teased, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. “You’ve got a little crush on our new intern, don’t you?”

My cheeks flushed with embarrassment as I stumbled over my words, trying to clarify that my curiosity was purely professional. But Marcus just chuckled knowingly and went back to his work, leaving me to ponder the mysteries of Annie’s enigmatic persona on my own. The following month, as I delved deeper into the shadows of the office tower, the whispers of unseen forces grew louder, echoing in the recesses of my mind like sinister sirens calling me towards the abyss. Each step I took felt like a battle against an invisible tide, threatening to drown me in a sea of deception. But it wasn’t just the weight of my own legacy that burdened me; it was the knowledge that others were watching, waiting to pounce upon any misstep or revelation. I could sense the eyes of unseen adversaries boring into my soul, their intentions as murky as the depths of the ocean. And then there were the whispers—hushed conversations in dark corners, fleeting glimpses of figures disappearing around corners. It was as if the very walls of the office tower were alive with secrets, each one a dagger poised to strike at the heart of my quest. But amidst the chaos and uncertainty, one thing remained clear: Annie held the key to unlocking the mysteries that shrouded the missing invention. Her sudden disappearance only fueled my determination to uncover the truth, but it also raised alarm bells in the recesses of my mind. What dangers lurked in the shadows, waiting to ensnare those who dared to seek the truth? And what role did Annie play in this deadly game of cat and mouse? As I passed by Marcus’s desk, I couldn’t shake the feeling that he knew more than he let on. His playful teasing masked a deeper understanding of the dangers that lurked in the shadows, and I couldn’t help but wonder if he was hiding secrets of his own. But I had no time to dwell on his enigmatic demeanor. The clock was ticking, and with each passing moment, the shadows grew darker, threatening to swallow me whole. I had to find Annie, no matter the cost, for only she held the answers that could save humanity from the abyss of ignorance and superstition. And so, with determination burning in my heart and uncertainty gnawing at my soul, I plunged deeper into the labyrinth of the office tower, ready to confront whatever darkness lay in wait.