The crew all were shrouded by the deep red of the emergency lights. The sirens weren’t blaring because the precious air they needed to do so was in short supply. There was a crack somewhere. The pressure had fallen so sharply, so suddenly that it had to have been a hit from something. Something had been whizzing through space for who knows how long only to slice open the ship. They’ll undoubtedly find it somewhere. Alex chirped through the radio “Everyone okay?” There was a round of yes’s and she turned to the main console. There was a large, damning alert on the screen: “Hull breach. Ship integrity: falling. Air pressure: falling. Power: falling. Procedure… calculating.” Alex knew there was no calculating this; it was obvious what had happened and what could be done about it. She turned to her crew and calmly asked Pat to come to the console and stay in radio contact. She gave the rest of the crew a reassured smile and slipped toward the back. She pulled her way through the ominous craft toward the airlock. It hissed open and closed behind her as she stepped in. She wrestled a tool kit from the wall and took a deep, calming breath before opening the door in front of her. The deep bleakness, unyielding and unrelenting and unmerciful, yawned before her. The odds of something crashing into her ship were astronomical, but if it happened once, chances were high it could happen again. Alex swung her head out of the doorway, like looking both ways before crossing the street, and took a timid step outside, holding on to the metal ladder that ran the length of the ship. She made her way aft where there was an outboard light, blinking slowly. Alex thought through the long, slow crawl about what she thought had happened. A piece of debris has punched a hole in the hull of her ship, hit something and either ricocheted, destroying everything back there, or, she hoped, had hit a water line causing it to spray on the alarm system, causing a short in the electrics back there. The chances of that were slim. She also thought about what she would need to do to remedy the situation. She had tools to cut away mangled metal, patches to cover holes from 1 mm to several centimeters. She had epoxy and pipe patches. She had a blow torch. She was sure she had everything she needed to fix any problem. The climb was slow but she knew she had at least a few minutes of oxygen in her tank and the CO2 exchanger seemed to be working. All she needed was a calm steady hand and she had a couple of those. She reached the hull and was surprised to see a hole slightly larger than her fist in it. Peering in gave her a little bit of relief. There was a sizable hole, and it looked like a secondary computer had been smashed a bit but everything else looked safe. Looking through the hole she could see that the door’s locking mechanism worked perfectly, welding itself shut once the pressure began to destabilize. The wrecked computer was what had probably sent the rest of the ship into emergency floodgate protocol; releasing all the internal gas out into the void. It was a safety precaution, in case the oxygen was contaminated with some space virus or if there was a fire inside. It was an old protocol but no one argued its practicality. Alex clutched a rung of ladder and reached for her tool kit. She pulled out a large circular metal plate and a gun filled with a metallic caulk. She laid a bead slightly larger than the hole all around the plate and smashed it down on the ship, covering the hole. She took out her plasma torch and began melting the plate just enough to meld the outermost edge of the plate to the ship. While the torch labored, a small light began to glint off of Alex’s visor. She didn’t think much of it, shrugging it off to the torch light. When she had finished and set the torch aside, the slight glint was still visible. She turned her head to see a line of bright light stretching all the way across her field of vision. It was completely static but she couldn’t seem to focus her eyes on it, only if she looked at it indirectly could she see what it was; a wave. Alex scrambled, unsure of how much time she had before this wave of force thrashed on her and her ship. Her breath quickened and her once placid movements were now economical and frantic. She grabbed her tools and began moving down the ladder toward the airlock, skipping rungs. She could now plainly see that the wave was getting closer, the light getting brighter. She grabbed a rung and flung herself down, toward the door, and then she noticed something that she had forgotten. She never managed to clip herself to the ship. She had no safety net to grab her if the worst were to happen. She quickly grabbed at a rung but fumbled due to the speed and her bulky gloves. She floated closer to the door and managed to land a single hand firmly on the last rung. Her body swung as her momentum tossed the rest of her body forward, her feet flying over her head. It might have looked funny had it not been such a horrifying moment. Alex caught her breath for a second, relieved that she had a grasp on the ship, on “firm ground”. Then the wave hit. If she had been closer to the ship it might have rolled right over her, but she was basically vertical, perpendicular to the craft and thus a very broad target. She gritted her teeth closed her eyes against the punch to her gut. When she managed to regain her breath she opened her eyes only to see that her hand was no longer on the ladder. The ship was floating away. She could see through the small windows on the bridge the crew working on the computers, redirecting power, too busy to notice she had lost her grip. She tapped on her helmet and whimpered into her mic “Mayda, Mayday, hello anyone? I’m not tethered. I repeat I am no longer on the ship”. She could see through the window as no one reacted. “Again mayday, mayday this Alex Pattinson, I am adrift, I repeat I am adrift”. Still no response. She scrambled to find what the issue was when her heavy breathing began to fog her visor. She started to feel a chill as she noticed that her heating was offline. She turned her receiver on and didn’t even get static. She tried checking her vitals through the suits apparatus but there was nothing. Her suit’s wiring had been fried by the wave that had hit her. She cried. Her mind raced. She screamed. Then she caught her breath and stilled herself. The ship wasn’t too far away, maybe a few dozen yards. She still had her tool pack with her. A plan began to emerge. He breath quickened but she managed to stifle it a little. She had no idea how much oxygen she had left and she was going to need it. She turned to face the ship and started rifling through the various tubes and wires that she could reach. She knew exactly where the components she needed to manipulate were. Using her plasma torch, she would score a tiny hole in her oxygen tank which should have enough pressure to push her back to the ship. However she didn’t want to fly past it so she would have to quickly cover the hole back up. She grabbed the epoxy from the pack and held it in her free hand. She put the torch under her armpit and felt around for the correct tank. If she got it wrong, well she wouldn’t be able to complain about it for very long. She ran through the components of her suit: warning system, pump, water, main oxy, main life support, containment, battery, secondary oxy. She went back to her primary oxygen tanks and brought a shaky torch to it. She held the epoxy in her other hand ready to cover the hold she was about to make. She breathed a couple more breaths very slowly and steeled herself. She took one last gulp of air, like it was the most precious thing in the world and it was being given away for free. She sparked the torch for just a second. No change, it must not have gone through. She sparked it again and felt herself jerk forward. In the confusion, or in just the horror of the moment, she forgot which hand she had the epoxy in and struck up the torch again but only for a second. Still, it was enough to cause her to spin a little. Correcting herself she stuffed the epoxy gun right where she had the torch and shot the whole canister. She was moving toward the ship, quicker than she wanted but it shouldn’t be a problem. The problem was the slight rotation she had. The extra push was pulling her shoulders down and to the right slightly. She spread her arms as wide as she could hoping to counter the effect even just a little and it managed to slow her a bit, but it was still too much. At this rate her back would be to the door when she reached it. She pulled her arms and legs in as tight as she could, causing her to spin faster. When she felt that she was upside down she unwrapped herself and waited as the ship slowly came back into view. As she approached she saw in the windows the crew was hard at work when Charlie looked out to see Alex making her way back toward the ship. She could see his astonishment and pallor when he recognized her troubling predicament. She was just happy that someone saw her coming. She motioned, a knock on her helmet, that her radio was out and then pointed to the airlock. Charlie nodded and quickly ran from the window causing the rest of the crew to look out the window and witness their captain.


For those interested, you can read the story for free online on Dance of Death's website. ***M****ichael Knight* *is a 20 year old living in Moore, Oklahoma. He lives with his mom, brother, and dog Emmett. He’s loved to create and write stories ever since he was in the third grade, but only in the last few years decided to pursue it as a career. Until his big break, he’s working at a pizza call center, and currently not in school.* *Check him out on Reddit at* u/MichaelKnightWriter An ancient demonological tale states God created every creature on earth, except for the fly, which was a creation of Satan. I am inclined to believe this is true, for if what I witnessed that night was a creation of God he is no god I wish to follow. I will never forget the events which befell me and my friend. I think the guilt is the worst part. Every night I awake in a cold sweat, thankfully forgetting the nightmare that caused it, and whenever I hear the buzzing of a house fly, I am taken back to that day. It happened on September the 14th, 1933. It was a rather slow day at our office. Outside, the gray clouds blocked out the sun over the city. I sat on the couch reserved for clients and sipped coffee, preparing myself for the long day ahead. Angel sat at his desk, taking advantage of the lull to work on his manuscript. Angel tore a page from his typewriter and crumpled it into a ball, throwing it towards the trash bin and missing. His novel, a dark comedy in the vein of Stella Gibbons, took inspiration from occult practices, which he obsessed over. He had extensive knowledge on the occult, accumulated from years of research back when he studied at university. While his story's premise was original, I found his characters and scenarios cliched. He was much better at being a detective than an artist. As Angel contemplated over his typewriter, the telephone rang, which jolted us both. Angel picked up the cup and held it to his ear. After a brief conversation, he hung up. He informed me a new client wanted to come and brief us on a missing person. This excited me at the time. With no cases to work on and a longing for new ones, I jumped at the opportunity to work. Angel didn't seem so excited, since he had less time to work on his novel. According to Angel, the client was a woman, and lived about a block away. She would show up at our office at any moment. Not ten minutes later did the glass pane on our door shudder from a frantic knocking. I let the woman in and directed her to sit. She looked nervous. Her eyes darted around the room, never locking onto a single object, but always in motion. After she sat, Angel and I began the questioning. She gave us her name, Camille Patterson, and said she worked as a seamstress ever since her husband had died. He took his own life after losing his job due to the Stock Market Crash. Earlier that morning, her eight year old son, Alfred Patterson, went missing. She had woken up to find the window to their first floor apartment opened, and Alfred nowhere to be seen. Camille didn't believe Alfred had ran away. Something in her gut screamed, “Abduction.” She went to the authorities first, but she knew they would only put her case in a pile with the others. We continued to question her on other places Alfred might visit and took note of her answers. Angel assured her we would find Alfred and said it would be best for her to go home, rest, and call us if anything else came to mind. I showed her out the door and turned to Angel, already going over his notes. One question that stood out to me was when Alfred asked where Camille's husband was buried. She told him and he wrote it down. As we rode in the elevator, he explained to me his theory, which he had already developed in his head. Alfred snuck out to visit his father's grave, and was kidnapped there. Angel knew of an abandoned apartment complex across the way from said graveyard, and thought that was a likely candidate. Angel also mentioned how Alfred's disappearance could be connected to the others that had happened in the weeks prior. The thought had occurred to me as well. Although those other disappearances were all adults, it wasn't too far fetched to assume we had a serial kidnapper on our hands. Minutes later, we arrived at the graveyard, and moved through it to the apartment building on the other side. The building didn't look abandoned from the outside, although peering through the windows, a barren space of what used to be a lobby with faint outlines where furniture used to be stood before me. Stepping back to get a view of the top most floors, I froze in my tracks as my eyes met another pair gazing down at me. This pair of gray eyes belonged to a head containing long, unkempt locks of hair. I blinked, and when I opened my eyes again he disappeared. After telling Angel, he suggested we try to make our way in. I went around and tried the front door, but it wouldn't budge, so Angel went back into the alley, got a brick and shattered a window. I frantically glanced around to make sure no one saw him, and then rebuked him as he climbed inside. “Jacob, Alfred could be in there with a very dangerous man. I don't know about you, but I won't sit by and wait while he's in danger.” And that was the problem with Angel. He tended to rush in and act without giving much thought to the consequences. I fear that is what spelled his doom in the end. Reluctantly, I climbed in after him. I followed Angel through the ruined interior and up the stairs to where I saw the man. The apartment door opened inwards on creaky hinges. Some feeling of dread in my gut made me reach my hand out and grab Angel's arm, preventing him from entering. A strange vibe resonated with my primal instincts, and I refused to cross the threshold. Angel said he felt it too, but we had to see if Alfred was okay. Before I could stop him he already threw the door open, and once he glanced inside he froze in his tracks. My stomach sank before Angel uttered a curse in hushed breath. When I finally walked over to join him, my eyes locked on to the shrine in the center of the room. An altar made of concrete bricks stood there with a leather sheet draped over it. On top lied a raccoon's corpse, gutted with a knife embedded in the carcass. While the brutal scene disturbed me, that wasn't what gave my friend pause. He stared at the wall directly to the right of the altar. A strange symbol not unlike a Star of David, but with some noticeable differences and liberties, took up nearly the entire wall. The star itself had nearly triple the points of an actual Star of David, and it was surrounded by Greek-like characters, with a four limbed stick figure in it's center. Angel recognized the surrounding characters as a combination of several Canaanite languages, and the sigil in the center he knew from his studies into the occult, but didn't recall exactly what it meant. I shivered at the thought of some mad cult performing blasphemous rituals so close to our homes. I would've continued to dwell on it, but the slapping of rain against the window made me jump. The clouds had finally burst open and unleashed a torrent of water on the city. I snapped out of my trance and suggested we keep looking for the man. We had not seen him exit the building, so I assumed he was still hiding somewhere. I cursed myself for not bringing my revolver, but luckily Angel had his. After searching the rest of the top floors, we back tracked to the lobby, and went to a previously unnoticed, barely open door. Angel took point and opened the door, which led to a set of concrete stairs leading into darkness. After descending the steps, the rain outside became muffled and I felt the cold basement air hit me like a brick wall. The basement looked even more ruined than the lobby. Rotting wood and decay added a stench of death to the scene. Furniture piles and cardboard boxes lied everywhere, and while we tried to traverse through the narrow pathway between the mountains, we had to do our fair share of climbing across overturned furniture. Once we reached the other side of the basement, I stopped. A table leaned against the wall, the underside facing us, with the same symbol as above carved into it. I walked forward, distracted by the symbol, and tripped on some small object and went flying into the table. It cracked inwards creating a divot that I could barely see through. To my surprise, a tunnel opened up beyond the wooden barrier, about five or six meters long, and angled downwards towards an opening which leaked a weak light into it. I told Angel and he got me to help him move the table out of the way. Normally I'd object to traipsing in like we did, but we trespassed, and the police wouldn't have supported us. So we agreed to go through ourselves, no matter how dangerous it was, and entered the chasm. Towards the end, enough light leaked through to see a two foot dip into a chamber, and we safely dropped into what was, to my surprise, an abandoned subway station. The cylindrical tunnel loomed around us, and some oil lamps hung on the walls, which produced the light I saw in the basement. To our left, the remains of a cylindrical train car, long out of order, blocked the way. The model dated back to the turn of the century. How long had this been here right under our noses? I looked at Angel to see his reaction, and his eyes were lit up. “Underground caverns,” Angel said to himself, “I don't know why I hadn't thought of this sooner. This might just save my novel.” I laughed despite the situation. Angel was the only person who would think of his book in a situation like this. He had spoken to me numerous time about how he wished to get out of the private eye business. His artwork made him exponentially happier. As he contemplated his story, I continued to look around. We could only go to the right, so Angel took point, aiming his revolver. Every now and then as we walked, more glyphs would appear, scratched into the curved walls. A wrongness filled the air which I detected much the same way someone would detect static electricity. I could tell Angel felt it as well. A renewed feeling of dread swept through me as a brighter light appeared ahead of us. We inched closer, and found the light came from a train station. Another train car blocked the way. Or it would've if it didn't have it's back door open. The light came from somewhere beyond it, leaking through the windows and then the door way. When I went towards it, Angel put his hand in front of me. The extra pressure against my chest made me feel how fast and hard my heart was beating. Then, I heard it. Voices. A chorus of deep voices chanting in a language I didn't recognize, but I assumed it to be the same as the language written on the walls. Angel and I crouched and crept up to the train car. We crawled in and went up to the side entrance, where we crouched beneath a window. The chanting continued just beyond the train car. Slowly, I peeked around the barrier, and took in the scene in a matter of seconds. The fetor of decaying flesh assaulted my senses, and I had to cover my mouth and pull my head back to keep from vomiting or screaming. It was one side of a normal subway station, with the entry way closed and covered in that same dead language. The pillars, which contained braziers, also had the daemonic script, and the walls and even the c ceiling had it. There was also the same symbol on the floor, and an altar made of concrete bricks lied in it's center. A group of around ten men and women wearing dark robes surrounded the altar, with the man I saw in the window standing behind it, his hands raised in worship. He wore a peculiar black headdress, which Angel explained looked very similar to ancient Philistine head wear, like a cross between a fluted crown and a keffiyeh. The long fabric fell across the mans shoulders and back. Upon the altar, a young boy which I immediately knew to be Alfred lied, naked and bounded at the wrists and ankles. He had a look of existential horror on his face, and I believe he was barely old enough to even comprehend what was happening to him. While that sight gave me feelings of anxiety and empathy, what made me retch was the pile of around four adult bodies on the left side of the station. Gaping holes were in their chests where their hearts should've been. I didn't know where the hearts went, although blood on the lips of some of the cultists allowed me to make my own inferences. I refused to dwell any longer on that aspect of the scene. Angel and I didn't act for a few minutes, seeing as we were outnumbered. As we hid, the leader finally stopped chanting. I peeked around again, morbid curiosity outweighing my terror. Three cultists stepped forward and surrounded the altar. They produced knives from their robes, and I feared for the boys life. Instead of plunging them into Alfred, they took the knives and ran them across their own throats. Alfred screamed as the bodies collapsed. Once they hit the floor, a rumbling began beneath my feet. A mild earthquake had started, but it lasted only a few seconds. I wanted to believe the two events weren't connected, but the cultists dug their feet into the ground, as if wanting to feel as much of the quake as possible. The leader of this sick society inhaled, seeming to relish a sort of pleasure from the event. “Brothers and sisters,” the leader began, “For thousands of years our god has lied dormant. Although many have attempted to praise him, none had the knowledge that we do today, and many misconceptions and lies have been brought forth. Lies such as our god is Satan or an agent for him. No. He was worshiped long before the concept of Satan, before the tower of Babel was erected, before any of the Abrahamic religions were a fleeting idea in the minds of blasphemers.” He produced a knife from his robe and raised it above the boy. Angel aimed his revolver at the man, who didn't notice him, too engrossed in his ritual. I didn't want the boy to die, but I feared that somehow killing the priest wouldn't help anything, but actually make things inconceivably worse. The rumbling in the ground increased gradually, and a new wave of dread washed over me as the priest finished his last rite. “We know our god is the true god of the Philistines! The Lord of the Flies!” The back of the mans head burst outwards in a torrent of blood. The gunshot echoed throughout the claustrophobic chamber and my ears rang loud. The remaining cultists recoiled at the sound and backed away from the altar as Angel rushed out, aiming his gun at them to keep them back. I got out of the train to assist him in untying the boy, who had passed out. The cultists faces trembled, their expression frozen in terror. As I picked up the boys body, knowing they weren't afraid of us, I wondered what could've had them so aghast. The rumbling I felt earlier increased in volume. Soon, I had to struggle to keep my balance, and some of the cultists fell over. A cracking sound resonated throughout the room. Barely audible, maddening voices whispered all around me. I didn't know if it was real or a trick of my mind at the time. Then, I looked to the other end of the station. My knees grew week and I collapsed at the impossible sight. A floating, gelatinous mass of flesh and blood began to spawn. It grew and pulsated, squelching and spewing out giblets of matter which smelled of rotting meat. I averted my eyes from the horror as a red light flashed. It pierced my eye lids with its crimson radiance. After it dissipated, silence overcame the room. A stench like a cross between fecal matter and stomach acid filled the area. A strange chittering noise began. I slowly opened my eyes and looked to Angel, who stared in the direction of the noise, his mouth agape and his eyes transfixed on something. His eyes. Dear God his eyes were dead. That's the only way I can describe them. Staring at something and nothing all at once. Curiosity outweighed the dread I was feeling once again, and I stared, too, at the sight which I know stole a bit of my sanity. I estimate the creature to be around twice the length of an elephant and about as tall, taking up nearly half of the station. If I described it simply it would not do it justice, but I could just as easily describe it as a monstrous fly. It's thorax angled upwards so that it's giant head and bulbous eyes stared down at us. I shudder to remember those damned eyes, so black it appeared to absorb any light which came near them. The beast had a swarm of millions of flies surrounding it, smaller versions of itself, from which emanated a maddening buzzing. It tilted its head at an angle, as if assessing us all. Judging us. That insult to creation was intelligent! The cultists all rushed past me and got on their knees, bowing to the beast, muttering prayers and rites in their language. The beast took it's clawed fore arms and dug into the wall. It hoisted itself onto the ceiling, where it hung directly above the worshipers. It's mandibles opened, and a proboscis slithered out. After a moments pause, the beast sprayed a corrosive acid on to the worshipers. Their screams of agony as they dissolved freed me from my trance of horror. The mad worshipers, betrayed by their own god, had their skin melted off of their bones and on to the floor, a dreadful combination of dark red and tan colors. Their bodies molded together. Three arms merged into one body, reaching up at the sky. It brought down its mouth onto the plash and began sponging up the remains. Seeing as it was distracted, I got up and hoisted Alfred over my shoulder and grabbed Angel by the forearm, pulling him towards the train car. The motion snapped him out of it and soon he began running by himself. We ran out the back of the train car and seemed to have a clear shot ahead of us. Then, a metal groaning began behind us. I turned my head out of instinct. A pulse of anxiety shot through my body as, impossibly, the beast's head squeezed through the back door of the train car. It's fore arms wiggled out, giving it more leverage to slither it's surprisingly malleable body through the entire car. The thing then chased us on four insectoid legs. Compressed by the narrow passageway, it still ever so slowly gained on us. The creature didn't use it's wings, for there wasn't enough room. Not wanting to look anymore, I turned my head and focused on our goal. Flies began to swarm us, drowning my ears with the buzzing and obscuring my vision. They flew up my nose and into my ears, disorienting me. They crawled on my eyeballs, forcing me to close my eyes, but I pressed on. Angel tried to wave away the pests as he ran. The beasts foot steps thundered as it got closer. It's body scraped against the walls. We finally reached the end of the tunnel. A minuscule wave of relief washed over me as the familiar sight of the entryway came into view. Angel and I both turned around and beheld the monster the cultists called Lord of the Flies. It was but a few meters away, and closing in fast. Angel drew his revolver and pushed me towards the exit. “Take the kid and get out of here.” His voice trembled. He and I both knew he wouldn't make it. I wish I could say I wanted to stay and help him; that I would've sacrificed my life in his stead, but that would be a lie. One look at the monstrosity and all courage within me vanished, like a physical thing the creature slaughtered. I ran as fast as I could, without hesitation, and climbed up and in to the tunnel. About half way in, Angel fired his five remaining shots. The thing screamed. It rattled my brain and against my will I had to stop and grab my head. The migraine was nearly unbearable. Then, it stopped. Through the ringing in my ears I could hear the ominous chittering of that living blasphemy. Angel's cry broke my heart. It was not only the cry of a man who knew he was about to die, but it was as if his sanity was crying out for euthanasia. With tears of fear and sadness I clambered out of the tunnel and into the basement. I set Alfred down and grabbed whatever furniture I could find and piled it into the tunnel, blocking it off. I wasn't sure if it would hold, but it was better than doing nothing. Silence, and dare I say calm filled the room, except for the humming of flies which still surrounded me. I collapsed to my knees and screamed for the loss of my friend and the loss of part of myself that day. I screamed out of the guilt of abandoning Angel, even though I had no choice. I knew at the end of the day, even if I did, I would have ran anyway. My screams turned to sobs, and then to whines, until I had vented out what stress I could. A permanent hole in my sanity that I felt could never be filled again had appeared. Of course I couldn't focus on that right away. I still had a job to do. I picked Alfred up and dropped him off at the front doors of a hospital. I then notified Camille over the phone that her child was safe and sound and gave her the hospital address. There is an air conditioning unit in my apartment. I leave it on and it hums all day until it fades into the background and I can no longer hear it or notice it. This event has haunted me in a similar fashion. It's always in the background and always affecting my life, even if I don't notice it at the time, and I know I will never get rid of it. I don't just grieve for my sanity, I grieve for my friend Angel, who I still believe I betrayed. I vow not only to complete his novel for him, but to study the occult as he did and hopefully find an explanation, or perhaps even a way to defeat the abomination. Because to my unimaginable horror, I believe it still remains in those tunnels, waiting to be unleashed on the unsuspecting world.


The door let out a screech as I bolted through running towards my bike. Behind me, I heard the furious cries of the owner. “Come back here Reggie!” I was stumbling all over the place yet somehow I made it to my bike. My keys were an unsolvable puzzle in that moment, I started to jam every one of them into the ignition till one of them worked. The rumble of the engine gave me sweet relief. I switched the lights on in perfect time to see the parked car in front of me as I zoomed onto the highway; if you cut me up reckon there would be more adrenaline than blood inside of me. I went from left to right from left to right across the road similar to the slither of a snake. I felt completely out of control and ironically enough it felt liberating. I woke up to my white sheets now crimson red. I saw the tears that covered my clothing as I tried to lift my head that was deeply buried in my pillow. “Yer late for your job again, get out of bed!” The bed latched onto me as I tried to get up. “Did ya not hear me, get out of bed!” I heaved my body out of the bed. In the mirror I saw myself, it looked like I had been thrown into the middle of a dog fight. Every time I took a step I felt an earthquake in my head. I heard Dad once more from downstairs. “Yer embarrassed everyone after that bloody disgrace you pulled last night, I hope you're ashamed to have survived.” I didn’t bother bandaging up my wounds. I wasn’t going to work, hadn’t for a while. I didn’t know when my Dad was going to find out that I was finally fired. It was a small town, just a matter of time. I walked down the old timber stairs, along the wall there were outlines of dust where photos once hung. Down the stairs a big dust outline where one of Mum’s blankets hung and the distinct outline of a cross right above the tele. “Okay Dad, I’m off.” “Hopefully for good this time.” Once upon a time, Dad was happy, me as well. All that is gone now though. I walked outside and looked for my bike. A wave of distress rushed through my body like an electric shock until I remembered the crash last night, couldn’t help but laugh. Instead of driving to the usual pub I walked to the local one. I was already the disgrace of the town right? What did it matter everyone seeing me there at this time? “Reggie Beacon, ya father know you here son?” “Can’t say he does, just give us something strong ye?” He poured my drink and I felt a burn down my throat as I sculled down the sweet poison. Around half an hour in I heard the slam of the rickety pub door, by then I was proper drunk. I turned to see my dad stampeding through the pub making anything in his path appear weightless. “You’re a disappointment Reggie and a disgrace and a prick and an embarrassment upon my family and your mother!” He started tearing up yet I struggled to show any sort of emotion back. Nothing really mattered anymore. No job, no bike, no family, nothing. As I went to finish my drink my dad seized hold of a pool cue and lashed it over my head. The splinters of wood rooted themselves deep into my head. I was like a lion at a circus being forced into its place. My body was powerless against gravity. I crashed against the floor feeling blood drain out my head and watching it drip into the cracks between the floorboards in front of me. The alcohol made it all feel surreal not just my body but my mind was numb. “Why couldn’t you be like your brother Reggie!” The other men tried to stop my Dad from falling over as I just laid there. I was ready to sink through the floor and into the hands of death, it was just a matter of time.


The sunset lent a warm, almost cozy glow to the stacks of scarlet-washed terraces that supported the buildings of Mutul. It was a city stuffed with more pyramids than any place Neith-Ka recalled from her native Khamit. Her people might have buried their Pharaohs in monuments of equal or even more mountainous scale, but then these peculiar Mayabans would lay every one of their structures on top of a stepped pyramid, none less than two stories high, with everyone having to hike up a succession of stone stairs to reach the summit. Neith-Ka shook her foot to dull the pain chewing away at her tendons. Already the woven papyrus of her sandals had started to splinter apart from wear. The Khamitan people may have taken pride in the grandeur of their own monuments, but never would their architects dare subject anyone to so many tortuous steps. You weren’t even *supposed* to climb the royal tombs back home. Huya, her high steward, clicked his tongue with a frown. “You could feign a good attitude, Your Highness.” Neith-Ka drew in a deep breath through her nostrils. “I’ve done my best. Please show some understanding.” “I saw you pouting. And, I swear by the scales of Ma’at, I heard you mutter a curse while shaking that leg. You don’t seem to remember that you’re representing your father, your family, and all the Black Land here, princess. I’ll see no more lip from you tonight!” With another inhale, Neith-Ka straightened herself up and nodded to her steward. As he and their entourage of guards and servants marched up yet another ramp of steps, she huddled close behind while keeping her focus on their destination on top. Looking back down the pyramid’s height could only intimidate her further. Even more so with the lighter brown locals crowding behind her with the gawks of strangers who had never seen even one darker-skinned person their entire lives. The lip of the stairway connected to a platform that supported a ring of rectangular buildings around a courtyard, all plastered with a blazing red base. Yet these were not monochrome edifices, for each had mounted on its walls and over its doorways elaborate reliefs of jade-plumed gods, snarling gold leopards (or were those called jaguars over here?), and the strings of complicated square images that constituted the Mayaban culture’s written language. To think that foreigners claimed that Khamit’s hieroglyphs were impossible to read! No mortal could possibly even *draw* their Mayabic equivalents. From one short and wide building at the far end of the complex floated a faint yet spicy odor, with thin trails of steam snaking out from tiny windows in the walls towards its left edge. Dark green curtains, splashed with reds, golds, and purples hung behind the gallery of square columns that supported the remainder of the building’s length. Standing in front were a pair of native guards, stocky men in padded cotton vests who parted their obsidian-fringed spears upon noticing the Khamitans’ arrival. Huya bowed at the waist to both guards. “Excuse me, my good man, but where would His Majesty the Ahau and his family be?” “Already inside, waiting with as much patience as they’ve got,” one of the guards said. The second glanced at Neith-Ka from the corner of his eye. “And you’re the one he’s waiting on, I presume. Not so ugly as far as your kind goes, if a bit overcooked. I’d advise you to stay clear of his youngest daughter.” Neith-Ka gave him a subtle smile to hide the prickling sensation that crept up her back. “I’ll…uh, keep that in mind…my *under*cooked friend.” “Princess! What did I say?” Huya hammered the butt of his high steward’s staff twice on the stone pavement. “Aw, give your woman a pass,” the first guard said. “She was only telling my friend to show more hospitality. Right, Yaxkin?” Strutting away from the two guards as they argued with one another in the Mayabic language, Neith-Ka plunged herself through the curtains into the royal dining hall. \## All chatter within the dining hall halted upon her first step inside. There had already congregated two circles of people at opposite ends of the space enclosed by the curtains and columns. To the right sat all women and girls on pillows fringed with blue and scarlet macaw feathers, whereas to the left were all men who sat around a stone platform tapered like a miniature pyramid. Both parties stared at Neith-Ka with slackened jaws and no words spoken, with a few of the men’s eyes glinting with that all-too-familiar male emotion. She gave a nervous chuckle with a retreat towards the curtains, an uncomfortable warmth blushing within her cheeks. “Did I interrupt something?” There sat on the leftward pyramidal platform a short man whose physique seemed much too gaunt to support his towering crown of deep green and red plumes, or even his necklaces and bracelets of gold, jade, and animal fangs. He raised a drinking cup of red clay and gave Neith-Ka a smile which dripped dark brown liquid from his wrinkled thin lips. “No, no, we’re more than thankful to see you so soon, daughter of Amenhotep,” the bedecked old man said. “No need to worry yourself with formalities tonight.” He released a belch that rumbled between the columns. Neith-Ka raised an eyebrow. “Aren’t you the Ahau of Mutul?” “Call me B’alaj. It’ll be easier on your tongue than all my titles. Now, before you indulge yourself in the finest cuisine of any of the Mayaban cities, I owe you my thanks for all that treasure you sent us. Mountains of ivory, ebony furniture, all those exquisite animal hides—even though, I daresay, your jaguars are rather dwarfish compared to ours—and then all the gold, copper, bronze…you Khamitans sure know how to buy yourselves a trade deal.” Huya, who had already entered the scene with the rest of the Khamitans flanking him, bowed to the Ahau at the waist. “Glad to hear you appreciate our tribute, Ahau B’alaj.” The Ahau extended his arm to the low table-like platform that sprawled over the central third of the hall, cloaked with jaguar hides held down by flickering gourd candles at the corners and then a vast, jumbled array of bowls and baskets holding food. “Help yourselves. Your hunger’s the limit. Though I say the tamales and the chocolate are *the* best.” Neith-Ka had not come to the banquet with a bottomless stomach, but the variety of delicacies on display would have boggled even her father’s best cooks back in Khamit. Bowls held piles of multicolored beans, bulbs of squash, slender red peppers, and a lumpy paste that gave off the scent of avocado. In the baskets were stacks of thin yellow flatbreads, tropical fruits collected from the rainforest beyond the city, and cobs of maize scaled blue, red, and yellow. Roasted hunks of turkey, venison, fish, and even dog meat rested on the platters, and a fat pitcher streamed out a tendril of steam from its spout. Next to it sat a pile of folded corn husks stuffed with chili and some sort of dough. After gathering a couple of these tamales for her plate, Neith-Ka poured herself a cup from the pitcher. What came out was a liquid the color of coffee from Habesha (the kingdom that bordered Khamit on the southeast), but this was thicker and frothier. “I guess this is your chocolate?” B’alaj raised his cup again. “The beverage of royalty such as yourself, daughter of Amenhotep!” Neith-Ka took her cup and tamales to the side of the room where the women of the Ahau’s family dined. They shoved themselves aside to give her a wider berth before she had even taken her own seat. None could manage to take their eyes off their Khamitian guest, even if they murmured unintelligible gossip from the corners of their mouths. There was no point in calling them out on it, and not only because it would embarrass her entire civilization before the people of Mutul. As Neith-Ka and her people always like to say back in Khamit, those who hate would always hate. She took a sip of the chocolate drink and grimaced, daring not to spit it out. It tasted every bit as bitter as the Habeshan coffee, except the Habeshans at least had milk and honey to improve the flavor if you didn’t like it plain. If only these Mayabans had the same! “It’s an acquired taste, I know,” one of the Mayaban ladies said. “You’ll warm up to it later.” Neith-Ka nodded as she took a second, longer sip. It pleased her no more than the first. “I’ll go look for some water next.” Between two portly middle-aged women popped out the petite hand of a girl no older than six. “Why do you not like chocolate? Aren’t you Khamitans all covered in it?” It was time to take another deep breath. Neith-Ka scooted herself a hand’s span further away from where the child sat, and then pinched the skin of her own arm. “We don’t paint ourselves with your chocolate, little one. It’s our natural color, see here? Am I to assume that your people paint yourselves bronze?” “Don’t get too mad at my little Itzel,” the elder of the two women next to the girl said. “She won’t bite. She simply hasn’t grown out of her…mischievous streak yet. We’ve all been there at her age, haven’t we?” Neith-Ka grumbled. “Fair enough. Though if we’re going to comment on each other’s appearances, I must say I like how your nose plugs looks. Are they green malachite?” “Why, thank you, but they’re plain old jade. I don’t even know what that stuff you call malachite is. That said, you yourself have some exquisite gold on you, not to mention that seductive black eyeliner.” “You mean the black kohl? It’s not supposed to be ‘seductive’. It helps protect our eyes from the desert sun’s glare and disease—” Something tugged onto Neith-Ka’s braided hair. She turned to see nobody behind her. “Who was that?” All the Mayaban women responded only with blank, blinking looks. Neith-Ka noticed that the girl Itzel had disappeared beside her mother. A second, stronger yank on Neith-Ka’s hair almost uprooted it from the flesh of her scalp. With a shrill yelp, she spun back and clasped her fingers on a small wrist. Itzel was giggling without fear or regret. “All you foreigners think it’s funny to touch our hair without asking, don’t you?” Neith-Ka asked. “All my friends tell me your hairstyles are all fake,” Itzel said. “They tell me you women from Khamit always wear weaves because you don’t like how kinky and frizzy your natural hair is.” Baring her teeth in a snarl, Neith-Ka tightened her grip on the girl’s hand to the point where she could feel the bones beneath the skin. “You mean *wigs*. And we only wear those after we shave for special occasions. The rest of the year, we’re as proud of our natural hair as any other women, and I won’t let a puny Mayaban brat like you tell me any different!” The child squirmed and wriggled her arm with a piercing squeal shriller than a chimpanzee’s angry screech. “You can’t be mean like this to me, you nasty Khamitan woman! My father is the Ahau!” “I don’t care if your father was none other than Amun’Ra in the flesh! Say sorry or I will rip you apart!” Instead, Neith-Ka got a chomp into her arm. Blood trickled where the tiny teeth had punctured her flesh, and the girl had already scurried back to her mother. Twice did the butt of a high steward’s staff bang over the floor, with two shadows looming over Neith-Ka. She shrank like a child in her own right before Huya and the Ahau B’alaj, both of whom glared down at her with the stern intensity of scolding parents. B’alaj’s face had even darkened into a reddish hue not unlike the plastered masonry around them. The Ahau clenched his hand into a fist with one finger thrust down at Neith-Ka. “You do not threaten my Itzel like that. You do not threaten *any* of my children like that. I thought myself generous and forgiving to you, but you showed me my error in ever trusting your kind!” “You see what you did there, young one?” Huya said. “I told you to represent our nation the best you could. You couldn’t even do that.” Neith-Ka trembled, buckling under the crushing mass of shame these two men had thrown onto her—together with her own sizzling anger. “You think *I’m* at fault here? Listen, O Ahau of Mutul, you need to teach your children, and even many of your grown-up subjects, some basic respect for my people. Did you even hear what your daughter said to me?” The Ahau shook his head with crossed arms. “She is only a child! You threatened to tear her into pieces, all for the ignorance every child is born with. And, since you talk of respect, remember that you are in *my* city, in the land of Mayab. You’d do well to respect your hosts.” “And they would do well to respect their guests. It should go both ways!” Huya’s features softened with a sigh. “In all honesty, the daughter of my Pharaoh raises a good point. This has all been a misunderstanding, O Ahau. How about both parties apologize to one another, make amends, and put this little altercation all behind us?” B’alaj rubbed his hand over the graying hair that flowed below his headdress, humming in thought. His frown rose up into a grin, but his eyes had not lost their malevolent glimmer in the least. “I did have plans to entertain you with some sports next morning. How about…letting your princess play a little game of ball with us?” Neith-Ka laughed, casting a glance at the guards she had brought as part of her visiting entourage. “You mean me and my men against yours?” “Oh, no. You, *alone*, against my best team. You have played ball before, haven’t you?” Not even the muggy warmth of the tropical night could melt the icy chill up Neith-Ka’s spine. She would not dare reveal it before this audience. “Of course. My sisters and I would chase each other around our palace with a warthog’s bladder filled with—” “Pig’s bladder? That’s all? We’ll see how you fare with a real ball, then. If you, by the mercy of fate, were to win, I will pardon you for everything. Lose, and I shall deal with you as I would anyone else who has struck one of my family. In which case, please send my greetings down to the Twelve Lords of Xibalba.” Huya turned to wedge himself between Neith-ka and the Ahau. “What? You can’t do *that*! She’s the daughter of our Pharaoh. That would amount to an act of war!” “This is Mutul, and I am the Ahau. I may treat your Pharaoh’s daughter however I see fit!” Every note of the Ahau’s croaking cackle sparked a shiver pulsing through Neith-Ka’s flesh. Whomever those Twelve Lords of Xibalba were meant to be, they sounded like demons in the underworld. At any rate, she doubted these Mayabans would even bother to preserve her body for that meeting. The whimpering cry of a child moaned like an undercurrent beneath the rest of the commotion. Hugging her mother’s plump arm, little Itzel peeked back at Neith-Ka with cheeks still shimmering wet with tears. “I’m sorry,” the girl’s lips spelled out. \## A dense low mist swamped the alleyway that ran tight between two blood-red walls, each towering straight and vertical on top of the sloped terrace at their base. Already the moisture floating in the air, together with her own perspiration, had soaked the fringes of the band of cloth Neith-Ka had wrapped and tied around her braids. It all sharpened the cold tingle sweeping down her skin as she treaded down the alleyway, the dark-stained pavement stabbing her feet with stray particles of grit. That her sandals, already worn beyond usefulness, had gone missing that morning had layered a stinging insult over her fear and shame. Each of the two walls beside the court had a stout pyramid adjoining it from behind, with people filing out from its summit shrine to stand over the wall’s upper edges. Gazing down from atop the left wall were Huya and the remainder of the Khamitan envoy, the guards holding their spears and cowhide shields close while the servant women murmured nervous prayers. On the right wall were the nobility of Mutul, who parted to make way for their swaggering Ahau B’alaj. He held between his hands a ball of dark gray rubber. “Welcome to our royal ball court, daughter of Pharaoh Amenhotep of Khamit. In a moment, you’ll be introduced to your opponents, none other than the finest players in all Mayab—though I may be biased in that regard. Ooh, what’s that? They’re already here!” They emerged first as a line of hulking shadows in the mist, pushing it aside like buffaloes through reeds until they met Neith-Ka right in the middle of the pinched court. Padded bands of cotton covered the men’s torsos, knees, and elbows, all of it accentuating their already thickset forms. All wore helmets of shaggy, dark reddish-brown hair shorn from the scalps of Mayaban jungle bison, with the centermost player having the animal’s arching horns still attached to his. He ran his eyes up and down Neith-Ka’s height with what could have either been a sneer or a leer. Or both. “You going to play against us in that puny linen tunic, woman?” She could not deny the validity of his argument. Neither could she betray her resentment at the Ahau for not providing her with armor of her own. Not in front of this human gorilla. “I happen to think what I got suits my svelte curves better. As for you, big boy…all your curves go out instead of in.” B’alaj laughed. “Khamitan or Mayaban, women will always be too vain to save themselves. These would be the Mutul Bison, our champions. It’ll be you against them, girl.” He turned his head to face a third, even higher wall on the far end of the court, with a vertical gold hood gleaming near its lip at the center. “There will be eight rounds, each ending when either team passes the ball through that hoop. The team with the most hoops after round ten wins. Play ball!” With the hoarse blare of a conch trumpet, B’alaj tossed the ball high up into the air. It shrank into a tiny dot within the sky before plummeting down from that zenith, whistling through the wind as it swelled to the size of Neith-Ka’s own skull. Kicking herself up, she caught the ball between her fingers. The Ahau puffed high-pitched notes through his conch twice. “One more rule I forgot to mention, my Khamitan guest. *Never* touch the ball with your fingers or palms, nor with toes or soles. Throw it up again.” Shaking herself out of her initial disbelief, Neith-Ka obeyed. She lowered herself to the court’s floor with clenched hands, keeping her eyes focused on the descending ball. The leader of Mutul Bison beat her to it. With his elbow, he batted it towards one of his teammates. Neith-Ka leaped to intercept it, but a third player bumped her off course with his shoulder. She skidded over the court floor, the grit raking down her skin, until she crashed into the left wall. Her own followers hollered with horror while the Ahau and his nobles hooted with glee on the opposite wall. Neith-Ka staggered up to find the Bison gathered farther away, right below the hoop on the far wall. Their horn-helmeted leader had already knee-kicked the ball through it. The conch screeched again. “Round one for the Bison!” Neith-Ka fluttered her eyelids. She had only touched the ball once, and already these overgrown barbarians were on their way to beating her. In a flash, the world turned dark gray before her. Firm rubber rammed onto her brow, flinging out white sparks. Her vision cleared to show the Bison passing the ball between themselves with their elbows, shoulders, knees, and hips. Was that how these Mayaban players could move it around without palms or feet? How did the Ahau expect one princess from across the Western Ocean to match his best team in practice? No, he *hadn’t* expected that. He would never have arranged this ordeal to begin with if he had. “Round two to the Bisons! C’mon, princess of Khamit, even you could do better than that! Right?” The ball hopped back towards Neith-Ka. She did not miss this time. With one swat of her forearm, she redirected it to the left wall. It was now her entourage’s turn to hoot, with the Khamitan guards pounding the spears on the stone alongside Huya with his staff. Their jubilee halted once an opposing player claimed the ball with a strike of his shin. More passing between the Mutul Bison right up to the hoop again, and B’alaj with his conch announced a third round won for his team. There could be no way Neith-Ka could overcome these giants. They had not only more muscle, but more practice and skill at their own game than she could ever achieve. She could not play ball the way they did. No, why not play it the way she would with her sisters? The third time the ball returned to Neith-Ka, she slammed it down with the back of her hand. She countered its next launch with her forearm, bouncing it between her limbs and the floor as she ran to the far wall. Her own people chanted her name with jubilant fervor, with only silence retorting from the Ahau’s side of the court. Even the Mutul Bison did nothing but watch her dumbstruck as she sprang and flicked the ball through the hoop with her wrist alone. It was a low drone that came from the Ahau’s conch next. “I guess Round Four goes to the Khamitan princess. Tell me, girl, what do you call that trick?” “It’s a *technique*, and we call it ‘dribbling’. Want to see more of it?” She had already reached past the court’s halfway point away from the hoop, the ball still thumping beneath her forelimbs, with the Bison of Mutul stampeding after her. With one backward pivot of her leg, Neith-Ka dashed parallel to her pursuers towards the far wall. Her supporters continued to embolden her with their cheering songs. She had not counted on one of the players sticking out his leg to trip her. Upon falling over, she had to roll aside to avoid the Mayaban team trampling her to reclaim the ball. “Round Five to the Mutul Bison! Good work, my men!” “Come on, that *must* count as a foul!” Neith-Ka cried out. The Ahau grinned down at her with smug remorselessness. “Plenty of games allow tackling and roughhousing. Why not this one?” After staggering back onto her footing, Neith-Ka stormed over to the left side of the court, growling the vilest curses in her mind. If that Mayaban tyrant would not let his men play fair, why play this stupid game at all? An all-out war between Mutul and Khamit would resolve the problem with much more fairness. No, it would also mean much more bloodshed, much more death, and much more loss for innocent people. Then what could Neith-Ka, daughter of Pharaoh Amenhotep of Khamit, do? Something, albeit much lighter than the ball itself, rebounded off the back of her neck and rolled to her feet. Neith-Ka’s sandals had returned to her. The condition of their woven papyrus strands had not improved, but somebody had sown thick scrappy pads of rubber to their bottom. She looked up to the top of the left wall behind her, yet she saw nobody new among the faces staring down at her with as much confusion as she. The only change in the heavens was ascendant sunlight beaming down on her through the fading mist. “Thank you for this blessing, mighty Amun’Ra,” Neith-Ka whispered as she put the padded sandals on. “Round Six to the Bison! Come on, Khamitan woman, stop dawdling and face my players once more!” When Neith-Ka bolted over to catch the ball, it was with the velocity of a cheetah in full sprint. Never had she ran with such a sudden burst of speed. In less than half a minute, she had already won back the ball. She zipped in circles around the befuddled Bison, taunting them as they lunged after her and crashed into one another. One player, the lead of the team, threw himself between her and the hoop. “Don’t think you can outrun yourself out of this one!” “I won’t,” Neith-Ka said. “I’ll jump.” She did thus twice. Once from the floor, the other right off the dumb brute’s helmet. A bat with her shoulder, and she had won Round Seven. The leader of the Mutul Bison threw his dented headdress on the ground and crushed it further under his feet in a ranting fury. “You can’t get away with that so easily!” Neith-Ka cocked an eyebrow up while still dribbling the ball. “Oh, really? Serves your team right for tripping me back in Round Five.” “Let’s see if you can keep it up *without* your ‘improved’ footwear!” Another one of his teammates, the same one who had tripped Neith-Ka before, swiped the back of his hand at her. She vaulted away from harm with two back-flips, at the cost of controlling the ball. The Bison of Mutul, who laughed among themselves with sadistic assurance, had it bounding back between their bodies right below the hoop. Yipping the Khamitan war cry like a hyena on the hunt, Neith-Ka pounced onto the man who was next to receive the ball. One shove of her hips knocked it up into the hoop. The Ahau blew his conch with a prolonged, bleating note. “Round Eight goes to Neith-Ka of Khamit, again. You heard that right, she won the last round.” Everyone on her side of the court hurled themselves into a joyous dance of chants, hoots, clapping, and the clatter of Khamitan guards’ spears onto their shields. Even Huya, the high steward, twirled his staff around his body in an ecstatic frenzy. Neith-Ka herself could not resist the music of her victory. Yelling in triumph, she skipped and spun about like a desert dust-devil on her legs, taunting her exhausted opposition with shakes of her hips and backside. “Hold up, you didn’t win the whole game,” Ahau B’alaj said. “You won thrice, but my Bison won the rest. Give me my spear and thrower!” A servant on his side of the court handed him the quiver of weapons he requested. The Khamitans’ celebratory dance ended when the Ahau fastened one spear to his thrower and aimed it down at Neith-Ka. “This is for my daughter!” A girl screamed. A very small girl, no older than six. Hurrying over from the left corner of the ball court, little Itzel embraced Neith-Ka by the legs with a defiant glare at her distant father. “You will not kill her, Father! I won’t let you!” “Get away from her, my child!” the Ahau said. “She wanted to kill you, remember?” “No, she didn’t mean to hurt me. I pulled on her hair and hurt her feelings. It’s my fault. Don’t kill her because of me!” “What in Xibalba do you mean? I’m doing this for you, my little princess!” “Then why won’t you listen to me?” Only the rhythmic trebling of cicadas, and the chirping of jungle birds, passed through the silence that fell over the court. It ended with the clanking of B’alaj’s spear and thrower as they fell onto the bottom of his court, both splintering in half. He took off his feathered crown and held his head low. “You speak with more wisdom than I have ever known, my daughter. I shall have her pardoned, with not one drop of blood spilled. Neith-Ka, daughter of Amenhotep, will you accept my forgiveness?” Neith-Ka nodded to him. “I forgive you in turn.” Tightening her hug on Neith-Ka’s legs, Itzel looked up with eyes still trickling tears. “Will you forgive me too, Princess of Khamit? I’m sorry I pulled your hair. I did it because these other girls in town said they’d be my friend if I gave them a lock of your people’s hair.” She knelt to the child with a smile before playfully scratching her hair. “Those girls wouldn’t be your friends then. You need someone who will appreciate who you are as a human being.” “But if I don’t make them like me, nobody will want to be my friend.” Neith-Ka’s own eyes verged on melting. She may have enjoyed plenty of sisters to play with back in Khamit, but it was true that girls born into the comfort of royalty didn’t always win the love of their less privileged peers. Even children could learn to resent their socioeconomic superiors. “Hmm…perhaps, instead pulling on Khamitan women’s hair, you need to show the other girls your positive qualities. Treat them with respect as you would your relatives. Share your toys, or your spare wealth…speaking of sharing—” Neith-Ka took off one of her sandals. “Was this your work?” Itzel grinned with the look of innocence while hiding her hands behind her. “My mother helped me with the sewing.” “Maybe I should repay you, somehow. Hey, do you like playing ball too?” Neith-Ka picked up the ball and twirled it on the tip of her finger. “Because, if you’d like, I could teach you to dribble like me.


(WP) Dragon Sitting “You know, when I agreed to this, I was expecting a dog, cat, or even a guinea pig!” I said to my best friend, Tanner, phone cradled between my ear and shoulder. “I don’t know if I can do this, T.” “You’re worrying way too much. It’s not like he’s a baby; he’s more like a teenager.” “You also neglected to tell me that this animal had scales and could breathe fire!” I shot back. I had no clue how she could be so calm about this. I mean, I knew how to handle quite a few animals, but nothing quite so fantastical. “Oh, come on, Penny!” Tanner said, pleading with me for the first time. “Aren’t you bored with your regular petsitting job? Just think about it! You get to play with a real, live dragon!” Easy for her to say; she and her parents were going to the Bahamas for a whole week and a half. She’d invited me to come too, but I had obligations that kept me at home. When she’d asked me to watch over one of her pets for her, I figured, why not? But that was before I’d realized that said pet was a fire-breathing winged lizard. Hopefully I could prevent it from burning the house down. But I’d made a promise to my friend, and it was too late to back out now. Tanner and her parents would be leaving in the early hours of the morning. \*\* I slept over at Tanner’s house, and I waved as they pulled out of the driveway. My charge wasn’t yet awake, which was just fine by me. Tanner had labeled the dragon’s food in the fridge, something red and dripping that I didn’t want to look at it too closely. I fixed myself a quick breakfast and ate, then got to work. I should’ve left my headphones off, but I was so used to it I didn’t even stop to consider how it might affect Tanner’s baby. Which is exactly how I ended up with a long, scaly thing with sharp teeth sitting on my head, attacking my headphones. I screamed, but before I could actually do anything, the little monster munched through them, screeching. “Are you hungry?” I asked, and at that word, the dragon flapped up above me, flying in a circle. I walked to the fridge and grabbed the bag of food, dumping a small portion into a bowl. Setting it on the floor, I let it eat. *It’s not an it, Penny. He’s a male dragon named Sobek.* Tanner’s voice admonished me, and I blushed. Even though the dragon couldn’t understand my words, I still felt bad about calling him an it. It wasn’t Sobek’s fault that Tanner hadn’t told me everything. And watching him eat, he was kind of cute. I’d never been much of a reptile person, but here we were. My headphones weren’t the only thing that suffered a causality as a result of Sobek’s curiosity. He may have been half-grown, but it was like trying to contain a puppy that could freaking fly and had claws as long as my pinky fingers.


Kat watched her house burn to the ground with her entire family in it. That was the problem with a tiny bit of magic. You always hear that you’ll go on grand adventures, and save lives with it, but no one ever tells you that you could accidentally burn down your house with it. It was only a tiny bit of magic after all, just enough to make a ball roll, or maybe make a spark. It’s only a tiny bit of magic, so it’s like a toy, a tiny bit of magic never hurt anyone right? Well, a tiny bit of magic was burning Kats little sisters’ skin off her bone and had caused part of the master bedroom to collapse atop of her mother. Because of a tiny bit of magic, her dog would die from smoke long before the fire reached him, and her father would be swallowed by the flames before he could get to her mother or little sister. Because of a tiny bit of magic, the bedroom she grew up in would soon be ash, and her father’s little library that was filled off all the books she loved wouldn’t last through the night. That was the problem with a tiny bit of magic, as it’s just small enough to feel safe, but it is still magic, and like all magic it is volatile. The real problem with a tiny bit of magic, however, was not the flames. It was not that Kat's entire family was burning to death, or that the home that she had loved so much would be devoured by the growing fire. The real problem with a tiny bit of magic was that Kat didn’t mind. Kat didn’t mind because a tiny bit of magic is addictive. A tiny bit of magic is like a year’s supply of cocaine, or a bars worth of empty liquor bottles. Because if she could do this with a tiny bit of magic if she could bring down the giant mansion that lay before her on accident, then what could she do when she tried. What could she do with a lot of magic? A smile curled on Kat's lips as she began to realize her potential. Even with just a tiny bit of magic, her life would never be the same. She would never have to go to school again, and if they tried to make her, she could just burn the school down along with them. Cindy, the girl who had once been Kat's best friend would soon be a charred corpse, only recognizable by her teeth, and David, the boy who had chosen Cindy over her, well she might give him a second chance. Kat turned away from her burning home and took a deep breath of the cool night air. To her, it tasted of opportunity and excitement.


“When you find yourself clutched in the talons of a spiteful god, the way I see it you’ve got two choices. On the one hand, you could moan about it to anyone who’ll listen. And on the other hand, you can get on with your life. Now, look. Am I saying it’s right that our crops failed again this year due to the blood rains? Certainly. Our lord is as wise in delivering the blood rains as he is wrathful against those who question the blood rains. *Acceptance.* That’s the real lesson here. Picture a predator hunting its prey. The prey is caught and dragged to the ground, the predator’s jaws tightening. It spends its last moments kicking and screaming. This is the way of animals, the natural way of things. But we are *not* animals. We need to talk about Sally Mayfeeld, Ancel’s little girl. We all saw that she got swooped up by that huge serpent-headed bat. And I know we’ve all had time to reflect on what happened that morning. Sorry, Ancel. I know it was just a few days ago. But it needs to be said. Anways, Sally got swooped up. And did she make a spectacle of herself! All the kicking and screaming. Like an animal! Such a ruckus. It must have been most of the morning. I know because I was outside painting the church fence. Looks nice, doesn’t it? That bat got so darned tired, it dropped Sally right onto the grain mill and broke it. She died before that during the, erm, that is. I mean to say… during the eye gouging. Well, I don’t need to tell you. We were all standing around watching, waiting for it to finally be done with so we can get on with our morning. At one point, near the end, she clutched Mrs. Pelter’s coat, begging for help. As though Mrs. Pelter would defy the will of our great and terrible destroyer. I’m sorry you had to go through that, Mrs. Pelter. Ancel, I believe you owe Mrs. Pelter a new coat. Her old one is totally ruined with Sally’s blood. What’s that? Ah, yes. New shoes as well. I’m sure if Sally were here she’d apologize for ruining everyone’s morning. Since, that’s not possible… No, Ancel. Since that’s not possible, perhaps Ancel could bring some cakes next week. That would be nice. Ancel. Ancel, please sob more quietly. I’m can’t bring back to life every loved one ripped violently away from us. I’d never get anything done. And besides, without consequences, life has no meaning. Our blessed tormentor wouldn’t just murder and abduct the lifeless corpse of another of our children before our eyes unless it was meant to teach us *something.* And that something is acceptance. Some of you may think I’ve been too harsh on Sally. So, I’d like to conclude her memorial service with a reading from the *Third Book of Loath*: *‘Meaning cannot be found in this life or the next, least of all by someone as nonthreatening and forgettable as you. When your final heirs gasp their final breaths in some few, short generations, will your meaning be revealed?’* Thank you for attending the midnight memorial service for Sally Mayfeeld. I hope when you think back on her memory, you will remember to calculate the monetary value of the damage caused by her demise so we can properly hold Ancel accountable. The service is now over. The last 10 people to leave the building will submit to a brief yet painful blood draining.


Bloody Mary. Bloody Mary. Bloody Mary. Bloody hell. There was this Bloody Mary air running around everywhere. All conversations, all arguments held one topic: Bloody Mary. Everyone was speaking "Have you seen her? " "How does she look? " "What does she do? " Tons of questions. Tons of made up answers. Curious, I once asked James what this bloody Mary thing is. He answered, very seriously, "It is the spirit of a girl called Mary. The story goes like this- once Mary was walking, taking a stroll in a garden, she stopped in her tracks. She stopped dead in her tracks. Something must have been there. She started to run. Run wildly. "As she approached the exit, she fell. She fell like dead puppet. Blood oozed out of her neck, smearing her body in blood. Locals took her to a hospital. The doctors examined. They were in shock. They were seriously shocked. "Her heart was dead. But blood still flowed out of her neck. Her eyes started turning blue. Her nails turned deep red. "Now, her spirit roams the world. Seeking to avenge, searching for peace. People have now devised a simple incantation." He towered upon me, his gaze piercing. He continued, "Bloody Mary. Repeat this three times, in front of a mirror with the door shut, on a moonless night, at the stroke of midnight. Mary will appear, and stare back at you in the mirror. " He backed away. He was shaking. He added, "No one dares to try, but if you do, send me the video of it. " With that, he left, wishing me good luck. I too went home. Upon checking the calendar, I found that the night was a moonless one. I got ready. I got ready. After dinner I went up to my room. My aunt had come over to stay, so all were up late at night also, gossiping and watching TV. I hoped they didn't stay up for long. 15 minutes to twelve. I made my preparations. Flung open the windows. Locked the door. 2 minutes to twelve. I went in front of a mirror. And shut my eyes. I began- "Bloody Mary." Nothing happened. Again, I spoke a little louder: "Bloody Mary." The swish of the wind. The fluttering of curtains. The sound of footsteps coming up the stairs. Heavy footsteps. The latch turned. A large figure stepped into my room. "What the heel are you doing here?" It called. The light was flipped on. I snapped open my eyes. My aunt was standing in the door. "What are you trying to do this late hour by calling me? " she questioned. I just started at her. How foolish of me, I had forgotten my aunt's name was also Mary! After telling it was nothing, I sent her away. I resumed my chant: "Bloody Mary." "Bloody Mary." I paused. Once more to go. I didn't believe in such hocus pocus and ghosts, but I had a feeling that this was going to turn out real. I hoped James was wrong. I took a deep breath. Quickly I uttered, "Bloody Mary." Keeping my eyes shut, I strained my ears. The windows banged against the frame. Wind blowed in, threatening to topple me over. And then, Silence.


The man put the wine glasses away. He put them away in the one windowed cabinet in the kitchen. They were fine wine glasses, hand crafted and pleasing to look at through the cabinet window. It seemed to him that there was a space for each wine glass in among the other fine glass objects in the cabinet. Though, as he took each wine glass from the mat on which it had finished drying and placed it in the windowed cabinet, the wine glasses did not look as if they would all fit in the space together. But they had fit in that space before and so would fit again, this is what he told himself. There were twelve wine glasses drying on the mat when he came downstairs to put them away; now there were two wine glasses on the mat. As he took up the remaining wine glasses he could not help but notice how large his hands were, he was a post-pubescent male, and yet he seemed to have grown miraculously if only by inches since the last time he looked at his hands. He knew what people said about people with big hands and he smiled. He strode over to the cabinet and placed one of the remaining wine glasses inside. Gazing through the cabinet window he realized that the final wine glass would not fit inside. He had to try anyways, this was how he was. There was no defined space for the final wine glass and so he really had to force it into the cabinet. The other wine glasses behaved irregularly as he forced this last one in; they began to bounce around. Despite the bouncing, the last wine glass found its way into the cabinet after a period of time he could not measure. As he shut the cabinet door it came open again. He slammed the cabinet door closed and it shut most of the way. This was good enough for him. He felt he had been doing this for far too long. The man went upstairs. He could not stop thinking about the cabinet, slightly open thanks to his boneheaded placement of the final wine glass. He did not want the wine glass to think that the cabinet door being slightly ajar was the wine glass’s fault. He went downstairs. He took out the misplaced wine glass and set it on the drying mat; he took out a second wine glass and set it upon the drying mat; in doing this he impressed upon himself the idea that he was not chasing perfection; he would leave perfection to the perfectionists, this was an obvious observation. He looked at the two wine glasses on the drying mat and allowed that, if a person were to see these wine glasses, they could work out where the wine glasses should be placed and would come upon the dilemma with which he was currently faced. He decided to take a third wine glass out and a fourth and so on until there were eleven wine glasses on the mat and one in the windowed cabinet. The man stared at the fridge in the kitchen. He opened the fridge and bathed in its glow; his eye was caught by a bottle full of red liquid. On the front of the bottle he read: *Cabernet Sauvignon.* And on the back: *This is copy. This copy is written, like newsprint, to be easily comprehendible. This copy will tell you that, should you decide to drink the Cabernet Sauvignon in this bottle you will taste ‘hints of chocolate and coffee’. This is a lie, but you will tell your drinking partners you taste these hints. No matter if they taste the hints of coffee and chocolate or not they will tell you the same. You will have fun agreeing with each other and believe you have come closer to one another in this moment. If you are alone you may lie to yourself and make believe that you have tasted these hints as well, this lie will justify your purchase. Go ahead, drink.* He agreed with what he read. The man put the wine in the remaining wine glass which he took from the windowed cabinet. He drank. He kept drinking. He drank a lot more. He finished the bottle. He did not remember what happened next. He was walking around the kitchen moaning. His head hurt. He went to sleep. He woke up and there was a pain in his right eye. The man decided to visit the optometrist. The optometrist was booked up until next week. He thought: damn, and went home. He sat down inside his house and thought about the pain in his right eye. He needed to fix this. He went back to the optometrist and made an appointment with a secretary. He did not know why he had not done this before. He blamed the wine he drank. It was Tuesday. The man went back the following Wednesday, the pain had become worse but not so much worse that he was considering anything drastic, but almost. He talked to the optometrist. The optometrist was concerned. He put him through some tests. Can you read the first line and so on. Can you read this small bible text and so on. Can you see with a spoon over and so on. He did not perform well in these tests. The optometrist poured eye drops in his eyes, they stung. The man went into the waiting room to wait for the drops to work. He felt his eyes become bigger in his head, he felt that this was not what was supposed to happen. He returned to the optometrist’s office. The optometrist looked into his eyes. His face felt flush. The optometrist’s face contorted again and again. The man felt this was not a good sign. Your eyes are supposed to dilate, but not like that, the optometrist said. He thought: oh, shit, in his head and then exclaimed it aloud. Well, said the optometrist, don’t be frightened, I haven’t seen this happen before but I’m sure I can figure something out. The optometrist left his office to deliberate. The optometrist was gone for what felt to the the man like hours, though he knew this to be impossible, nearly. The man had an -ism of some sort. The optometrist gave him a prescription. The man purchased expensive eye glasses for money and went home cursing in his head or aloud, he was not sure. The fucking glasses would arrive at his door the next day, after the payment was processed. The man was told not to strain his eyes for a few hours. Unable to watch television his attention was drawn toward other stuff. His bathroom wall seemed interesting when he was pissing but he felt he could not stare too long at it for fear of any strain. After he finished up in the bathroom he went to wash his hands in the kitchen sink because the bathroom sink was ‘flimsy’. Someone had said this to him once when over at his ‘place’. As he was washing his hands he found himself gazing at the stained wine glass and empty bottle and set about cleaning them both. The wine glass was easy to clean, a quick rinse. The bottle, on the other hand, required concentration, as the bottle was filled with water and emptied *ad infinitum*. The remaining red droplets were all turned clear after the vigorous cleansing of the bottle. The man felt pleased. He thought about walking to the liquor store and getting some money for the bottle. He did not capitalize on this thought and instead found himself wishing for a way to cram the clean wine glass into the windowed cabinet along with the others which were sitting on the drying mat. He began puzzling over ways to do this while still remembering that he was not seeking perfection of any sort, at least not yet. The man did not want to look back while dying and, realizing that he had left the wine glasses out on a drying mat, just die. The man tried one more time to place the wine glasses in the windowed cabinet. He grasped the wine glasses, always in his right hand, and forced them inside the cabinet, the glasses took to bouncing once more. He withdrew from the cabinet, final glass in hand, and cursed and cursed and cursed himself, his wine glasses, his place, his -ism and the glasses he needed which would perhaps fix it. He worked himself into such a rage that he confusedly slammed his right hand down on his kitchen counter. The man had been holding the wine glass by its neck and in slamming it down had shattered its base in such a way that it nearly dissolved. The man panicked, for these were expensive wine glasses that cost money. The man had not noticed the glass skittering at speed across the floor after shattering and stopping where it had stopped on the floor. He did not believe the glass had truly dissolved, he was not stupid. The blood had not had a chance to coagulate. It was still spurting in huge quantities from beneath him after his first step. The man slid across the kitchen floor as he was in a rush to find a pair of slippers to cover his bare feet. In sliding, the glass on the kitchen floor made contact with his feet repeatedly, slicing the soft skin on which he stepped. The glass had spread farther across the floor than the man anticipated, perhaps due to the glass’s quality. The man’s slippers were located down some stairs not far outside of his kitchen. By the time the man had painfully descended these stairs his feet were bleeding like an animals’. The man put on his slippers and his feet slid around inside them. He made slow movements to attain his vacuum and hauled it to the kitchen where he plugged it into an outlet. The vacuum cord was very long like a snake is long and the man seemed aware of this as he started the vacuum. The blood thickened while the man was vacuuming, his feet seemed to come apart from the slippers with each step he took while cleaning. It became harder and harder to move as the blood got harder and harder beneath him. Minutes later the man’s feet were more stuck to the floor than not. The man found his feet numbed and was unable to tell, based on the quantity of glass, how much he had really vacuumed. The anaconda-cord had come to rest, in the man’s cleaning, right in front of his slipper-covered feet. The man’s next step, laboured and slow, placed his slippered left foot just underneath the vacuum cord. As he vacuumed some surrounding glass he took another step which placed his right foot over the cord. The man then began to step with his left foot and, as the skin stuck to the blood at the bottom of the slipper separated, he felt weighed down and fell forward onto the kitchen floor. The man became as a piece of meat. The butcher the floor, the cleaver the glass. The man had fallen onto what seemed to him to be the epicentre, where shards of varying size had exploded out from the shattered base. His head had landed squarely in an area with no glass so that his skull felt the full impact of the fall, leaving a dent in the tile, a sort of bowl which the contents of his head filled. All around him the glass attached to his body, so that as he rolled around limp and dumb, blind and trying to assess himself physically, he was in a sort of pain he had not yet experienced. The glass behaved in a certain way as the man rolled around on the floor, going out from its center and coming back countless times. The glass carved and sliced and ripped and tore away at every facet of his body. His throat was torn open and his vocal cords made a sound which had never been produced or heard by the man. The man was very soft spoken anyway. The glass took to his legs, his stomach, his arms, his clothing was in disrepair, shredded to bits. In the end, nearly unfeeling, his body settled, back side down, so that his head rested facing upwards, staring at the ceiling, Unable to move or make a sound of any kind, the man’s blood soaked the tile of his personal abattoir and slowly overflowed the bowl which his head had made, spilling out and covering much of his kitchen floor. The days passed and, on Friday, there was a knock at the man’s door. It was the optometrist. He had good news, he had not diagnosed the man properly, his eyes had become bigger in his head not because of any -ism, but because the eye drops were defective, his vision was completely fine, the man did not need any expensive glasses. The optometrist had brought some Merlot over, to celebrate. \ Thanks for reading, and thanks for any feedback.


_*The "Switch"*_ I lied down to sleep. Tomorrow was my school play, but I was not at all excited. The unfortunate day came in my memory as I closed my eyes. It was the worst day of my life. Nothing sadder can happen than what had on that evening. On that evening, my twin brother had been dragged away to death. It hurts me as I think about it. I wish I had been able to save him, even if that meant I had to sacrifice my life. Next morning, I awoke to the call of nature. I heard the chirping of birds, the warm sunlight that entered through the gap between the curtains. I got off the bed. Everything seemed a little higher that usual. The table, window came up to my shoulders. Or was it that I had shrinked? "What time is it? Don't wake me up so early..." I spun around. Sleeping on the bed was my brother, William. He was just like I remebered. But how was he alive? I looked at the clock. I was deceived by my own eyes! The date it showed was 2 December, 2014; five years back! How was that possible? Then I realised. I was really in the past. And this was the day of our school trip to a zoo. I might be able to change the past and save my brother! I quickly packed my things, without forgetting "it". I was ready. Ready to save William. The school bus came to pick us up. After a while, we were at the zoo. It was just like I remembered. First, the monkeys, then the giraffes. After that were there reptiles -alligators and crocodiles. And finally- The Tiger. It was the cage, I remembered. The cage had a broken part due to rains and heat. And the Tiger had taken advantage of this opportunity to escape. Finally, the Tiger had got freedom. Freedom to kill. It was on the loose and our group was not aware of it. But I was. I told them, "Hey guys, the Tiger in the cage is out! We should go somewhere safe." Of course no one believed me. Then the announcement came: "Dear tourists, please exit the zoo immediately. The Tiger is on the run." Everyone started running helter skelter. We began to run in the other direction of the cage. My brother was in the front. That's when the Tiger came out of nowhere, right in front of William. All of our group started backing away, slowly. But I wanted to save him. William was trying to act ferocious, barring his mouth and growling. I got into action. I opened my backpack. I pulled out the expandable metal rod. I banged it against the ground and advanced. The Tiger looked at me. He growled and put a paw ahead. I got in front of William. I whispered, "I got this brother. Now, without showing your back to the Tiger, back down slowly." I hardly thought he would listen. He was too scared for that. But he managed to keep the Tiger in front and descend... I waved the rod above my head, while shouting at the Tiger. He looked at William, and growled loudly. That was it. Williams's could only hold on his own so long, and he began to run. The Tiger started to chase after him, completely overlooking me. This was my chance. I took the stance. I held the rod steady. The Tiger came running past my right. I swung the rod hard, like a baseball bat. It hit the legs of him, knocking him off. The Tiger stumbled to the ground, unable to get up. Then I backed away. The zoo officials and the security men came up shortly after that. They thanked me, and took away the Tiger. But I had not anticipated what could happen at that exact same time. * • *The Future* I woke up to the sound of cars and trucks. I was very much surprised and wondered how can there be so much traffic in the morning. I got up, and again to my astonishment William was out of the bed! He is such a sleepy head and he had wound up the bed and who knows where he was. So I too began to get ready for school. Mom was there in the kitchen. "Early today?" She asked. "What? Is there not school today?" "Hey have you forgotten? Today is your school festival and you are in the play?" What!? I didn't remember anything like that. I checked the clock. It showed: 2 December 2019. Five years ahead. This was not possible. Moreover there was this play mom was talking about. "...and then don't bend too much, it would look funny..." While she babbled away, I slipped out in the drawing room, snatching a newspaper. No way I had come give years in the future. This must be a bad dream . . .a bad dream . . . No luck. There was no luck in waking up, if at all this was a dream. Well, I decided I had to play along. See if things take a sudden turn . . . *** "Hey, why are you so sad today?" I looked to my right. Lucy was sitting there on the bench. "I . . .I just . . .am feeling a little weird," I stammered, not being able to say anything else. I had gone to school half an hour before our given time. I clutched the script in my right hand. The play was starting in an hour and a half, and I had barely read the first page, let alone learn my dialogues. I was just praying that someone, or something will take me back to my time. Lucy grabbed my hand and unfurled the script. "Oh I know you're nervous," she said, "but that's okay. It's your first time anyway. Let us rehearse the script. You are the Prince, and I am," she paused, supposedly looking for a good role she could pick up. She was not in the play, while I was. "Yes, I will be Hera." I turned and grabbed the script from her hands so fast that the girl yelped. "What? Hera?" I said, while reading the paper in my hands. I didn't know anything about the play. Hera was a Greek goddess, and I was pretty sure she was the Queen of all Gods. I read the script so quick that Lucy was surprised. "I didn't know you could read that fast." I just shook my head. It was such a stupid play, it wasn't even worth telling anyone. And on top of that, Lucy followed me everywhere like a dog. It was time to ditch her. She was getting on my nerves anyway. I told her to follow me. There was this scene that Hera suddenly appears in a closet beside me. So I took her to the staff room to rehearse. "Now you step into the closet here." I directed her. "Okay," she said, stepping in. "Ready?" "Ready," I affirmed. And slammed the closet door in her face. And turned the key in the lock.


As I woke from my slumber, my eyes gazed upon my worst nightmare incarnate. Four summers ago, my mother returned from Turkey hoisting a massive, beautifully embroidered rug over her frail shoulder. She treated it as if it was her child, and by far her favorite one. My brother and I had the words “No food, no drink, and no shoes” drilled into our heads. Then, as my eyes came to focus while lying on the expertly crafted rug, I saw it, a massive, expanding stain of red, seeping further and further into the pristine fabric with every passing second. My mind was boggled, and my body felt weak. I must have fallen with a glass of strawberry soda, I thought. Yet, as I began to crane my stiffened neck, tiny pieces of dry wall were scattered across the floor, and a body lay before me, coated in red. Surely it couldn’t be blood, this was my brother, what had happened? There was a breeze, I remember, and knowing my mother, there shouldn’t have been one anywhere in this house, cheap woman. I quickly realized that a massive hole had been fashioned into the stone of our house by some heedless force, and the hole was in the shape of a pitcher. This is when I heard the footsteps, rumbling towards me, shaking the foundation of our home, and standing high above me, gazing upon my teenage candidness, was the Kool-Aid man. I had heard this urban legend of the Kool-Aid man, the one who murders children and ruins perfectly good rugs, but I seldom believe such things. However now, in his terrible presence, I accepted my fate, and thought “at least mom won’t yell at us.” Then I thought, “Wait, what the hell?” None of this mess had been my brother’s fault, or my own, so as far as I was concerned, I wouldn’t let a creature so transparent, you can see his insides get the best of me. As my vision began to clear further, the pitcher-shaped outline of the Kool-Aid man met my eyes, and a ferocity began to boil in my heart like my mother’s russet potatoes in that stainless-steel pot that she likes so damn much. Using this sudden rush of adrenaline, and the drive to take revenge on the murderer of not just my brother, but more importantly, my mother’s favorite Turkish rug, I staggered to my feet. How dare this man bust through our walls shouting like some commercial character? My shirt was soaked, and whether it was Kool-Aid, or my own blood was unknown to me, so I ripped it off, revealing my gorgeous dad bod, which is unfortunately genetic. I quickly realized that even walking would be an excruciating task. With each step, pain shot from my feet into my gut, where tiny shards of glass had firmly embedded themselves, seeming to dig deeper as I continued my strides towards revenge. The Kool-Aid man, who had begun his triumphant exit, must have heard me coming, because he quickly turned and met my gaze. Now we stood, face to face, unflinching, unwavering, and patient. It almost reminds me of a showdown that you’d see in an old western. For some stupid reason, as I was not carrying a gun, I wiggled my fingers at my belt as if I was ready to draw my revolver into position. The Kool-Aid man gazed upon my foolishness and laughed. “You think this is a joke?” he asked harshly, his voice booming and pleasingly charismatic. He tried to bow his chest out, but to no avail, without certain muscles, not much is possible, so he just pretended. However, the man, or pitcher better yet, was nevertheless imposing. I stood there silent, truthfully because I had no idea how to come out victorious. The Kool-Aid man was larger than me, had a serrated glass knife firmly grasped in his right hand, and he wasn’t bleeding from his gut profusely as I was. There was no way I could break his glass exoskeleton, it seemed nearly bullet proof, I mean, he breaks through walls without a scratch. So, I had to figure a way to get that red liquid to spill. My first thought was to sweep his legs out from under him, but all that red liquid inside of him is surely heavier than it appears, and I hadn’t the strength to muster the amount of force required. I needed to devise a way to use his own weight against him, or I’d be just as dead as my brother soon, as well as my mom’s heart when she sees her favorite rug has been ruined. As fast as I could, I looked him up and down and determined that a decent blow to the top of his exoskeleton would cause him to tip over. So, I sprang into action, if that’s what my gross display of stumbling could be called, and I began to run up the stairs. As I assumed, the Kool-Aid man did not pursue me, and laughed at my seemingly cowardly acts. “I knew you didn’t have the spirit!” he shouted at me from below, as I began to climb atop the banister, my eyes intent on my mom’s favorite chandelier from Budapest, which would soon be ruined as well. The wretched Kool-Aid man began to look at me strangely and cautiously, scanning every move I made and every facial expression that was displayed on my countenance. Then, I leaped. Somehow, I managed to grab hold of the chandelier as it swung back and forth like a pendulum. Once I knew I was secure, and could see the Kool-Aid man laughing arrogantly from the ground level, I began to contort my body, giving the chandelier the momentum I needed to destroy my enemy. Gathering all the strength a human can possibly obtain, I timed my release from the swinging chandelier. “OH YEA!!!” I shouted at the top of my lungs as my body soared through the air towards the man who ruined my mother’s rug. My feet crashed into him, and with a great, and final exclamation of despair, he crashed to the ground, and the liquid left his body, leaving him lifeless. I now stood above him, chuckling over his body as it lie cold on the floor. I bent down slowly, and dragged my finger through the red liquid that granted my enemy life, and proceeded to taste it. “Revenge is sweet,” I said with a smirk.