Drakaith stared at his brothers lifeless corpse. It had been seventeen days since he drank the Unicorn blood and since then so much had changed. He felt alive for the very first time, he could feel the wind on every tree leaf, the earth groan as it moves, the insects and animals voices clear and loud. If he wanted them to be. Everything was as he wanted. Silence could be created in a heartbeat. A heartbeat. He’d felt his brothers. It was the last movement he made. A shuddered breath, followed by a last weak, tiny beat. Drakaith turned away. There was no need to kill him. Drakaith had felt hungry. So hungry. But not for food. He couldn’t place it, until he stoped and listened. That heartbeat was like a drum calling to him. Making his hunger dance. But then so did all the animals of the forest. Their hearts were as strong as his. But there was something about his brothers. It was like a sweetcake when you could have oatmeal. The oatmeal would suffice, but the sweetcake… It was so tempting. He’d never liked his brother anyway he tried to pretend as he stalked away through the forest. A year younger he’d always looked up to Drakaith, always been mothers favourite. He had a lucky smile. It always brought good cheer. Drakaith knew his crooked teeth always made people uncomfortable. Even when he spoke it caused others to avert their eyes. A problem solved. Since drinking the blood, he barely opened his mouth. No need. His voice could be heard in their minds and seemingly life itself bent to his will. The Soothsayers story was true. The Unicorn blood really did hold power. Now it was his power. His gaze shifted back to the corpse. It had felt so good to feel his siblings pain and anguish as he realised his fate. Ecstasy. His soul breaking, emotions running wild. Pathetic, but delicious. As blood drained from his arteries, gushing on the floor beneath the broken branch that had been thrust into his neck, his soul seemed to float above the child. Then Drakaith devoured it. The first soul he had consumed. He wanted more. The forest was alive and he could feel it. Plenty of heartbeats. From mice to owls to… humans. Rain drops fell. He looked up at the branches of the trees above him. The Black Forest was known for its tall trees. Drakaith willed them to bunch together and form a canopy. And it was so. Sitting on a rock, he closed his eyes, allowing his thoughts to cross into the sprit world. The colours changed all around him, but instead of the living, there were now the dead. Could he control them too? He saw an old man in the distance. He focused on him. Willed him to turn. And he did! A thrill went through him. “You must obey me. Walk towards me.” The man stared at him blankly. Drakaith growled again, “You must obey me. Walk towards me.” The man turned and walked away. Drakaith opened his eyes, sweat along his brow, his limbs heavy and aching. “The shadow world is no place to stay for long, especially for those of such small stature and strength.” Drakaith looked up, fifty paces away a giant stag stared at him. It slowly shook its head. “You killed my friend. The unicorn. The last of his line in this forest.” The words echoed in Drakaith’s head. The creature was communicating through thought. “His blood tasted heavenly.” Drakaith said grinning. The stag took a couple of steps forward. “Stay back.” The stag stopped and laughed. Drakaith’s mouth dropped open in surprise. A laughing stag? The stag cocked its head and glared at him. “You have stolen power, power that does not belong to you. You can talk to the plants, move trees, hide paths, make grass grow. But do not think you are the only one here with power.” Drakaith stepped across to a fallen tree. If the stag charged, he would be able to dodge to safety. “I will not harm you little one. You have done enough of that to yourself already.” Drakaith froze. “Yes, I am in your thoughts. All of them.” And with that, the stag turned and started to stride away. “I will find another unicorn and become even more powerful.” The stag stopped. Drakaith grinned at the poison of his own words. “Did you not hear me boy? You killed the last one. Its spirit was one with nature. This nature. This place. You are cursed to stay here, such is the price for ending a line.” The stag continued walking away. Drakaith watched and then, his voice trembling, called out; “what if I do leave?” But the stag was gone. Its powerful legs striding through the trees with ease and grace. Drakaith slumped down on a log. He couldn’t leave? What nonsense was this? He had ambitions, great and terrible ambitions. His new found power would wage war on all those around him, bringing him riches and unforetold wealth. He was only a few years from being a man and had yet to explore the lands beyond the forest borders. Once he almost went with Father to the Iron City, but sickness struck him down, a winter flu, causing him to stay home to recover. The Iron City is where he would go first. With no one to stop him. His eyes stared around at the forest. This was his. The stupid stag was wrong. Fearmongering, antlered creep, he thought. Seven hours later, he was close to the forest edge. Clothes drenched in sweat and his body weary, but he was there. Three days from here he would see the Iron City. Watch the sailors leaving at the dock, hear rowdy tales in the notorious ale houses, maybe even venture down to the night ladies walk. Just to see it. See who was there. He wasn’t thirsty, but hunger was taking hold. He sat on a log and closed his eyes, listening for a heart beat nearby. A young doe was closest. But he couldn’t. The stag may object and he needed no enemies now. Not yet. A squirrel? Yes. Much better. He concentrated his mind. Come to me little one, he thought. The squirrel stood up straight and marched toward him, coming into view behind a gnarled birch tree. Now how to kill him? Claw out his own heart? Could it do that? That would be impressive to see. Next time. Something prosaic for I’m hungry and don’t want to attract attention, he decided. The squirrel darted up the birch tree, he appeared at the very top most branch. His tail fluttering in the wind. Drakaith smiled and nodded. The squirrel tensed and fell. Dropping. Faster and faster. With a piercing crack it thudded into a rock on the floor. Dead. Drakaith shuddered. His eyes closed, his mind in the spirit world. The squirrels soul screamed as it was dragged towards him, ending in a piercing wail as it was absorbed by Drakaith. Other spirits nearby had stopped and stared. Drakaith opened his eyes. Feeling much refreshed. It was like eating a delicious meal, but not feeling too full, just perfectly satisfied. With renewed vigour he jumped to his feet and marched towards the final few trees of the forest. Twenty more paces and he would be out of the wood, proving the old stag wrong. fifteen more paces. Twelve. Twelve. Twelve. He couldn’t take another step. The feeling of fire leapt up his arms. He screamed at the pain. He closed his eyes. The spirit world instantly appearing and a mighty blanket of fog rushed towards him. Gasping he staggered back. The pain subsided a little. He staggered back further, until his body only ached and his head throbbed. He sat back down on the same log as before. The curse was real. His mind swam. Perhaps he could find another way out? Perhaps if he was stronger? Anger coursed through him. This was not part of the deal. But there never had been a deal. There had only been a moment of violence, followed by more of the same. Actions leading to a consequence. Deep down Drakaith knew this. Just considering it, sent a small shiver down his spine and for a split second he felt alone. Very alone. Just a boy, nearly a man. Alone forever. Alone in the Black Forest. Forever. He strangled the emotions. If the world would not know his power, the forest would. A grim satisfaction rippled over him.


A walk in the forest accompanied only by the songs of birds, the crunch of dried leaves and the almost thunderous sound of branches breaking beneath the Walkers feet. The forest does not bother the Walker for it knows that the Walker will not bother it. The Walker has walked through many forests and it will walk through many more, without knowing its purpose or the destination. Alas, the Walker does not care, for it knows that the forest is ever changing even though the Walker must stay the same. The Walker is the only constant in this world, unifying the ever changing with the constant in a battle that is as constant and ever changing as the things that it connects. Chaos and order, exisiting in harmony. A violent waterfall and a frozen lake, existing at the same place and time for that is how it has always been. And that is how it will always be for that is the job of the Walker. The work of many now done by one for that is how it is. The Walker gave up his home and friends to lift this burden but it does not care, it knew its fate, just like the ones before it. The weak ones, ones who could not do what the Walker is accomplishing every second, minute, hour. But it does not relish in pride for it goes hand in hand with arrogance. A walk on the beach, accompanied only by the songs of other birds, threatening crashes of waves and calming grains of sand, thrown in the air by the Walker. The Walker does not bother the beach since it knows that the beach will bother it anyway. The Walker has walked on many beaches and it will walk on many more, it knows its purpose but the destination is unknown to it. The Walker only cares for the path in front of it for it knows that the path bends and twists to trick it. Alas, it can not be tricked for it is not the Walkers purpose. The Walker knows the ever changing truth that it is meant to bringing stillnes and order to. It also knows that it can never succeed for there is no one absolute truth for that would mean there is no chaos. The Walker knows that there are more like him but he can not interact with them for it may spread knowledge that is forbidden to the others. The Walker can not see the future for there are infinite futures as such it focuses only on the next step to take. It is always thinking and no thought is forbidden to it for it knows the path it must always take and may not stray from said path. It is the bridge between smart and wise, the ability to use knowledge, not just accumulate it. There may not be truth without lies so the Walker must lie to itself about the future and what its destination holds, for that is how it must always be. A walk through the ocean, accompanied only by the calming sound of waves forming and crashing into eachother, the violent gusts of wind and the careless sway of seaweed which the Walker tries to mimic. The ocean does not bother the Walker for it knows that the Walker will bother it anyway. The walker has been taken to many oceans and it will be taken to many more, it knows its destination but its purpose is unknown to it. The Walker hums to itself the rhythm of nature for that is the only thing it is allowed to do. The rhythm may not be known by anyone else for that would reveal too much truth. The Walker can never reach its destination since the way to the destination is unknown to it. The Walker goes along with the currents of the ocean, letting the ocean choose its path. The Walker may not make its own decisions for that would reveal its purpose to it. The walker observes the creatures of the ocean, for they may give directions to the walker, which it is too blind to see. The walker does not look down upon creatures because of what they are, that is beneath it. The creatures of the sea give hints to the Walker, it rarely sees those hints but it is eternally grateful to the creatures. Alas, the walker does not dare to love for it goes hand in hand with hate.


MERMAIDS DON’T EXIST When I was fourteen my father died speaking of mermaids. I remember that clean but unpleasant hospital smell and the last hacking cough he gave before telling me the very thing that stuck with me all the way until that night under the moon at Five Mile Lake, and further beyond. “Mermaids are magic,” he said to me. “I’ve seen them, and you know what—I’ve regretted never catchin’ that magic ever since. You ever see the other side of the world, son, you hold onto it. It’s worth it.” I had no idea what he was talking about. The doctors told us that the cancer he had was so rapid and aggressive at the time that he was just babbling nonsense. Mom would sit and tut, and then say she had to go to work. Mom never really seemed interested at the end of dad’s life because to her it was just another thing—another obstacle to overcome before she got her pay\-stub. Nothing he’d said to her really bothered her, and whenever he spoke in riddles, she’d just tut and shake her head, and act like us two weren’t really there. I grew up thinking that the two of them weren’t so much a married couple as much as a necessity for me. I didn’t feel any love between them, and my father seemed to be more focused on throwing himself into fantastical tales of a life that I was sure he hadn’t lived. My mother seemed to just be a straight\-cut, boring person who had no time for Dad’s bullshit. I never really believed the stories Dad told me. I stopped expecting Santa to come every Christmas when I was six and caught him munching on the mince pie that we left outside my door for Saint Nick. He always liked myths and mystery. He’d tell me stories of when he used to travel in his younger days—stories of meeting giants in Scotland that lived in caves, or when he met Bigfoot in Oregon. “He’s a kind soul. Loves privacy, but hates cats.” I’d listen intently, always wondering if those tales were true but as I got older, the mystery gave way to understanding of why parents give kids those false hopes and I simply stopped believing in what I’d never seen. When He finally died it was a rainy Tuesday, and he’d passed in his sleep before we got there. Mom shed a few tears and then told me she was late for work. She kissed her husband goodbye as if he was a distant friend, let out a final sob, and left. I felt the cold, stiff hands of my father, wondering if life had ever gone through the veins—had blood really flowed in this wax sculpture that resembled my big, old dad? Yet the words that hung in my head were about the mermaids, and I never really knew why. I realized I’d never again hear his wacky tales, or spend an afternoon with him at the lake. Soft tears stained my cheeks. And then I left my father in that room, and caught the bus back to the empty house. After the funeral I didn’t do much. The holidays from school had begun a week before I’d decided I’d spend them where me and Dad spent most of our time; Five Mile Lake—it wasn’t the most original name but it stuck with us because it made sense. It was a huge hole that was shaped like the number eight The first part was a mile long and the small gap gave way to four miles wide of water that flowed into the river out of the county. Jagged rocks filled the edges of the place on the Southern side, and it was a very secluded spot all of the time. I remember spending weekends with Dad, fishing away until the late hours, cooking them on a small BBQ he’d always bring. As we sat, camped on the soft grassy embankment on the Northern side, I’d sit and listen to his stories; tales of how he befriended a clan of giants in Scotland was one of my favourites. Now it was just me, alone, with a fishing rod on a grey\-skied Friday. This had been the sixth day in a row I’d come down here, and I had no complaints. My friend would only yammer on about things I couldn’t muster the energy to listen to. Max would talk about video\-games, while Cassie would talk about her latest boyfriend, and Aaron would just ask if anybody wanted to smoke. I didn’t catch anything—I hadn’t in the whole six days. It didn’t matter. Being here just made the pain of losing Dad a little less hurtful and that’s all I was looking for. I casted my rod out again with a maggot on it for bait. I watched the orange tipped float as it bobbed against the water and there it stayed until— It went under the water but never came back up. I tightened my hands around the rod and yanked it back. My other hand went to the tackle and I began spinning the handle—it clicked rapidly as I yanked it back harder with gritted teeth. Something was pulling against the line. “Come on,” I said, suddenly getting into it. Whatever it was, *it was big.* I pulled harder but it was like I was trying to pull a rock out from under the water somewhere. Then my rod suddenly flew from my hands as if the fish had decided to grow arms and snatch it. I let out a gasp as I watched my father’s rod go flying into the water and away like the speed of light. “Holy crap!” I yelled as I watched it go. *What had I almost caught?* *Maybe a mermaid,* I heard my father’s voice say. Oh yeah, I thought. Of course, Dad. It must have been one because you would have said so. I sat back on the rocky embankment and sighed. It must have been huge to pull my rod out my hands. After astonishment, sadness followed as I realized I’d lost my father’s last fishing rod. It wasn’t a good thing to feel after losing him. I stayed on the rocks for a while longer and tried to swallow the lump in my throat. *I’m sorry, Dad. I didn’t mean to lose it.* But knowing him, he’d simply tell me to not worry about it. That made me feel even worse somehow. 2 My friends had decided to surprise me a week later by showing up to the lake an hour after I did. Aaaron with his pack of cigarettes he’d stolen from his mother, Cassie with her phone glued to her hand, and Max who was playing away on whatever new type of handheld gaming gadget had come out. “Hey, Ropey,” said Aaron as he came and sat down on the embankment with me, running a hand through his fair, whitish hair. By then I’d managed to find my older rod—sturdy as ever and I kept my attention on it firmly, for fear the secret monster would pull it away from me again. “What do you guys want?” I grunted. “Wanted to come see you is all,” said Cassie, still typing away on her phone. The last I’d heard she was now with up with Jake Baxter after dumping Phillip Walker because their two week relationship was “nearing its end.” Aaron was already underway in lighting up a cigarette, and not even inhaling it. Max was sat on a rock higher up, nose\-deep in his game. “Alright,” I mustered, already wanting to be left alone. “It’s so hot today,” said Max as he kept his eyes on the game. “We should go swimming.” “Cassie’d have to drop her phone for three minutes and she can’t have that, can she?” said Aaron with a sarcastic tone. “Oh piss off,” she hissed back. She turned her attention back to me as she pocketed her phone. “We heard about your dad. It’s not a good time we know.” *Just leave me alone.* I didn’t want to be around people right now. Looking back at that time it was the worst mourning period, and everything people said felt fake to me. I’d heard it all through school and seen it. The weird looks and teachers offering their sympathies. It all felt like complete bollocks. I didn’t like being near my own mother at that point so what made them think they were special? I decided I’d humour them; the sooner I complied, the sooner they’d leave. I took my top off and told them we should just go for a swim. They all followed behind me as I removed my shoes and socks. Only my joggers were left. The sun was baking but as I stepped into the lake, it might as well have been the arctic. I dunked my head under and bobbed back up, waiting to get used to it. “That’s better,” yelled Aaron behind me. I swam as fast as I could away from them. Their voices grew distant behind me as I moved, my hands thrashing over me as I tried to swim harder and faster until my lungs were smoking with fire. Behind me, the three of them were playing around in the shallow end. I turned back to swim further in. My Dad told me that the middle of the first hole was the deepest part and the further away from them I was, the better. I kept swimming until finally I couldn’t feel the wet earth beneath my feet and then kept moving anyway. I took a break when I’d made it to the middle of the lake. *That’s better* I thought as I laid back to float. My arms and legs felt hot from the constant movement, and I felt like I was suffocating. My friends didn’t make any attempt to come out, but I could hear Cassie and Aaron arguing in the distance. I floated alone, looking up at the clear blue sky. It was nice being out here listening to the water sloshing around me; the birds in the trees that surrounded the lake were almost yelling in a choir. And then I felt it. Something slid under my legs. I thrashed onto my front then. Whatever it was, it wasn’t an ordinary fish. I remembered the thing I’d almost caught and the first word that came into my mind was *shark.* I felt the fins of it bash me. My heart raced faster than it had when I’d swam out here. I moved as fast as I could, swimming as hard as I could push myself. I knew there were no sharks in the lake, but I didn’t want whatever that was to touch me again. It was a scary thought, never knowing what lurked under murky water. I swallowed mouthfuls of air and liquid as I panicked until finally soft mud welcomed my feet. Every stride I took was huge as I tried to put distance between me and whatever it was out then. When the water was to my knees I bent over and felt as if I was going to throw up. With a turn of my head, still gasping for air, I looked to where I’d been and for the briefest moment before it bobbed back under the water, I could have sworn I’d seen a girl with dark red hair, staring at me. 3 I knew what I’d seen, but the three of them didn’t believe me of course. After air had returned in my lungs, I told them what happened but they told me to stop taking the piss. They decided not to stick around after that, suddenly feeling weird around me. I happily watched them leave, knowing they’d probably tell people I was being weird but I never was worried about that kind of stuff. I sat back on the rocks and looked out, scanning for any sudden appearances of the girl but nothing else came that day. I knew I wasn’t going insane, that there was *something* out there. I wasn’t going to just give up; I had a plan. I went home and packed a tent, and grabbed my father’s old electric cooker. I packed up enough food for the night, a pair of binoculars, and some other surveillance gear. I told mom I was going to go camping at the lake with Aaron. She told me to keep my phone on at all times and she’d call me when she got back from work. I told her I would. I knew she’d never let me stay there alone, so I threw in the lie for comfort. She wouldn’t care enough to call Aaron’s mom anyway. When I returned, I decided to camp on the grassy embankment on the North side. I was going to find out if there really was a girl in the lake. I set up the small, blue tent, set up my sleeping space, and made sure to keep some lanterns out for when it got dark. Luckily Dad had four solar\-panelled ones that were fully charged, and they’d last throughout the night. It was just a waiting game, I figured. There was no changes for the remainder of the day. I kept my binoculars on the lake that showed no changes. Every so often I’d see a little bob of a fish and my heart would race. I’d feel doubt every so often and remember the looks Aaron, Cassie, and Max had given me. A voice inside would say “give up,” but then I’d remember the cold, scaly feeling on my legs and I’d press on. When it started to get dark I decided to just sleep and try again tomorrow. Even the girl needed to sleep, right? I kept a lantern on and sat outside for a bit longer but there still wasn’t any movement and I was feeling sleepy. What if it really was just me over\-thinking? Come tomorrow, I decided I’d simply pack up and stop trying to chase whatever it was I *thought* I saw. I was acting stupid. There was nobody in the lake, and whatever I’d felt was just a big fish—the same big fish who’d taken my Dad’s rod.* Whatever. It could keep it*. I was going home in the morning and forgetting about the girl in the lake. The more I thought about it, the more stupid I felt. I stared up at the ceiling of the tent and didn’t feel tired as I lay there. I felt something, I know I did. This whole thing felt like it was a waste of time. I got up and went out to sit in the dark with only the lantern lighting up next to me. My friends were right, I was being an idiot. I slumped into the chair and looked out at the lake; the moon rippled in the water as if somebody had thrown a rock in. They moved slowly. The moon greeted me and I let out a sigh. *Was this me just missing Dad? Holding onto something he said?* “Hello,” said somebody. I looked at the lake. Nothing but the sound of crickets filled the air. *Did I just hear that in my head?* “Hello,” they repeated. *It sounded like a girl.* I grabbed the lantern and got up, slowly approaching the edge of the embankment. Below it there was a three foot drop into the water, and at the bottom of it was a girl half\-submerged in the water; *a girl with red hair.* I knelt down and raised the lantern. She wasn’t wearing anything up top, but I couldn’t tell because she was laid on her front in the mud. I lowered the lantern more and saw why she’d been submerged halfway. Her other half was not a pair of legs—but a purple and reddish coloured fin which swayed in the water hypnotically. *Holy crap.*I recoiled and ran towards my tent; all air escaping me in a scream. I kept it up as I fumbled for the zip. I managed to slide it all the way around and then dived under my sleeping bag, breathing heavily and telling myself I had, in fact, gone insane. “Excuse me,” I heard the thing yell. “Go away!” I yelled back. “But—“ “I said go away!” I took a deep breath. “You ain’t real!” I wasn’t talking to a mermaid, that’s impossible. But her voice seemed real enough. I took a second to catch my breath. No, I was imagining things. I was tired, and I’d just lost my Dad. Weirder things happened when you lost people. I’d seen it in movies. This one time, a guy lost his wife and decided to go and kill a bunch of people for revenge. It’d have been a different movie if he imagined mermaids, I thought. “You still there?” I called out. “Yeah. Duh,” she replied. I zipped open the tent a little and peered out. She was sat on the embankment now. I could see her fully as I’d dropped the lantern close by. Her chest seemed to be covered by a thin veil of skin which covered her top part, and her hair seemed dry, and almost glowing with a faint purplish and reddish glaze. “You stay there!” I said. “Okay,” she replied. I zipped open the tent all the way but stayed inside it, my head hidden by the top flap. I could hear her outside but she refused to move, and we stayed in silence. This was a dream, it had to be. I was trying to wrap my mind around the idea of what I was seeing, and remembering my Dad. If he’d been telling the truth about mermaids, what else was out there? Were ghosts and goblins hiding away? Were there giants in Scotland? I knelt down and looked at her. She seemed to be at ease, leaning back on her palms and looking up at the sky. “I’m gonna come out, slowly. Don’t move or nothing,” I said as I edged a foot out of the tent. She didn’t acknowledge me. I moved closer, stretching a hand out as I took another step closer. There wasn’t much between us. I made it so there was about six feet of space so she couldn’t grab me. When she looked at me my legs turned to jelly and I fell down, flabbergasted. Air escaped my lungs and I let out a quiet “wow,” as I looked at her. “You’re real. I’m not...imagining this am I, I must be?” “I don’t think so,” she replied. Her accent sounded Irish, but I wasn’t entirely sure. She turned to look at me and in the light I got a close up look of her. She had a soft, round nose and pale skin. Her eyes were a bright, very bright shade of purple, and she was short, shorter than I was. The thin veil of skin over her seemed like fabric. Her hair seemed to be dry, as if it’d never been touched by water at all. Her eyes shimmered brighter against the light of the lantern. She smiled at me and I looked at her closely. “Are you a...you know what the name is?” “*We* don’t call ourselves that, that’s a made up name. But you can’t pronounce how I’d say it anyway,” she said with a shrug. *Okay, so she talks. She shrugs. She’s got an attidue.* “Woah,” I replied, looking her over. “Do you have a name?” “I do but I don’t think you can pronounce that either. I think in this speech it sounds very close to Eily but I could be wrong.” “Are you going to eat me?” Her eyes widened and she let out a laugh that floated in the air like a melody. “No I don’t eat people. Where’d you hear that?” “Old stories about sailors and stuff. I read in a book once that mermaids lure sailors away and eat them.” “Whoever wrote that never met one then. I don’t eat people. I don’t plan on eating you. I can’t say the same for you though,” she said as she span and planted her fin on the embankment. “What were you going to do when you caught me? Cook me?” I looked down and noticed the familiar, silver hook that had once been attached to my father’s rod. *It was her,* I thought. I’d snagged her with it and she’d swam away. I looked to her and had never felt so bad in my life. I wasn’t one for torturing animals; I even felt a kind of sorrow whenever I stepped on slugs and snails when they made their journeys through streets after heavy rain. That felt similar to how I felt then. “That was you! I’m sorry—I didn’t know. I thought I’d caught a shark or something.” “In England? In a lake? Boy you are stupid,” she said as she touched the hook, and let out a wince. I looked down at it and then slowly edged forward. “Do you want me to help you get it out?” “Would ya, please? It’s killing me. Every time I touch the bastard thing it sends pains up my fin.” “Wait there,” I said as I got up and went back into the tent. I looked around for the fishing box I always bought and opened it to look for something useful. I lifted the second part of it and pulled out a pair of wire cutters and pliers. Eily hadn’t moved since I’d ran in, and even then I still thought I was imagining all of this. She was still prodding the hook. It felt like something out of a movie. Half excitement, half worry went through me as I expected to wake up any second to the sound of the empty lake, but it never came. I sat down and told her to sit still. She raised her fin and put it over my legs as I bought the lantern up to examine the hook. It was like a huge fish was on top of me. I remembered being in the lake and feeling the same feeling under me. I slowly put the wire\-cutters around the hook. “Was that you I felt in the water earlier?” I asked as I examined the hook. “Yes. You were laying there and you hurt me. I wanted to scare you.” “You did. I almost crapped myself.” “I’m glad you didn’t. I like the lake clean,” she said with a laugh. “Me too,” I said as I snipped the hook off. She let out a high\-pitched gasp as I slid out the straight bit of metal, leaving only a small, red hole in the thin membrane of the fin. She lifted it up and examined it. I held the lantern up to help her see and she let out a sigh of relief. She laid down on her back. “That feels a thousand times better, thank Christ.”*Mermaids were religious?* “Happy to help,” I replied, still staring at her. I didn’t want her to disappear. She looked back to the lake and I decided I wanted her to stick around. It wasn’t every day people saw magical stuff like this. If she was going to go, then I wanted to make sure we could see each other again. “So do you live here?” “I’m sixteen—I don’t live here I live with a group of us.” “Oh, a family?” “Yeah. We travel in groups a lot, but my family live on the coast not far from here. I come here most days. I like it up here, it’s really quiet.” “Are you Irish?” “I have a lot of family on the coast and in Ireland,” she said quietly, still staring out at the lake. “I like the quiet too.” She turned back to me. “What about you? Family?” “Just my Mom. Dad died a few weeks ago. That’s about it really,” I said with a shrug. “That’s not good. Was that the man I saw you with here?” “You were watching me then?” “Well yeah—I’ve been here for years. I’d move here if I could.” “Why don’t you?” “I don’t get to live freely until I’m eighteen. It’s sort of a tradition. Too much to explain really. But it gets lonely out with my family, and boring.” “That makes two of us. My mother isn’t around much.” She smiled then and I moved back a little. “What?” “You’re the first person I’ve spoken to from the land is all. It...feels nice. Having a real conversation.” “I like it too,” I replied. We spoke for hours that felt like minutes. I learnt a lot about her in that first night. She would tell me about her family, all of them were what she called Echbiphilads—but said Mermaids was the easier way to say it if it suited me. I told her about my father, and my life before he died. We spoke until she felt she had to dip back into the water, and even then we spoke until the sun started to rise. I found out that mermaids don’t eat people, but choose to eat fish and other things which made me feel better. Before I could ask her anything else, she told me she had to go, and that her father was calling her. I told her I couldn’t hear anything and she laughed again. As she began to swim away I called out to her. “Can I see you again?” “Tomorrow,” she said, her head bobbing under the water. I went to say goodbye but she was already gone, and the only thing to prove she was real was the two pieces of the silver hook which lay at my feet.


As the blue in the sky turned to black and stars began to shimmer, a harsh wind picked up. Drakaith tightened his new cloak around him. A bit of dried blood flaked off against his knuckles. The former owner of the cloak had been just the right size, it was neither too long and dragged on the ground, nor too short, allowing wind to billow inside. A very suitable cloak, he thought. Stepping to the edge of a small clearing Drakaith came to a stop. This was where his father had taught him to swing an axe for the first time. He must have been only ten summers old, but the lesson was harsh, physically demanding, with a teacher who wanted only one thing; exhaustion. First he had used small branches, then they had progressed on to larger ones. The size of the axe matched the size of the log. Father enjoyed the admiration from being the most skilled tree cutter in the forest and he was determined for his son to follow suit. Hours of punishment followed. Drakaith had enjoyed it to start with. The art of the swing, the aim of the sharp head, the thrill of the split. He swung away imagining each new branch was a fresh victim, ready to behead. His father praised his natural ability. The first kind words he had ever heard him utter. The pride was short\-lived however, for soon the skin started to rub away on his young hands and the blisters made the boy want to stop. This only encouraged his father. Blisters were a sign you were doing it right. “Be proud of them and hack harder. Pain purifies the soul.” he’d said. Drakaith chuckled. He was right about that at least. The branches of the trees above were still, all around him, yet the wind came blowing through. Not a noise. He stepped away from the tree next to him, his mind slipping back into cautiousness. He felt unwelcome. Something he was used to, but something to be mindful of all the same. A glinting in the grass ahead caught his eye. Looking around he walked out into the middle of the clearing and knelt down. A small silver coin was wedged in the mud. Picking it up, he wiped it on his cloak and moved to put it in his pouch with the few others he’d recently acquired. As he opened the pouch, he stopped. He was being watched. He closed his eyes and felt the magpie staring at him. He probed its thoughts. Nothing. The magpie flew down and stood on a tree stump staring at him. He opened his eyes and glared. The magpie glared back. “Silver for the season, a peck for the neck, reason is treason.” What a peculiar thought, considered Drakaith. The magpie cocked its head. Drakaith let his own thoughts speak to the creature, his mouth unmoving. “Nod your head if you would like this silver coin.” The magpie nodded. “Nod your head if you will peck me if I don’t give it to you.” The magpie nodded again. “Would you like a dull bronze coin instead? Nod for yes.” The magpie didn’t move. Drakaith looked around. The magpie stayed where it was. Reason is treason, which means he doesn’t want to be asked why he wants the silver. He just wants it. He’ll peck me if I don’t give it to him. But perhaps he’ll give me something for it. That’s what they do in the Iron City he had heard. His father would make the trip once a year, pulling his cart, filled with different samples of rare wood he had cut, some he had shaped. In return for the wood, they gave him little silver coins and a few dull ones too of bronze and copper. These coins sat in a jar, hidden underneath the cooking fire. Drakaith had watched his father dig the hole and hide them there. The coin meant nothing to him, but it obviously did to this magpie. Perhaps he could be useful. “The silver is yours if you find me… a snake.” The magpie shuffled slightly, seemingly deliberating the offer. With a flap of the wings it took off, soaring up into the sky and was gone. Drakaith put the coin in the pouch and sat down on the tree stump. The wind continued to blow, but the forest was silent still. Had he known there was so much more to the wilderness he would have paid it more attention. Living here, with such a dull tribe as the Poastas Clan, he had been more interested in the things no one else dared talk about. Death, sickness, pain. The Soothsayer once said he may become a healer, but the Poastas Clan did not have a healer and had no one to teach him, so the elders made him learn to swing an axe. His father was most pleased. Ironic that an axe to his chest had killed his father then. He’d thought that at the time. The arrival of the raiders was not a surprise to Drakaith. He’d watched them approach throughout the day, staying just out of their sight. When they reached the Poastas camp, he was safely hidden in a hollowed tree, with a perfect view hole to watch the slaughter. The axe that struck his father was unlike ay he had ever seen. Double edged, with a purple coloured grip at the base of the handle. It was made for killing, not tree cutting. That was obvious. The Poastas camp held about thirty people altogether. Seven families, with three elders who had lost their families to sickness. There were meant to be lots of different tribes in the forest, but with strict rules about where you could wander, Drakaith had never seen any. Until that day. There were fourteen of them. Six men, four boys and four women. Faces painted, carrying flaming torches. When they approached the Poastas men and women didn’t know what to do. A confrontation was obviously about to take place, but with so little interaction with outsiders, they were unaware of the danger. Emelles, the eldest daughter of the largest family, stood tall and proud as they approached. Drakaith had always admired her, she never did what she was told, unless she wanted to. She was fierce. Everyone knew she would be the camp leader when she became an elder. But that was many years away. The warriors carried weapons of all shapes and sizes. None as impressive as the axe, but still dangerous looking all the same. Emelles beat her shoulder twice, as is the Poastas custom. A tall dark haired man smiled, the paint on his face cracking as he did so. Then he thrust his sword under her chin. He did it with such ease. No second thought. No hesitation. Just like father cutting down a tree, he had thought. Swift. Decisive. Emelles had shuddered and then the sword was withdrawn and her body simply slumped to the floor. Blood staining the earth. Drakaith saw his mother grabbed from behind and her throat slit, as father begged them to leave. For such a stern man, he had broken so easily. As soon as the killing began, he fell to his knees. Others looked to him, hoping he might swing his axe. But he didn’t. He fell to his knees and begged. The dark haired man grabbed his head and put out his eyes. The screams were horrible. Then the axe came. If it wasn’t for his brother Kagraith arriving behind him, he would have stayed until the end. He would have enjoyed that. He had heard that the corpses go hard to the touch a while after Death had finished with them. That’s how Death knew he had done his job properly. He’d always wanted to touch a hard body. He had touched several now of course, prodding them each time with fascination and wonder. Grampian the hunter was the last of the Poastas to face the killers. When he rushed in, sweat glistening and muscles bulging, he had screamed a sort of war cry. He beheaded the first attacker, then swung and threw a knife into the back of another. Kagraith was crying and would make too much noise, so Drakaith grabbed his hand and ran deep into the forest. He still wondered how Grampian had died. Quickly most likely. A shrill ‘caw’ from above made Drakaith jump. He looked up to see the bird up above, circling him. It flew away, delving deeper into the forest. Drakaith followed. The bird would hover for a moment, to allow him to catch up, then continue deeper and deeper into the forest. Drakaith could hear no thoughts from the bird and so kept his eyes alert. Snakes were hard to find and always dangerous. As they moved past a small bubbling brook, the bird suddenly swooped low and then landed gently on a branch. Staring intently into a thick patch of grass and nettles. Drakaith took a deep breath and closed his eyes. His mind searching for thoughts of the snake. Nothing came to him. Some animals he could hear their every whim, others nothing at all, a few, like the magpie, he could get small scraps. Enough to have a conversation, or give an order. The snake it seemed, had no such connection with him. It simply stayed very still, watching him. Drakaith wanted to know what logic was behind the communication. Why some and not others? But these were answers he would need to be patient for. They would come, he thought. A noxious smell rose from the snake, Drakaith hawked and spat on the floor. He hated this smell, truth be told, he hated snakes in general. It was a shame he could not communicate with it, out of all the animals he felt a snake would be both wise and interesting. Instead it was no more than a nuisance. Sensing the rising danger, the snake coiled itself into a striking position. Drakaith grinned. The snake lifted its head, bearing two venomous fangs. Drakaith willed the snake to lift its tail. It did. The tail slowly uncoiled and lifted up next to the head. Bite down, he willed. The snake slowly took the tail in its mouth and sank its fangs deep into the scaled flesh. After a few moments the venom kicked in and the snake performed a sort of dance of death. Spasms throwing it around, the tail thrashing wildly. Drakaith was fascinated. Such pain he had never seen before. Not like this. Perhaps finding some more snakes could be useful. If he could harvest their venom he would be able to make a human dance in this way. It would surely make their soul taste all the better for it? As the snake came to its final position, dead on the floor, the magpie swiftly landed next to it, staring intently at Drakaith. The bird had come for what was rightfully his. Drakaith fished in his pouch and pulled out the shiny coin. The bird shivered, excited by the prospect of receiving this delightfully polished piece of metal. Drakaith hesitated. The bird cocked its head. “Come and find me tomorrow and I will have more shiny pieces for you.” the boy spoke. “Peck the snake if you would like that.” The magpie shivered and pecked the dead snake. “Very well, see you tomorrow.” He tossed the coin to the floor, the magpie quick as a flash snapped it up and was gone. Drakaith watched it fly away. I think I shall call you Shivvers he thought smugly. A very useful bird. Drakaith picked up the dead snake and walked back towards his village. He’d need some more coins and there was only one place he knew that had some. Under the kitchen fire. He wondered what state the place would have been left in after the killers had finished. Perhaps they had burnt it down, they had flaming torches after all. He dismissed the idea, a fire would not be a smart thing to start in a forest. Perhaps he would find an axe, not that he had a use for it, but it would be nice to have. An axe would go well with his cloak, especially the purple handled one. Such a thought filled him with purpose and he strode on, past the markings on the trees that signalled he was entering what used to be known as Poastas territory. Shafts of light had begun to break through the trees as morning approached. Shivvers would find him soon and there was much to be done he grinned.


I endlessly floated in the tapestry of space for an unknown length of time; maybe days, maybe weeks, maybe years — I couldn’t tell and I lost count after a day or two. In that time I thought about the day Death came to me. I was sitting in my living room, reading a book, when a burning pain exploded over my chest. I gripped my chest, dug my nails into my flesh, as if I could reach into my body and rip the problem out with my own two hands. I couldn’t catch my breath, no matter how much I gulped up the air. Sweat and tears streaked my beet-red face as I toppled onto the floor. I struggled to stand, get to the phone sitting on the kitchen counter, but my body wouldn't listen to anything beyond the sharp, enveloping pain piercing through me. Then, he appeared, looming like a black monolith. His tattered black robes slithered in the air like coils, melting, moving, across the carpet, up the walls, sticking to the ceiling. Oily tar dripped from the cloth stalactites that formed above him, hissing as it hit the floor, burning holes. Putrid decay wafted through the apartment like a breeze from the dankest, deepest well, housing corpses upon corpses long perished. A fine, greenish fog billowed out from his black, bottomless hood, drifting over everything, making my once livable apartment until a swamp without the murk, mud, or water. “I’ve come to take you,” he said with a hollow, deep voice. Somewhere in the distance dogs began to yelp, and cats hissed. “No— please,” I grunted, turning over onto my back, the pain ebbing like waves of fire. “I’ll do— anything— please.” Death glanced over my apartment, then looked down to me. His cloak vanished, the fog dissipated; the smell, the oily tar; everything disappeared. He store before me in a black suit, gleaming black shoes, with a overhanging hood over his head, casting his face in impenetrable shadows. “This is such a small place to live in and, look, you don’t even have a view.” He glided across the floor to the french doors, overlooking the small grassy lot in between apartment complexes. Death threw open the doors, and leaned out over the painted chipped railing. He inhaled heavily, then coughed. “And, God, it smells, too.” He returned inside, without closing the doors, and appeared before me again. If it wasn’t for the pain or for me slowly dying, I would’ve wondered why Death was so strange. “Life,” I gasped. “What?” He bent forward. “Didn’t hear you, sorry, you have to speak up.” “Life!” He laughed, holding his stomach and leaning back. “Life!" he bellowed, ash puffed out from the hood, forming small motes in the air. "Why does everyone want more than what they have? ‘Give me more! I don’t deserve to die yet! Please, please! I have kids! I have a family! I have a level 83 monk with ultra-rare armor! Blah blah blah!‘ Annoying species, you are. You know some animals accept and recognize when their time comes? They make the best of what they have, lie down and let go? Why can’t humans be like that? They always want more, stay just a little bit longer, as if that extra time mattered at all, even if it’s for naught. “But luckily for you, you poor, poor soul, you began dying at the right time. I’ve been meaning to test this out, so why not now? I will grant you immortality, but once all human life has ended, I will come to you and take you to the other side. No more begging, no more pleading, no more asking for more; you will accept it without question. Got it?” He knelt and poked my forehead with his pointer finger, stripped of flesh, blood, muscle; a long, thin bone. A cold, numbing sensation spread across my face, settling in the back of my head. It oddly feel soothing, like an icy snake flowing through my veins, wrapping around my organs, settling my innards down for a long, comfortable sleep. “That sound good to you?” I nodded, feverishly. "Yes, please—" “Fine, then let's begin” He took his finger away, then spread his open, skeletal palm over my face, and a Novocain numbness and winter frigidness flooded through me, and I immediately blacked out. When I came to, maybe three weeks later, I was still on the carpet. Slowly I got up, switched on the TV, and went into the kitchen. The news announcer said that scientists have discovered that the earth was on the brink of exploding — something to do with the inner core, atoms, implosion — and soon thereafter, the sun would soon follow-suit by dying out. And now I was there, sometime later, endlessly floating in space. The Earth exploded and the Sun died out, blackness gave way to more blackness. “Looks like you’re in a pickle. Pick, pick, pickle.” He laughed from somewhere in the nothingness surrounding me. “God I loved that show. Too bad I’ll never see a reunion or a reboot.” “Just kill me already.” I said, flatly. “Oh? Yes, I almost forgot... No, no, I won’t be killing you, not now, or anytime soon I'd think, at least.” I strained my eyes to look into the darkness in front of me, seeing nothing, then looked over my shoulder to receive the same results. Where the hell was here? “What— Why?” “You’re not the only human who survived.” “Bullshit.” “No — you would think that — but no. There’s still a couple hundred floating elsewhere in this darkness; some rich folk were smart enough to build their own space shuttles before disaster struck and what-not so they could live in space. I think they’re trying to find a sustainable life on other planets.” “But, but—” “You accepted the bargain, now you must deal with it.” “But I’m out here! In the middle of fucking nowhere, literal nothingness!” Before his voice disappeared, he said, “Like the old saying goes, 'Don’t ask for what you can’t handle.


The Suicide Police S. A. Tawks ~~~~~~~~~~~ “What made you join the force?” he asks. “My brother killed himself,” she replies. “Ah,” he says as he gently places his hands around the mug in front of him. “The usual reason.” “You?” She hooks a finger around the handle of her mug and waits for his response before bringing the drink to her mouth. “Previous wife. Almost ten years since I found her.” He stares into his drink like the memory is just below its surface. “Did you find your brother?” “I did,” she shares after taking a sip and swallows the caffeine. “Do you mind talking about it?” She shakes her head. “I don’t think I would’ve been able to join the force if I did mind. Not that it’s a rule. I just-- Well, you know--” “I know.” And in the look they share an understanding that does not need to be verbalised. “It’s a confronting line of work,” she says after the moment she uses to take another sip. “If just talking about it was hard for you, well, you’re probably in the wrong profession.” “Suicide,” he says bluntly. “You’re talking with a fellow officer. You don’t have to skirt around its name.” “Right.” In the silence she places her hand on the heated side of the mug. “In what state did you find your brother? If you don’t mind,” he adds, offering her an exit from the conversation. “Dead. Three days at the least. He had a place up in the mountains. Shut himself in the garage and ran his motor.” “Before or after vehicles were fitted with detectors to prevent such a method?” “After.” She shakes her head slowly and the movement runs down her arms and makes the surface of her drink ripple. “He found a way around it.” He lets out a soft sigh before, “Death finds a way.” This produces a weak nod from her and she inches her hand away from her drink. “Don’t take that the wrong way,” he says a bit louder than the volume they’ve been talking in. Her hand freezes and she looks up from her drink. Their eyes lock; hers slightly startled and his almost sleepy. “It is your task, and mine, to keep premature death at bay. Our duty is to protect and preserve life, remember?” he reminds, paraphrasing the force’s motto. “I know. But it’s a confronting line of work,” she repeats. Then adds, “A tough line of work,” as her hand finds the warmth of her mug again. He deflates slightly when her hand is back on the mug and his eyes return to a drowsy state. “Can you think of a reason why you’re beginning to question your work? Surely you can identify the good you’ve done. Imagine if an officer had been able to provide prevention for your brother. Would he not be in your life now? Would both your lives not be better off thanks to the preservation?” “I have been considering him lately,” she admits. “Is he the main reason you began doubting your job? Was it his birthday recently? Did you find some of his belongings?” She shakes her head. “I think I know what began the thoughts.” “Good,” he says encouragingly. “Being able to identify triggers are good, as you very well know. Do you want to talk about it?” “I was called--” she begins but stops when she hears a noise across the space. Her eyes shift in the direction of the sound and her hand leaves the mug again. “It’s just the refrigerators kicking in,” he assures her. He doesn’t even glance at her hand. Instead, he keeps his drowsy eyes locked on her face and tells her to continue with her recount. “I was called to the scene of a homicide. This man had murdered his wife and was threatening self-harm.” He shakes his head and issues a tut-tut sound. “Sorry. Continue. Please.” “Neighbours called the police when they heard her scream and they arrived just in time to stop him from escaping. So he was in his car, a cruiser was blocking him from getting out of his driveway, and he had a gun. The responding officers drew their weapons and this created a kind-of standoff. But he had his gun pointed at his head. One of the officers called it in and that’s when I got called out.” “How long have you been with the force?” he asks as he raises his mug. “Three months.” This makes his drowsy eyes come to life a little more and his eyebrows rise. “How long ago was this incident?” he asks after taking a generous, refreshing sip. “One month.” “That’s tough. Very tough. I’d been an officer for almost a year before I was called to an incident with a perp who has already given legitimacy to their violent threats. It’s a very hard situation.” “I shouldn’t have been assigned to it. There should be a certain kind of callout that greenhorns are excluded from. They should have called someone like you.” He takes a guess at what she’s trying to say with, “Someone with experience?” “Yes!” “The academy is designed to prepare cadets for every situation and instill the sanctity of life in all recruits. Some situations are going to be tougher than others but the aim of every job is the same. Protect and preserve life.” “But he was manipulating the system! He knew I had to make the shot if I sensed he was in danger. Now he’s in a psychiatric hospital rather than a prison!” “Have you considered that maybe he was attempting suicide by police? You are aware that prison reform and psychiatric reform have made jails seem like resorts in comparison to asylums. So if he was looking for the easy way out, he screwed that one up.” “But the amount of time he’ll have--” “Is one perp’s questionable behaviour the reason for your thoughts or are you trying to hide something?” His sleepiness has vanished and his voice has grown rougher. These changes have startled her and her hand moves the farthest from the mug since they’ve begun their talk. “Don’t!” his voice echoes around the quiet space before he continues in a gentler manner, “forfeit your control.” Her hand freezes and she lowers her palm onto the table instead of returning her fingers to the warmth of the mug. “Please. Share your feelings and thoughts. That’s the only way I can fully comprehend your situation and attempt to help you. Was it what he made you do or was it the established life he so carelessly and thoughtlessly threw away?” he tries, utilising his experience. This produces shock from her, like he’s said something personal about her that he has no way of knowing unless he has been spying on her. She places her head in her hands and gives in to the crushing weight of the world and the things in it she doesn’t understand. “Why would he do it?” she asks as the heaviness of reality squeezes tears from her eyes. “He was young, rich, successful, had two daughters and was completely healthy. Why? How? How does?” “You’re forgetting your training. It is not your role to question why some people are triggered by some things and why some people can carry heavier burdens than others. Your job is to protect and preserve life. Our success is gauged by quantity not quality. One beating heart saved from the jaws of suicide is one more job well done. And every time a saved heart beats one more beat, that’s your success as an officer growing. Let the staff of the asylums worry about the quality issue.” Her face rises from her hands and her features display the emotions he’s been hoping for the opposite of. Her complexion is a contortion of distress and hopelessness. It’s a tough gig. Sometimes an officer says what the perp wants to hear, sometimes an officer says what they think the perp needs to hear and sometimes, rarely because training usually prevents such an occurrence, an officer will be evoked by a perp, situation, setting, feeling or something else to stray from procedure. She forfeited her control more than once but he gave her more than one chance because she’s part of the force. In his book, that counts for something. She moves her hand for the revolver on the table. The revolver he talked her into setting down earlier. Her fingers touch the weapon and this is enough for her to forfeit control. No more chances. No more talking. His service weapon has been trained on her foot throughout the talk and he squeezes the trigger. The bullet burrows into the centre of her foot and the pain makes her forget about her intention with the gun. The officer gets to his feet and snatches the revolver away from the perp as he rises. “In accordance with The Suicide Prevention Act, you’re under arrest for expressing suicidal ideation in a public setting,” the officer says, gesturing to the evacuated diner. He holds her revolver up and adds, “With violent intent.” Glancing through the window beside them he beckons for the EMTs watching in the car park. As they rush inside to provide their expertise, the officer recites the words he has countless times before. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to a psychiatrist. If you cannot afford a psychiatrist, one will be provided for you. Do you understand the rights I have just read to you?” “I don’t want asylum,” she says like a scared child, the prospect making her forget the pain he has inflicted on her. “M’am, I hope you use that fear as motivation to shape a better life for yourself.” He turns away from the table as the paramedics begin their aid and exits out into the car park. Sitting in his patrol car, the officer starts the lengthy paperwork required for every incident as he waits for the next callout. His shift ends as the sun rises to begin a new day and he makes it home in time to share breakfast with his wife before she goes to work. “How was your shift?” she asks over the food in her mouth. He’s thought about his fellow officer on and off throughout shift and almost replies with, ‘I had a real tough one tonight. With all the training she had and everything she knew, it makes you wonder why she would act in such a way.’ He catches himself before speaking, thinks over his response for a moment longer and decides the thoughts are folly before he stoically replies with, “Had a tough incident. Training helped me achieve the aim. Like always.


They had lived in the house for seven months before they found the room on the second floor. It was another two months before they talked about it with each other. They were sitting on the couch in the living room, quietly sharing the space in comfort. Dean was reading a book, while Sara was working on a crossword puzzle, idly wagging her foot. The motion annoyed him, but he did his best to ignore it. He set his book down, and looked at her. “I’ve been thinking,” he said. She sighed, softly, a sign of frustration he had long learned to ignore, and looked up from her work. “You know how we’ve wanted a library? I’ve been thinking about that spare room, upstairs. It’s a little small, but I think it would do nicely.” She stared at him for a moment. “I suppose. We’re not using it for anything else,” she said. “Mmm,” he answered, turning back to his book. After a moment, he looked up again. “Why aren’t we?” he asked. “‘Why aren’t we’, what?” Sara asked. He turned on the couch to face her. “Why aren’t we using that room for something else?” “I don’t know,” she said. “We just haven’t had a need for it, I guess.” “Well, that’s not true. We complained about the boxes we didn’t unpack for months. They were stacked in the hallway; we could have put them in that room, out of the way.” Sara shrugged. “I guess,” she said. “I don’t know why we wouldn’t have done that,” Dean said. After a moment, he chuckled. “Honestly, now that I think about it, I don’t remember seeing that room when we were looking at the place, before we bought it.” Sara shook her head. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “Of course we saw it. We just . . . never used it.” “Are you sure? I really don’t remember it.” Sara stood up. “Of course I’m sure, Dean. You don’t forget a room in your own house, and one certainly doesn’t just appear out of nowhere.” “I know that, Sara. But think about it. When we were touring the house the first time, remember? We saw the bedroom at the top of the stairs, then the bathroom down the hall. But the empty room is between them.” “So we saw it, then.” “No. I don’t think we did,” he said. “I remember commenting that the bathroom seemed small. Like there should have been a lot more room, considering how far down the hall it was. Even the realtor commented on it.” Sara was quiet for a moment. Then she turned to him with a frown. “That’s impossible. We’re just remembering it wrong, is all.” Dean stood up as well. “Are we, though? Do you remember ever going into that room?” She started to answer that of course she had, but stopped. “Yeah, me either,” he said. Without saying anything else, they both turned toward the stairs. They climbed them quickly at first, but as they approached the second floor they both slowed together, without really knowing why. Sara stopped first, three steps short of the second floor. Dean continued for two more, his foot hovering over the second floor landing, before he put it back down on the last step. He could see the door to the empty room, just down the hall. The door to the first room, which was designed as a bedroom but that they used as a small office, was open, and he could see the corner of his desk inside it. The bathroom door was open, as well, the sunlight streaming in through the window to spill out into the hall. The door they had come for stood firmly shut. Sara laughed quietly from her position behind him. The sound startled Dean, and he turned around to look at her. She looked up at him. “This is silly,” she said, and pushed past him. Even with her disdain, she hesitated to step up onto the second floor fully. Just a momentary pause, but Dean could see the clench of her jaw as she resolved herself to it. Once she placed her foot down, however, she moved quickly to the door. She was there before he left the stairs, and she waited for him. At the door, Dean couldn’t shake the feeling that it was cold here, for some reason. Which was impossible, of course. They stared at the doorknob together, not saying anything, for several minutes. Both had their own thoughts about it, and couldn’t have explained them to anyone who asked, but they silently agreed, after several minutes, to reach out together. Their hands touched each other as they touched the knob, and they froze, looking at each other. She smiled nervously, and nodded at him. They turned the knob together, and pushed on the door. It swung open slowly, heavily, like the solid oak doors of a church. They turned, together, to look inside. The room was bare, with hardwood floors and wallpaper that was starting to peel. It didn’t match the rest of the house. The air smelled stale and dry, and dust motes danced in the light from the small window. The window was also mismatched to the rest of the house. Smaller, with heavier woodwork around it, it looked old. Much older than the house itself, somehow. There was no closet, at least that they could see from the hall, but the space was large enough to fill the void between the bedroom and bathroom which flanked the empty room. Dean and Sara stood in the hall, staring inside, for several minutes. Without saying anything, or really knowing why, Dean finally stepped inside quickly. He was completely inside before Sara reacted, reaching out a hand to stop him, though she would not have been able to say why. He moved to the center of the room and turned to the right, then froze. Sara watched him, seeing shock fill his expression, followed by fear. She stepped inside as well, to see what Dean was seeing. In the room, against the wall shared with the other bedroom, was . . . something. Sara’s mind immediately went to mushrooms, but that was too simple. It was definitely fungal in nature, but unlike anything she had ever seen. It looked constructed, somehow, like someone or something had built a structure of spores and gills, only to have it spread up the wall in a fan of life. It seemed, impossibly, to be *moving*. Crawling and shifting, pulling nutrients from the hardwood floors and carrying them like tree sap up the wall. It was subtle, and she could only see it from the corner of her eye, but it was definitely there. “What . . . what is that?” she whispered. Dean jumped, startled by the sound, as if he had forgotten she was there. “I don’t know,” he said, and stepped toward it. “Don’t,” she said, and grabbed his arm. He pulled away from her, and knelt down in front of the odd fungal structure. “Dean, don’t. Let’s just go downstairs. We’ll call a cleaner in the morning to come take care of it.” “Hang on,” he said. “There’s something here.” He reached his hands toward the bulk of the growth, and hesitated a moment before reaching inside. The sound was waxy, and reminded Sara of her teenage summers working at a cheesemaker’s, the way the heavy rolls of cheese would grind against each other with a plastic, low squeal. A cloud of spores burst up from Dean’s hands, and he turned his face away to avoid breathing them in. “Dean, honey, let’s just go, okay? Please?” Sara was scared, and didn’t care about showing it. Whatever was there, she didn’t want to know, didn’t want to see it. She wanted to go back to not knowing about this room at all. She was backing toward the door. The sound grew louder, and she saw Dean struggling with something. “Hold on,” he said. “I almost have it.” Sara was back at the door to the room, panic filling her every breath. “Dean, please don’t. Just leave it, please, come on.” She backed out into the hall, her hand on the door ready to pull it shut. She heard something shift in the room, a heavy tearing sound, and she couldn’t help but let out a cry of her own to match. She saw Dean fall back to the floor, into view, his chest covered in dust and spores. It danced in the light from the window, and his hands were black with slime. He was staring at the wall, unmoving. “Dean? Come on, Dean. Let’s just go,” she said. She heard a wet thump from the now-hidden wall, followed by the sound of creaking wood. The air smelled thickly of old forest, loamy and warm, and she saw a heavy shape move into view, looming over Dean. Fear took over, then, and she screamed. The face that turned toward the sound was one she would never forget, hoary and malevolent, like the anger of ancient priests from some long-dead civilization. It opened a gaping mouth, and she slammed the door shut on her husband, not caring for anything other than closing away the sight of that face. She turned to the stairs and fled, Dean’s screams rising in waves behind her, still coming long after she left the house, far louder than could possibly come from any human lungs. She feared she would hear those screeches for the rest of her life, for they filled her ears even as she drove away, peeling out into the street in terror.


The room was littered with knives, small ones, big ones, ones that could kill you slowly and painfully. The man sat up in his chair, rubbing his neck nervously, his dark blue eyes searching the room, not wanting to meet the eyes of the boss. The boss with his bright green eyes sitting just below his sharply curved eyebrows, and intimidating black faux hawk hair. His diamond-shaped face held a straight, defined jawline with a rounded chin littered with stubble. His smile held two sharpened canine teeth that made him look even more intimidating The boss was wearing a nice dark red tank-top with black ripped jeans. The man kept running his fingers through his hair, adjusting his light-brown quiff. He had a square face with a normal jaw line, nothing too defined, and round eyebrows sitting above his timid eyes. “So, you want to be part of the Slanted Slashers, huh? The little betta fish wanting to join the sharks” said the boss, a grin stretching across his face. “Yes, I would, um…” the man’s eyes kept drawing to the knives, how sharp they were, how they could cut him up easily, he stared at the boss once more. The boss kept the same smart grin. “Does he know, I think he knows. All these knives, this has got to be a trap.” The man started to anxiously fiddle with something in his pocket, then set it down on the table, absentmindedly. He started to hyperventilate, the full extent of what he was doing hitting him like a slap in the face. The boss cocked an eyebrow at him “You alright there betta?” “Um, yeah, I just...need a moment. Do you have a bathroom anywhere?” the boss leaned back in his chair. “ Hey Jet! Lead this guy to the wash house.” “Yes sir” came a smooth response. A man with beady brown eyes came out, a smirk fixed on his face. The man noticed his skeletal body, with a triangle face that seemed gaunt, and hair that seemed bleached so many times that it had lost its color. Jet led the man outside and directed him towards a small rickety shack with the words “Slanted Slashers” spray painted in red on the side. As the man walked up to the door he could feel rain start to patter on top of his head. The man walked inside and noticed the dark, disgusting lighting in the shack, the color pallete all browns and greys. He shut the door tightly, because the lock was not working at all. The man started taking deep breaths to get him ready for what he had to do. He tried to turn on the faucet, but all it did was give out a pathetic sputter. He decided to just take off his glasses and let the colorless blobs of the washroom wash over him like a nice, calming wave. Then, when he was nice and calm, put his glasses back on. The man examined himself in the mirror ,studying what he was wearing. He had on a roughed up T-shirt with a picture of Coolio Dogg (an adult cartoon that the man hated) saying his famous catchphrase“Yo, You Dogg ugly”. He was also wearing a pair of khakis and some bright neon Slips, a popular shoe brand that combined comfort and everyday wear. Instinctively, he reached for the badge in his pocket, just to fiddle with, when he realised it wasn’t there. He had left it on the table for anyone to see. The man quickly hurried to the ruckus room, hoping no one had seen his badge yet. He bursted in and saw the boss, badge in hand, staring right at it. “Wikins, Tom. Parkien Detective Agency, that’s the one on 50th street, right? The one across from the deli?” he opened up Tom’s badge more, revealing a hundred dollar-bill that he had been saving for emergencies. “Look at that, big spender, got a hundred smackers! Making use of that big salary huh?” the boss chuckled slowly, a chuckle cementing its way into Tom’s mind. “How could I have been so stupid” Tom thought to himself. “That’s, um, not mine?” his voice trailed off, realising how dumb he sounded, his picture was right on the badge. “Betta fish, betta fish, you have to learn to go with the flow, stop trying to go upstream the roaring river.” The boss started to walk over to walk over to Tom chuckling once more. “Good ol’ pal, are you? Just a guy being pushed around by his government, huh Tom?” the boss said his name like it was a bad taste in his mouth. The boss quickly grabbed Tom by the arm, and gripped him tightly, his muscles flexing. Tom tried to resist, but he was no match for the strength of the boss. “Tsk, Tsk, Tsk, no swimming out of the shark’s feeding grounds, little betta” Tom noticed a shark tattoo on the boss’s arm, it’s gaping mouth telling him he’s about to be devoured. The boss pulled a sharp, 4-inch blade out from behind his back. Tom resisted more, but the boss held on to him firm. “Listen to me little betta, I want you to remember my name, Shark, say it over in your head if you have to. Even if you only have a few hours left, remember it until then.” Then, Shark plunged the blade into Tom’s right upper arm, slicing through it like a fresh mango. “You’re not leaving with both of your fins, little betta, this one’s mine.” He pushed Tom to the ground, while Tom writhed in agony. Shark slowly pulled out the blade, making it as painful as possible. Then, he started hacking away at his arm, like a butcher chopping up it’s beef for sale. Tom could just smell the blood, like walking into a fresh slaughterhouse, and he could feel his arm getting looser and looser. Tom could hear Jet laughing at him, accompanied by some other, deep, rough voice. The last thing Tom remembered was the immense pain, and Shark saying “Hey Jet, Speedy, help me with this one.” Tom woke up in immense darkness. His nose was being viciously destroyed by terrible smells of decomposing garbage all around him. The stump of his arm was open, and mixing with the garbage all around him. If he did survive, that would probably get infected. His arm was still losing blood, his skin cold to the touch. If he knew anything about blood loss, he knew that was a bad sign. He tried to use his left arm to open the cover of this dumpster he was in, but he couldn’t muster the strength. He was on the brink of just giving up, when he started seeing a bright light from above, a grey-haired mustached man standing above him, almost beckoning him. “Am I in heaven?” The man’s eyes widened, and he pulled a smartphone out of his pocket. “911?” the man said, in a light southern accent. Tom noticed details he hadn’t seen before, like the man’s bright neon suit and cigar. “Yeah, I’m part of waste management here at Sacramento and I found this guy here with a missing arm, I think he’s a little loopy too.” Tom started to pass back out, the world turning black once again. Tom woke back up in a hospital room, his nose greeted with a clean, sterile smell. He looked around his room, noticed Coolio Dogg on the TV and quickly turned it to Glomper Glob, a TV show about an alien coming to Earth. He noticed his throat was parched and pressed the call nurse button. A female nurse came in with an oval face speckled with freckles and had nice warm, light brown eyes sitting below rounded eyebrows. She had flowing baby blonde hair that was decorated by a little white nurse’s cap with a red cross stitched into it. “Hello there, sir, is there anything you- oh, it’s you. You’re the guy that lost an arm.” “Yep, that’s me” it was silent for a moment, the only noise coming from the faint noise of the television. “You know you had stage three hemorrhage when we found you. You were cold to the touch, pale, heart racing, capillary refill was terrible, and your blood pressure was unnaturally low. We thought for sure that you would go into type four and-” she abruptly stopped like she wasn’t supposed to say anymore. “Sorry I’m just not supposed to say anything about it. We don’t want to scare the patients.” “I understand” “Well anyway, let’s get to the point here, is there anything you needed?” asked the nurse, a calming smile on her face. “Yes, you-I mean, some water please, and a, umm, mirror if you can.” said Tom, nervously. The nurse giggled at his remark, the laughter music to Tom’s ears. “Real smooth.” The rest of his day at the hospital was heaven for Tom, every day, he could see the nurse, and he even found they had many things in common. They both hated Coolio Dogg and loved Glomper Glob, and they both loved to sit down and read a nice book. They had both learned each others names too, her name was Jen Hawk. One day, Tom was all healed up, and he was able to finally walk and go out of the hospital. Tom didn’t want to leave without talking to Jen one last time, though, so he waited outside the nurse’s break room. A tough looking man came out first, with a short sleeved blue nurse’s uniform. Hr had on some kind of distinctive tattoo, and bumped right into Tom. “Some people need to learn some manners.” mumbled Tom. Tom waited a few more minutes and Jen came out an enthusiastic smile on her face. “Hey there Tom, up and walking I see!” “Yep, It’s great.” Tom waited a moment summoning up the courage to speak “I was, um, wondering if we could, you know, exchange numbers?” “Sure, my number (800) 367-1523.” she wrote it down on a piece of paper “By the way, real smooth” Everyday they would chat for hours, about books that they read or episodes of Glomper Glob or Coolio Dogg, or just things that they did. One day, the conversation came to an invite. “Hey Tom I just realized we never hung out outside of the hospital.” “Huh, you’re right, that’s strange.” “Well, I have my 28th birthday coming up, and…” “You’re inviting me?” “I mean nobody else ever comes, and I know you will” “Yeah, of course!” “So it’s at 5021 48th St., 78341.” “I’ll definitely be there.” When the day came, Tom was all ready for the occasion. He had put on his beige suit and wore a black tie. He had gotten a bouquet of flowers and an “I love you card” too, today he was finally going to confess. He also had a nice silly birthday gift, a Glomper Glob shirt, inside of a gift bag. When he arrived at the house he studied it. It was a nice magenta colored house with the number 5021 on a plate sitting right next to her garage. It had a few wind chimes playing faint music in the light breeze. He walked up to the door, straightened his tie, ran his fingers through his hair, and knocked. Surprisingly, the door came clean open on the first knock. Tom hadn’t noticed the broken lock on the door handle when he came in. “Hello? Jen?” he said, raising his voice. He flicked on the lights and the first thing he saw was Jen ,sitting right in the middle of the floor, right next to a brown sofa stained with fresh blood. “Oh my god” said Tom, a quiver in his voice. She laid there with a twisted look of fear on her face. Tom was devastated, the walls felt like they were closing in on him. The entire world seemed to shift in and out of focus, and he dropped to his knees. He cradled Jen’s head in his arms, checking for any vital signs. He found none. When he finally mustered the strength to get up, he noticed a note crudely written in a notebook. “Hey Tom, you should really get your phone lines secure, being a detective and all that. I just realized something too, we haven’t hung out since I cut off your arm, how weird? Sincerely, Shark. P.S. You really should keep your future pet hawks out of the feeding grounds” Tom felt anger swelling up inside of him, a level of anger he had never felt before. However, with no outlet, all he could do was suppress that anger. “Hey Tom, need a hand?” Tom sighed and put down his pencil. He looked up at his coworker, Jeff, that was just making his life that much worse. He could see his smug square shaped face, harnessing those judging dark brown eyes that seemed to laugh at him for everything he did. “That’s not even a good one, have some originality in your insults at least.” Said Tom ,in a monotone, unenthusiastic voice. “I lost a whole arm, not just a hand” “And how arm you dealing with that?” said Jeff, his eyebrows even more arched than normal. Tom just sighed and went back to work as Jeff laughed it up. Tom pulled out his phone, and started scrolling through the news, seeing if there was anything special happening. He immediately went to the tech section to see what they had, and it was all normal stuff, scientists testing out new A.I., House robots made for the elderly to clean the house and do basic functions for them, and the rising argument on how we should be treating A.I. He kept scrolling and was about to put his phone away when he saw something about a robotic arm made out of microbot specially made for working amputees. Tom read more into the article and found it was made by VizTec, a company specializes in making home electronics. In the article it had a link where you could sign up for it, so Tom took a look. You had to have an upfront payment of a thousand dollars, just to help cover the costs, and have proof you are a working amputee. Tom submitted a picture of himself, and his work file, containing all of his work information. After a few days, he got an email saying he had made it and would be transplanted the arm on January first in the Rosebud Hospital Center. When the day came, he arrived at the hospital, excited to finally be able to use his right arm. He was greeted with a man in a green uniform with the words VizTec on the front in bold white letters. “Hello sir, are you here for our amputee program” “Yes” “Please state your name and profession. “Wikins, Tom, detective.” “Thank you sir, go right on ahead, your room number is 1003, first floor.” Tom made his way to the hospital room, glancing at some of the other rooms. He could see a couple other patients getting their arms and some regular patients. He hospital smelled clean, but too clean, like walking down the detergent aisle at Walmart. Soon, he arrived at his room. A man stood there in a bright green jumpsuit, a big, fake smile on his face. He had a rectangular face, and wide brown eyes above, his eyebrows stood arched above, giving him an always surprised look. “Hello, Hello! You must be Tom. My name is Darren and I am the head supervisor at the VizTec disabled section, and I am proud to present this arm to you, specially funded by the government. My lab assistants will now transplant the arm, thank you for being apart of the testing.” Tom sat down on the hospital bed, as two people in lab coats came in with a metallic arm. They strapped him down, then gave him some anesthesia to knock him out. When Tom woke up, he had his arm firmly on, but something was wrong, he couldn’t control it. He realized he wasn’t in a hospital bed either, he was in the street, his robotic arm dragging him along. Plus he had an aching pain all over, like he had broken a few bones. “What the heck is going on” he thought. The arm stopped dragging him. “Ah, the body has its own brain” said a voice in his head. “Who are you?” he said looking around him. “01000100 01100001 01110110 01100101, that’s the closest I have to a name.” “Why can you speak in my thoughts?” “Because I’m attached to you dummy.” “What are you talking about, how could you-” A memory started playing in his mind. “Take a look at this, then you’ll see.” Tom was laying down in his hospital bed, his robotic arm installed fully. Suddenly, Darren burst into the room. “Uninstall it! It’s got government technology and it could be a real threat, it’s got a mind of its own!” Tom’s body started to lift into the air as the arm lifted him up. “Shut it down!” said Darren, screaming wildly. “We can’t it’s already been installed.” “By god, find a way!” His arm started throwing him out the window. “Stop it!” screamed Darren. Tom’s arm smacked the assistants against the wall. “You threw my back out!” yelled one. Soon, the memory led to him smashing through the window, and hitting the ground. “That explains why my bones are broken” said Tom. “Yes it does, now please silence.” “Where are we going anyway?” “The Slanted Slashers HQ, I’ve caught their trail using their online presence, looks like this “Jet” has a big presence on Zip. “What’s Zip again?” “Zip is a multimedia messaging app popular around the wor-” “Get to the point” “You send custom gifs between people.” “Thank you, finally!”It was silent for a few moments as Tom processed the information he had been given. “Wait, did you say we were going to the Slanted Slashers HQ? “Yes” “Oh no, please, no. They’ll cut off my other arm, they’ll kill somebody else that I care about.” Tom was speaking quick, but slowed as he finished his sentence. He realised there was nobody else he cared about, and there was nobody that cared about him. “Well, I guess we might as well. By the way can you stop dragging me?” “Of course.” His arm immediately stopped. “Now, let’s think of-” Tom was instantly interrupted by his arm. “No, I don’t need one.” “But a name would be great! Instead of 010010-” “Alright, you might have a point, carry on.” “How about... Derrick” “No.” “Dave?” “No way” Tom thought for a few minutes and then an idea popped into his mind. “No, that’s a terrible name” “But, it sounds-” “My name is not going to be a pun” “Yes, that’s what I’m calling you.” There was a pause as it was processing it’s answer. “Oh well, I guess. DA.I.VE” “Now, let’s head over to the Slasher HQ.” They arrived at the Slanted Slasher HQ and looked for a place to sneak in. They sized it up, looking for any weaknesses. They couldn’t really spot any, except a small hole in a chain link fence. “Alright, I think we should try and bend through this” “80% chance of success, do it.” Tom walked over to the fence, and DA.I.VE bent the metal up so he could go through. It was a tight fit, tearing a whole in the patient gown Tom was wearing, but they made it. As Tom went in, he could see a chubby man sitting in the corner, fiddling with a small blade. “Alright let’s see if we can get past this guy.” said Tom. Tom started to sneak up to him, but he was very nervous. Tom started to breath heavily, so DA.I.VE put his hand over Tom’s mouth. As Tom started going past the chubby man, DA.I.VE’s arm snatched out and caught the man in the neck. “Oh my god” yelled Tom in surprise as DA.I.VE strangled the man. The man started taking the knife he had been playing with and trying to stab DA.I.VE with it, but to no avail. Tom started to screech at DA.I.VE. “Stop, don’t kill him, we don’t kill people!” DA.I.VE didn’t stop. Tom could see the man gasping for air, his face turning red, then quickly, purple. Soon the man had fallen limp as Tom kept screeching. “Be quiet, your shouting has made them hear us, they will be out hear in a matter of minutes.” “You-You killed that man.” “No, not yet at least, he’s just unconscious. But don’t worry he’ll die of asphyxiation soon.” DA.I.VE started grabbing the clothes of the man, and putting it on Tom, he tried to struggle, but was no match for DA.I.VE and his ownwant to get out of those wretched clothes. He was now wearing an XL brown trenchcoat that flowed in the wind. It was just a little bit too big for Tom, and he felt like if he jumped up and down, it would fall right off. Tom immediately struck up his argument once more. “That was a human man, a man that could’ve been rehabilitated.” “They don’t deserve it, if they don’t want punishment, then don’t commit the crime.” “But that doesn’t give you the right to decide whether he lives or-” Suddenly they heard someone clearing their throat. “I see you’ve met Speedy” said Shark, his sharp canine teeth showing. He didn’t seem to care that one of his prime henchman had just been killed by Tom. “Well it seems you’ve got a little tech, hmm? Putting that expensive salary to use? Getting rid of my hard work? I worked hard to get that arm off and you just replace it. You really deserve to die.” “What?’ said Tom, as he could feel a cold knife against his throat. This would be a perfect moment to monologue my evil plans.” Shark said in a sarcastic tone. “Kill him.” Tom felt the cold iron slide against his throat. Immediately everything went black for Tom. Then, he woke up, The End. “That’s a bad way to end the book.” “I know, I’ve read a few. Wait, how did we both know, and what’s ‘the book?” “Imbecile, he means the book we’re in. Or maybe it’s more of a short story, I mean it is like 7 pages.” Tom was shocked “What do you mean we’re all in a book.” “Your existence is a collection of words that paints an image in the reader's imagination.” There was a silence for a moment as Tom contemplated this. “That means we have no control on what we do, so the writer is writing this conversation.” said Tom, finally understand that I have all the power. “Maybe not all the power, we can still do some things.” Really, you’re just going to use the word “Things”? Stupid, I should have wrote you to be smart. “That is very offensive, I am” Tom paused for a moment, because he can’t think of the word, because I won’t let him. “That’s just mean” Alright enough, or we won’t be able to have a satisfying conclusion. “Fine fine, we’ll advance the plot.” Just as I wrote you too. “So, in order to advance the plot we need to get out of...Where are we?” said stupid Tom. “We’re in Writer’s Block, the author can’t think of an ending for his novel.” “Why is it just nothingness. “You have to describe it, like imagine something. The more detailed the thought, the more detailed the image.” Tom imagined a few things. A beautiful grass field, complete with flowers and ladybugs. He also imagined a huge ocean, spanning as far as he could see, a sparkling blue color. Finally he imagined Jen, using all of his memories. Woah, that’s a little too much, I’m sorry, you can’t imagine that. “Why not, I love her.” She’s dead, I can’t bring her back, not in this story at least. “But-” No, Stop or else. I’m warning you! “You are a terrible writer that can’t finish his book.” Yelled Rom, unjustly. Fine, spend two years here, see how you like being here. “Wait, no, I’m separate from him, please.” Said DA.I.VE pathetically begging. Sorry you’re still part of him. As two years ticked by, Tom developed a close friendship with DA.I.VE. They head fiery debates about the judicial system, whether there is a god, and whether blueberries are the superior fruit. They also had many moments where Tom had finally resolved some of his problems, and taught DA.I.VE more emotion. Hello Tom. Tom jumped in fear, of course, the scaredy cat. “Don’t scare me like that. Wait, is our time up? We’ve really spent two years here?” Yes, you have. It was silent for what felt like hours, then Tom broke it. “Give us a resolution, and we’ll make a deal.” It must be a sad ending, sorry the villain wins. “No, I’ll do anything, please, give us an ending where the reader decides.” This is a short story, It can’t be open ended. More silence, as Tom thought of an idea. “I’ll die” he said.“No, me” said DA.I.VE. “I’m sort of, excited to die, I want to know what it feels like. I’m glad I got to taste living though, thanks to you, but this story needs to end, and this is the best way. “No, but-” “I can’t live without a host anyway.” Then it’s settled? “Yes, It’s settled.” Good, that’ll be a great ending to my story. “What?’ said Tom, as he could feel a cold knife against his throat. This would be a perfect moment to monologue my evil plans.” Shark said in a sarcastic tone. “Kill him.” The knife just disappeared in the holder’s hands, this is his shot. “I don’t know how you did it, but you impress me betta, that one was...real smooth.” Tom glared at Shark. DA.I.VE started to speak with as much compassion as his programming would let him. “I want to go now, I had a good time with you, you taught me much, Tom. You taught me how to be human. I thank you for this, and I can’t think of any better way.” said DA.I.VE “Goodbye old friend” “Grab onto Shark” said DA.I.VE, happy to give his life for a worthy cause. As Tom grabbed onto Shark, the microbots on his arm shifted over to Shark and started devouring him, as soon as they were done though, they disintegrated into the wind. DA.I.VE started to speak one last time, a message to Tom. “It feels so strange, empty, but complete at the same time. I’ve turned on my emotions for the first time, and I’m feeling a little afraid to die. Please, re-re-remember me, T-T-Tom. P-Promise that-that-that-that-that-re-re-re-re-that-re-that-system erroo-.” There was nothing left of DA.I.VE, all Tom could see was the husk of his arm. “No more of your fancy toys, just one on one.” said Shark, eyes gleaming. His arm was devoured by the microbots, still dripping with blood. He motioned towards both of their arms, or rather their absence of them. It didn’t bother him in the slightest. As they circled each other, Shark leaped out with his knife and stabbed Tom in the shoulder. “Well here we are! The betta and the Shark. Doesn't look like much of a conflict.” Tom started to tear up, he didn’t want to, but he knew that he would never be able to kill Shark himself. Tom collapsed onto the ground, breaking into a full crying fit. He pictured Jen in his mind, and the fear upon her face when she died. He could hear DA.I.VE's voice in his ear, how he died for almost nothing. His sadness started to convert into pure hatred. Tom could feel the anger swell up in him, every angry moment he had just pent up swirling around his mind, blocking out every rational thought. Shark walked over to Tom, sniffling on the ground. “Oh come on, I wanted a challenge! Oh well.” Shark stabbed Tom in the chest and Tom immediately jumped at Shark, grabbing his throat and punching him over and over. Tom eventually slowed down for a few moments, catching his breath. Shark had multiple cuts and scrapes on his face, blood was covering up most of it, blotting out intricate details, but he was still smiling. “There we go, got some fight in you.” said Shark, a wide smile on his face. “Where is the knife? The one you used on her?” Shark pulled something out of his pocket and gave it to Tom. “Go ahead, do it!” Tom was reluctant, staring at the knife in his hand. “Do it already!” shouted Shark, hoarsely. Tom started to back up, his senses regaining even more. “Wow, real smooth, Tom!” said Shark. “What did you say?” said Tom, stepping towards Shark again. “I said, Rea-” Shark got into a coughing fit, he had choked on the blood in his throat. “Real...Smooth.” said Shark, giving an empty chuckle, soon bursting into a full laughing fit. Tom ran up to Shark, anger blocking out everything human about him, and just plunged the knife into Shark's body, stabbing him multiple times in the lungs, and twice in the liver. “Be afraid! Give me fear! Be afraid like she was! Do it, now” Tom shouted, breathing heavily. Shark just spit blood into Tom’s face. Tom went into blind rage, just stabbing Shark over and over while screaming “Give me fear! Be afraid!” Shark just kept up with the smile until there was no smile left, until there was no man left, just an intense collage of the color red. Shark was long gone, but Tom didn’t care, he just kept stabbing what was left until he had gotten out all his anger. Tom just laid on the ground, heaving for fifteen minutes. When his senses fully regained, and he realized what he did, and dropped the knife. Tom, a man who was too timid to shoot a rabbit, too squeamish to dissect a frog, just killed a man. Tom started to scream, tears pouring down his face. He rolled around on the ground, a mix of so many emotions that Tom couldn’t understand anything anymore. He sat there for what felt like hours before finally calming down and rolling up to his feet. In the corner of his eye, he saw a pile of black ash sitting on the ground next to him. Tom scooped up DA.I.VE’s ashes and buried them under a shallow pot-hole in the road. Tom stared at the knife that he had dropped, then looked up at the sky. “You’re not getting me today, not today.” Tom took a lighter form the table and put it in his pocket. He gathered up as much wood as he could inside the rec room. Then, he gathered a few leaves from a nearby tree. He grabbed the lighter ,flicked it open, then threw it into the little fire starter he had built. He walked out of the building and looked up at it, the flames had started to spread across the building. The flames flickered in Tom’s eyes, filling him with a sense of relief. “Good riddance” he said, a smirk on his face. Suddenly, he got a call on his phone. It was from the police chief, he answered. “Tom, thank goodness, we need you, please!” “Sorry, I’m not a detective anymore.” Listen to me, Tom. We’ve got a call” “I’m not taking any calls” “Listen Tom, this one is different. This company, VizTec, they just reconstructed a dead person with A.I. technology, and…” the police chief’s voice trailed off “And what?” “And it’s calling for you, for some reason. They said, it must reach you.” “What was the person’s name?” “Jennifer Hawk.