Paris had fallen. The Imperial forces under Napoleon had made it to Fontainebleau, and while the Emperor was determined to march on the occupied capital and reclaim it from the Allies, his Marshals were not. And so it was that Michel Ney and the others entered the great hall where their frustrated overlord anxiously contemplated the situation. "My Emperor," Ney began, "it is time... to abdicate." Napoleon turned and cast a scornful glare at the Marshal. "Are you *mad*, Ney!?" The Emperor might have expected the other Marshals to share his own surprise at Michel's proposition, but they all seemed to line up behind the Bravest of the Brave. "There are always more recruits- we still have the National Guard! The Eagles will fly! The Grand Army *will* follow me to Paris and we *will* take it back from the Allies!" "No," Ney responded calmly. "The Army... will follow its generals." Napoleon turned away from his Marshals, clenching his fists in anger. "My Emperor, you *must* abdicate... or else..." Bonaparte slowly turned his head, glaring at Marshal Ney with yellow eyes. "Are you threatening me, Marshal Ney?" *Pssshew!* A red lightsaber ignited and the Emperor, with a devious grin crawling across his face, turned to face Michel. Ney, in return, brought his hand up and force-pulled his own lightsaber from his belt, igniting a blue beam. "Surrender, Napoleon... this is your last chance." "So be it," Napoleon replied, accepting the Marshal's challenge. Ney gripped his saber with both hands. "Leave us." The other Marshals, some more reluctant than others, retreated from the room. "Raaagh!" Napoleon flew forward in a devilish twirl, the power of the dark side propelling him towards his opponent. Ney reacted with keen reflexes, parrying a series of deadly blows from the Emperor. The hum of their weapons were interrupted by the terrible sound of their clashing; sparks flew in all directions and such was the display that any sane man would commit self-defenestration. Napoleon attempted to drive home a fatal blow utilizing *Dun Moch*, but was parried or frustrated by the more-defensive *Soresu* style of Ney. The duel may have been a stalemate, but Napoleon was gaining ground and Ney was forced to fall back in the midst of the Emperor's flurry. "Nyah!" Napoleon's palm flew forward - force-pushing Ney towards a window. The Marshal's lightsaber flew from his hand as he crashed through the window and down into the courtyard below. The Emperor, in his mad and enraged state, leaped from said window and attempted to deliver a deadly blow. Fortunately, Ney, ever-ready in the face of great odds, rolled to the side. All over the courtyard were Imperial soldiers, looking confused. They raised their weapons, but most did not know if they should aim for their Emperor, or the Bravest of the Brave. Force-lightning shot from the Emperor's palm and struck Ney as he tried to collect himself from the fall and the roll. "Aaaagh!" he cried out, suffering at the intense shock emitted from Napoleon. With his opponent subdued, the Emperor was able to put away his lightsaber and combine both palms into his deadly attack, electrocuting Ney with the power of the dark side. "Aaagh!" the Marshal cried out in agony. "F-f-f-fire!" he finally managed to spit out. There was a minor hesitation amongst the surrounding soldiers, but they finally opened fire on the Emperor. Napoleon was quick enough to re-ignite his lightsaber and deflect the beams, but there proved to be far too many and more and more soldiers opened fire on their Emperor. Napoleon fell with a whimper, alive - but barely. The Bravest of the Brave struggled to his feet, smoke rising from his clothes as he did so. Using the force he called Napoleon's red lightsaber to him. "My Emperor..." he began, igniting the weapon and placing it at Napoleon's neck.


Ken blended into the fabric of the high school. Part of the walls, unnoticed by the staff and pupils alike. Yet he missed nothing. He went about his business every day, cleaning up the leftovers of their lives. Quietly watching their teenage dramas unfold as he went. He was part of them even if they did not know it. No one noticed him as he shuffled along the corridor pushing his janitor cart. Ken was never meant for greater things. This job was his greatest triumph. More so than people gave him credit for. He knew Megan was dating the school jock, Andrew, but also knew that Megan was screwing Tyler behind the bike shed. He knew Ashley was pregnant. He had found the discarded test. Things had been very subdued lately, since Alison went missing. It had been a week since she had vanished on her way home from school, without a trace. A shrine filled with flowers and stuffed animals had slowly appeared under her locker. Like the small tributes would somehow tempt her back or lead to her return. Every day it grew. Ken cleaned around it. Watering the small pot plants placed there by morbid curiosity. As dumb as Ken was, he knew it was not out of love for Alison. Ken knew Alison. She was one of the characters in his high school drama, the only one that greeted him now and then. She hung around with the popular girls but was not one of them. She was plain compared to Ashley, and positively ugly compared to Megan. Quiet and meek, they made fun of her clothes. Always the butt of their jokes. They permitted her to sit with them as she would willingly do their homework. Like ken. She was the person no one noticed, till she was gone. Then suddenly, they were all crying, acting like she was there best friend. There were rumours that she had run away or killed herself. Rumours, no doubt started by Megan. Megan had recently found out that Andrew, had been spending time at Alison’s house. His excuse was she was helping him with maths. Ken suspected it was more than like Biology. So did Megan it seemed. Andrew, to save his reputation, had yelled at Alison in the cafeteria to leave him alone, and stop coming on to him. That he would never want her and that she was trash. Everyone had heard. Alison was humiliated, crying in big gulpy sobs in the corridor. Andrew, high fiving his mates, satisfied Alison was humiliated enough that Megan would forgive him. A day later Alison was missing. Wherever she was now, she would no longer have to deal with these horrid people. It could not be worse for her than this. Ken pushed his cleaning trolley back to the cupboard and walked down the stairs to the basement. Alison was sobbing quietly in a cage, at the back of the darkroom. Don’t worry, Ken said to her. I will take care of you. He proceeded to tell her all the horrid things her friends had done today.


Kaitlyn stared at the coffee maker as it crackled faintly, filling the glass pot with the sweet life giving brew at an excruciating slow pace. She looked down at her phone to scroll through Instagram to distract her from the seemingly glacial progress but not even cat pictures or sunrises from some far away beach could keep her from glancing at the pot every three seconds. And speaking of cats she could hear her kitty yowling and scratching at the backdoor, ready to come in from a night on the prowl. “Oh my gosh Sunny stop, I’m coming,” Kaitlyn yelled as she shuffled through the living room to let in the howling ball of impatient fluff. No sooner had the door cracked opened a streak of yellow and orange lightening ran through the living room. Groaning, she followed the cat back towards her bedroom knowing there was only one reason he would run to her room instead of the kitchen for breakfast, he had brought something in. Kaitlyn stopped into the bathroom to grab a plastic bag out from underneath the sink, avoiding the mirror as she went. She was still in the clothes she had slept in, an XL shirt she was given at the gym she attended once and a pair of cotton shorts with a hole in the pocket, and hadn’t even thought about brushing her hair or teeth yet. Just as she had suspected, Sunny was hunched over something giving it a sniff when she had walked into the bedroom armed with her cleaning spray and baggy. “Ok mighty hunter, let’s see what you drug in this time,” she said sticking one foot under the cat’s stomach and moving him away from his catch to get a look. In the three years that she had owned him, he had brought home everything from paper sacks to mysteriously stolen socks to dead lizards, but he always laid them down on the rug right in front of her bed. Today was a completely new catch however, a bat. Kaitlyn squatted down with the bag over her entire hand, looking away with her eyes sealed shut as she attempted to scoop up little body. Her fingers closed around the fuzzy body and a little squeal escaped her lips that echoed out around the room. No, not an echo she realized as she felt movement beneath her fingers. *Oh shit, it’s alive,* she realized in a panic. Kaitlyn pulled the baggie away from the squeaking bat and Sunny rushed back in to investigate. She pulled the cat away from the animal, moving quickly out of the room and slamming the door shut behind her. Dropping the cat down in the kitchen to dig through the cabinets and pantry for something to put the bat in while she figured out where to take him. Giving into the realization that there weren’t any shoe boxes anywhere in the house, because really who keeps those things, she plunged a knife down through a Tupperware lid to make air holes for a transport box. After grabbing her least favorite kitchen towel from the drawer and distracting the cat with a scoop of food, she snuck back down the hallway. The high pitched squeaking had stopped from behind the door. Kaitlyn grimaced as she pulled the door open, afraid she was about to have to act as a coroner instead of a paramedic after all. But it turns out the bat wasn’t dead all, in fact it wasn’t a bat all at anymore. A man was now kneeling on her area rug groaning battered, his hair matted with sweat and his hands covered in lacerations. Her fingers started to turn white around the Tupperware container still clutched in her hand. Kaitlyn let out the breath she was holding as she fought the urge to throw the ruined plastic at him and run out the door behind her as the realization that the strange guy on her floor was seriously hurting. “Are you ok?” she finally managed, accidentally shouting at the poor man to try and drown out the sound of her own heart hammering in her ears. Well man wasn’t exactly accurate. Vampires had been out in the public eye for about five years but they still weren’t common to come across. They didn’t hang out in the Dollar General or anything. Kaitlyn took a steadying breath “I heal quickly,” the man assured me as he rose to his knees, his dark hair still hanging down into his pale face. “Should I call someone or can I give you a ride somewhere I guess?” She asked looking down at herself in her bare feet and oversized shirt. “You’ll just need to let me change….Or probably a cab would be best?” “The sun is already up and I’m not going to fit into that any longer,” the vampire said pointing at the makeshift transport in her hands. Kaitlyn looked down at the forgotten container with a blush and tossed it into a chair on top of the not-quite-dirty clothes pile. “So what I’m just supposed to let you hang out until sundown?” Kaitlyn asked as she followed him down the hallway and towards the living room. He poked his head around the corner cautiously before easing into the room silently to pull the curtains tight across the window. Even in the low light Kaitlyn could see he was already free of most of his injuries as he moved around the room. “It would be appreciated,” he said as he sat down on the couch, his movements as graceful as a falling feather. “Besides it seems like the least you could offer since if it wasn’t for your feline friend I wouldn’t be in your house at all.” “Yeah, true… That leads into my next question. How are you in my house? Don’t vampires have to be invited in?” She said sitting down in the armchair across the room, folding her legs underneath her feeling like a newborn giraffe in her movements now compared to his unnerving elegance. “Oh your cat-“he started to explain. “Sunny.” “Right, Sunny here is considered a resident of this dwelling and therefore has the authority to grant me entrance.” “That seems like a hell of a loophole…Kaitlyn said reaching behind her to pull a blanket off the back of the decorative armchair to cover up with, pulling the fabric all the way up to her neck. “You don’t have to worry, I am not going to harm you,” the vampire assured her from across the darkened room. “What? Oh no I wasn’t worried about that,” she said, heat flooding her cheeks as she realized what her pulling the blanket up so far much have looked like. “I wasn’t pulling it up over my neck because I thought you were going to attack me or anything! I watched all of the vampire coverage on the news and know you guys don’t really even drink that much blood. I’m just still in my pjs and felt a little self-conscious is all.” “So you didn’t think I was going attack you, you just thought I might be a pervert?” he clarified, raising an inquisitive eyebrow. “Yes…Wait, no! I mean….”Kaitlyn bit down on her lip to try to get herself to stop talking. “Are you sure you can’t head out sooner?” “I don’t exactly have my car even if the sun wasn’t already up,” he said with a shrug. “Right,” Kaitlyn agree quietly as she pulled out her phone to check what time the sun would be setting on her weather app, hoping the forecast would suddenly call for rain. With a high of 89 and not a cloud in sight her hopes of getting rid of her guest early were officially dashed, it was going to be a sunny day. “I’m Nathaniel,” the vampire offered apologetically from across the room. Even though he had been literally drug into the house against his will, Kaitlyn could feel that he knew he was inconveniencing her. “I’m Kaitlyn,” she returned sliding her phone back into her pocket. “I’m going to get changed real fast but feel free to look through the movies or I think I have some board games if you are interested.” “Thank you very much. Do you mind if I get something to drink from the kitchen?” He asked, standing so swiftly he had actually done it between her blinking. “Sure, as long as it’s not my cat,” she said back, watching him wide eyed as she rose from her seat too and backed up down the hallway. The locked clicked in place behind her as she leaned against the door and hoped that Nathaniel’s hearing wasn’t good enough to pick it up. She felt obligated to be a good hostess since she felt so guilty that her cat had hurt him but she wasn’t willing to put her comfort completely aside to do so. Especially since she was already giving up a whole day off of pretending she was going to get up and clean to entertain him. When we reemerged from her room, hair tamed, jeans on, and teeth brushed she found Nathaniel still standing in the kitchen with two cups of coffee already poured. A familiar comfort flooded her body at the sight of the steaming mugs, starting her coffee maker seemed like something she had done yesterday rather than an hour ago. She collected her cup and came to stand over near where he was hanging out looking down at the puzzle on her dining room table, sensing that was what he was most interested in doing. *Well, there are worse ways to spend a day I suppose.


Alarms. Screaming. Gunfire. Before you have time to wake up you are pulled out of the tent into the chaotic morning, Government trucks surrounding the encampment. *They found us* Your mother pulls at your arm sprinting with pure, primal fear. Heart pounding, bullets flying, there is only one searing thought. *Get Out* You turn a corner. Officers ahead. No escape. Their bulky weapons stare at your chest. You look around, you’re surrounded. They escort you to the center, where the others are being held. “Facedown on the ground, hands above your heads” The Officers patrol through the crowd, inspecting each person. The moments drag with each gun hanging over your back. Someone tries to flee. They don’t even make it off the ground. ***Ratatata*** Instantly suppressed. The silence grows. One of them finally reaches you. Time comes to halt. You’re sure they didn’t spend as long on the others. “The Child,” the guard barks, “take it.” Dread drips from your throat into your chest. A hand grabs your neck and pulls you up. Your mother screams. “Please! Not my child! Anybody but my child! Take me! Take--” “Inhuman scum” A kick hammers down. You catch a glimpse of red as the Officer holding you begins to pull you toward a truck. “Funny isn’t it?” he says ***Ratatata*** “The inhuman believed it deserved something” Tears well below your eyes as the firm leather glove digs into your jaw. You know any slight movement could decide your fate. “What do we do with the rest of them?” “Take their miserable lives” The sound of Gunfire rattles your skull as you are thrown into the truck. You stare out at the ruins for perhaps the last time, before the door slams shut and darkness covers your eyes. You fall into an unnatural sleep as slowly and as noticeably as drifting off at night. Your dreams are pure in thought, nothing to see, nothing to feel, nothing to hear. There is only a single sensation: Digging. It feels as though your very soul is ripped apart and examined thoroughly. Time passes immeasurably as your feverish thoughts fill your very essence. Light. Reality. Your eyes are filled with a small white room, void of any defining details. You look down. You seem to be strapped to some sort of metal chair, Your arms and legs are bound with medical-seeming straps. You feel small felt pads on your head. You dare not to struggle, in fear of revealing how truly helpless you are. Suddenly, the straps release. You move your arms in disbelief. *Freedom, But How? Why?* “You’re welcome, by the way” You spin around to see a small squat woman, poking electrical tools into an access port on the machine. You stare at her blankly. “You don’t talk much, do you?” She continues her work. A small pile of tools lays beside her, some that you even recognise. Wire cutters, a soldering iron, even a small wrench sits at the edge of the pile. “Aha! Finally! Exactly what I needed.” She pulls out a small plastic box that has some wires hanging out. It’s labeled neatly with a small piece of tape reading “53722A” “Come on, Follow me” With nowhere else to go, You comply. You walk down endless hallways, lined with indistinguishable doors apart from a small number similar to the one on the box. As the white corridors blend together, you feel something in your pocket. You stop. You pull out the small faded photograph, one you have kept with you since before you can remember. As you stare down at it, your sister stares back at you with a familiar smile. She was taken by the government when you were young. She might be in this very building. “What are you doing? I said follow me!” You look up. Several yards ahead stands the woman you were following. You had forgotten all about her. You begin to walk, photo still in hand. “What’s that?” You show her. “Your... Friend? ...Sister?” You nod. “Huh” She turns back around and continues walking. You remember to follow her this time. As you continue past glistening doors and humming fluorescent lights, minutes begin to feel like hours. *Where are we going?* Suddenly, the woman quickly turns and barges open a door. She pulls a strange gun from her hip you hadn’t noticed before, its strange colors and curves a far cry from the sleek black terrors you’ve seen in the ruins *Pop! Pop!* You peer into the room to see a large computer screen and two small terminals. Two men lie on the floor with bright darts protruding from their backs. “Come on, we don’t have long until they wake up” You enter the room, and the woman quickly rushes to the closer terminal and begins to type. She pulls out the box from earlier and inserts it into the machine. You see hundreds of numbers and faces scroll down the screen, their broken expressions staring into nothingness. *Maybe she’s here* You have to try. You approach the woman, photo in hand. “Yeah, we’re leaving soon, don’t worry” You show her the photo. She takes a quick glance and goes back to work. “Yeah, you showed me before” The woman taps away. You point at the card. You point at the screen. She looks down at it again, but ponders it this time. “Oh! She’s here, isn’t she?” You nod. “Hey, Maybe with the photo we can cross reference and find her? What do you think of that” You nod again. “Man, you really don’t talk do you? Cat got your tongue?” You stare back at her. The woman sighs, takes the photo and inserts it into the machine. Instantly, the computer returns a single entry. It’s her. “72448H. That’s not too far from here, follow me” You follow her out of the room and back down the never-ending hallways. Eons of maddening perfect white pass before you finally reach your destination “Here it is! 72448H” You open the door. There she is, strapped to a similar machine as you were. You quickly rush over and begin to undo them manually. “Stop! You need to release her the correct way, otherwise you could cause some serious brain damage” You back off. The woman pulls out her tools and gets to work. In minutes the bindings are released, and her eyes flutter open. She looks around confused. You begin to think about how many hours, days, months, years she has spent away from reality. She tries to stand up, but instantly falls over, her eyes rolling into the back of her head. “Careful, the ones that have been in for a long time usually don’t adjust well to reality again, She’ll probably be fine in a day or two” You help the woman carry her out of the room and down the hall. She begins to come to and mumble incomprehensibly. Soon, she’s walking on her own feet, only with you and the woman to keep her going straight. *This is what she has been turned into?* A tear slides down your face and drips onto the floor. You can’t handle seeing her like this. “Don’t worry, like I said, it’s a temporary condition” After another uneventful walk, you reach a mechanical metal door. It seems familiar to something you’ve heard about before… *An Elevator* Stepping in, you see a no wall of sleek stainless steel buttons as has been described to you, only a small keypad and a place to insert a keycard. The woman types in a few numbers and swipes a card. With a quick glance you notice it isn’t her’s. *Where is she taking us?* *Where is there even to go?* You’ve heard stories about the city. The last bastion of civilization surrounded by the endless ruins, the only place free from constant gunfire and government raids. You’ve heard of it as a golden place of glass and steel, perfect towers reaching into the sky. And then there’s the facility, a building that towers even the most magnificent of skyscrapers, a cement and glass mind factory powering the city. Nobody knows what exactly happens inside, nobody really wants to, even the inhumans whose families have been taken there. You’ve gotten lucky, broken out quickly, perhaps you and your sister could live a new life in the city as humans. Besides, nobody can really tell the difference. “*Yeah, I have two. Both young, fresh minds. I have their logs, it’ll be easy from there.”* The woman Speaks in a hushed tone over the phone. You feel a shot of dread crawl down your spine. *4000? Is that a joke? 8000 credits each. Final offer”* There’s a long pause. Your hair stands up on the back of your head. “*Fine, That’s a deal*” As the doors open, you hear a click, a real gun this time. You see a man with dark glasses stand in front of a truck. The woman pushes the pistol into your spine as she drags your sister forward. “Look honey, It was nice to meet you, really, but I… I have my own needs.” *A long time ago there were two classes, Uppers and lowers. Uppers had it all, food, money, jobs, power, there was nothing they couldn’t get. Lowers, they had nothing. They toiled in the factories and fields and got nothing for it. Food was scarce, housing was cramped, and dirt, grime, and pollution became nothing but familiar to them. The Uppers didn’t care, they only cared for themselves, millions in their accounts and not a single penny spent in the name of charity. The Lowers wanted change, they wanted fairness. The Uppers might have had the money, but they had the numbers. Society was nothing without their hard work. So that’s exactly what happened. A civil war on the scale not seen before. When the dust had settled, the lowers had won. The Uppers, in their oppression, in their detachment from the world, had lost their humanity, they had become inhuman. THE inhumans.


“Here you are, sir! One dozen fresh and yummy doughnuts! Satisfaction is guaranteed!” “I need milk,” said Mr. White abruptly to the fat and jolly man behind the counter. “Why certainly! Here you are!” The fat and jolly man behind the counter gave Mr. White a large smile and an ice-cold bottle of milk. Mr. White gave the fat and jolly man behind the counter his money and turned his back and walked towards the door. “Thank you for purchasing at Mr. Happy’s Doughnut Shop!” exclaimed the fat and jolly man who stood, invariably, behind the counter. Mr. White remained silent and let the door close with the loud thud of its own weight. His car was white like his name and, like most cars, sat on four wheels. Mr. White clicked open his grimy vehicle and sat himself in the gray and fraying polyester seats. The polyester irritated his skin on contact. He ate his doughnuts and drank his milk, savoring every doughy and chewy bite. Mr. White slowly bit down and let the glaze melt away in his mouth before washing it all down with a sip of his cold and creamy milk. Mr. White ate all twelve doughnuts. He looked into his rearview mirror and had a staring contest with the handgun which sat quite comfortably in the backseat, for the polyester did not burn her skin. Mr. White had a heavy breath after he chugged down the last third of the milk, but he never broke eye contact. “He knows,” she said. Mr. White maintained the staring contest, a dry layer of milk forming around his lips and in his graying facial hair. His bloodshot eyes were locked in place. She spoke again. “Don’t lie to yourself, White” she said, in her sweet and velvety voice. It dripped like golden honey which was freshly scraped from the comb right into Mr. White’s ears. Mr. White’s brow closed in tightly and the wrinkles turned white from pressure. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he mumbled. “Oh, I do!” said she in return, lightheartedly, “That fat man figured you out!” Mr. White once again found himself among that mist of confusion, under which he was suffering only hours ago. She was in his head, after all. She had seen all that he had; she had also always been admittedly more intelligent. Perhaps she had picked up on some subtleties that he was oblivious to? He gave in. “Oh, God!” he exclaimed. “He does know, doesn’t he?!” he continued. “Yes, White”, she spoke like a mother who had her child caught in an I-told-you-so situation. “I knew there was something off about that,” he hesitated, “that fat bastard, Mr. Happy!” “Yes, yes, you’re right!” she said to reassure him. Mr. White broke into tears. Once again, she used her luscious voice to seduce him. “You know what we have to do, don’t you, White? You don’t want that pig to squeal, do you? I think you need to silence him. Wouldn’t you agree?” Her voice suddenly became dark and malicious. The car grew dark and he lost himself even further in the mist. He was a man stuck at the end of his own leash. Mr. White’s tears slowly came to a halt and he gazed once more to the backseat. He admired her form. The way her sharp edges transitioned into smooth plateaus of cold metal. He whispered out her name to himself. His eyes made their way to the trigger, naturally his favorite part of her body. When he squeezed her there and felt the rush of the shot, they were the most intimate and he found himself craving the intimacy. “Yes,” she returned to her chipper and positive tone of voice and chuckled. “You know I love it when you look at me like that, White,” she said, seductively. “Won’t you squeeze me just once more? He’s going to tell someone what you did!” He will, thought White. She is right! She had always known better. Mr. White resolved to use her again, it had proven quite effective just a few hours ago, in the dark of the early morning. He grabbed her from the backseat. He hesitated a moment before he opened the door of his car. “Oh, yes, White!” she exclaimed to him, “It will feel so good!” She knew his weaknesses. She had control of the leash, and he was going exactly where she wanted him to. Mr. White stepped out of his rusted, old car and walked slowly back to the doughnut shop. He took short strides and focused his senses on her. The way she felt in his hand was so exhilarating. He wrapped his hand around the handle and his index finger around her trigger. He felt how eager she was as well. Mr. White concealed his beloved, as to not immediately startle the fat and jolly man behind the counter. He stood in front of the doorway and looked into his reflection. His eyes, dyed a deep pink from sleep loss, stared directly back at themselves. He focused his eyes away from the pestering reflection to what stood behind the pane of glass. The fat and jolly man behind the counter had not moved. In fact, he was exactly where he was supposed to be. Mr. White held her tightly behind the safety of his jacket and opened the door. He was welcomed by the ring of a bell and the wide smile of the fat and jolly man behind the counter. This time, however, he noticed the rosy cheeks and the short, grey strands of hair. He noticed the way he bumbled about behind the counter trying to look occupied, despite the unfortunate lack of business. He noticed the humanity of the fat and jolly man behind the counter. “My, my! Have you forgotten something? Did I give you the wrong change? Or have you just come back for another dozen?” He chuckled loudly at his own joke. Mr. White, merely a man whose threads had frayed quite a bit too much, resolved to remain quiet and simply stare at the fat and jolly man behind the counter. “Do it, White,” she whispered to him impatiently. Mr. White began to shake and shiver. “Son, are you feeling alright?” asked the fat and jolly man behind the counter. Once again, his question remained unanswered. The room was still, almost even at peace. The rays of the morning sun sparkled golds and silvers in the dust of the air. The window towards the ceiling was open, allowing a comfortable draft to trickle its way in. The black and white checkered floor was absent of any unpleasantries, just as the counter from which the jolly and fat man stood behind. “He knows, remember?” Oh, how it pained him. It pained Mr. White so to hear her voice, which was beautiful and elegant. Just how he had remembered it. “You don’t want him to tell anyone what you did to me, do you, White?” Mr. White teared up and clenched his bottom lip with his upper jaw. “Sir, do you need my help?” asked the fat and jolly man desperately. “Do it, White. Silence the pig!” She sounded so wonderful, the way she yelled. Familiar. “Yes, my dearest,” whispered Mr. White aloud. Mr. White pulled out his beloved and showed her to the fat and jolly man behind the counter, proudly. The fat and jolly man behind the counter tensed up, barely able to comprehend the situation. He raised his two hands in the air, a beg of mercy. “Don’t you see, Mr. Happy?” said Mr. White, fighting the tears and sobs, “I’ve got to do it! You won’t tell anyone what I did to Mrs. White!” Mr. White laid out three clean shots into the upper body of the fat and jolly man behind the counter. His body fell to ground with a very loud thump, followed by pool of crimson. Mr. White, satisfied, turned and walked himself out of the door, stepped into his car and felt the burning of the polyester on his skin, and wept.


Max, the shortened version of a name he hadn't been called in decades, became completely dependent on those around him for nearly every facet of his life. He could still manage to use the restroom without assistance, but getting to the toilet now required help, as did showering, cooking, and getting dressed. It had been a few years since he needed a wheelchair to move outside of the home, but that too had become an activity which required accompaniment. When his home care nurse was off-duty and his wife was drunk, he could do nothing but sit at home and flip through the channels. His hands still worked well enough to accomplish this task. The old man had been living with his disease for decades. This fatal saga had begun on a nondescript summer evening in Ohio. It was a hot July day, the sun had long since been overhead, and Max was making the familiar drive home down his newly paved road. The single bedroom home he shared with his wife Suzette sat on a serene two and a half acres in the Idaho country, barely within shouting distance of the closest neighbor. This was the way they liked it. Max was still at the farm he had worked on for eleven years, and was proud of the large spring crop. Max was a laboring man, and his rusted-tinted white Chevy had the dents to prove it. Since he was a child, Max had dreamt of running his own farm. His own *potato* farm. Potatoes are the backbone of America, Max told himself, and he wanted nothing more than to preside over fields that stretched further than the eye could see. As he came into adulthood he began to realize that most large farms are passed down family lines, and that poor young men usually work on someone else's farm. Adulthood had sobered his grand notions, and he soon found himself working his way up the ladder on a local, mid-sized russet potato farm. Though this was a compromise from his rather unrealistic childhood dreams, Max worked with vigor. He started as the lowest man on the totem pole; he spread shit, carried seed sacks, and made lunch for the small crew. He hoped beyond belief that he'd soon learn to drive the tractor. That day that Max arrived at his own small plot of land, he noticed that the yard was rather unkempt. Brown weeds were making themselves visible around the small blue house, and his wife's broken down station wagon had begun to look more like an Americana relic than a reliable form of transportation. This image didn't lessen the pride he felt at owning his own land. He knew that the labor he wasn't putting into his own property was being put into the soil on the farm. He had long since learned to drive the tractor, and had settled into a rather important role working under the owner. His boss had even mentioned the possibility of sending him down to Boise for agriculture classes. Max had figured that his boss's late night offer had likely sprung more from the few drinks he'd consumed than from any version of reality, but it still gave him hope. Suzette looked out the window and felt a warm pulse move through her body. The man she loved was home safe for another night, and would soon break the day's monotony with tales from the farm. She loved to hear Max tell stories. There was nothing she wanted more than to draw her large husband a hot bath, cook him a warm meal, and listen to his deep voice tell her of the day's exploits. The stories were usually the same; some hands had fought and he had to break it up, his boss got mad at him for something out of his control, or a piece of machinery had broken, but he was able to fix it and save the day's productivity. Max was an honest man, a man who dreamt big, and a man who knew that at the end of the day, his wife came first. The large man had felt weak on this particular hot, humid July day. Not even the hundred dollar bonus given to him for the season's exemplary yield seemed to put energy into his limbs. That day was a slow day, the first of many. \ It was winter now, and Idaho was in the grips of a rather serious snow storm. The brown weeds around the home were no longer visible, and in their place were large snowbanks covering the bottom half of the blue home. Max and Suzette had lit a fire in their fireplace, and were both reading the books they had been slowly working on for months. Suzette asked Max a question. The question was neither here nor there. An unimportant inquiry; she simply preferred to talk then to read. As Max was giving his response, Suzette noticed something strange. Something she had never noticed before: a slur in his voice. Max rarely drank alcohol, and Suzette was coming up on two years sober, so she knew it couldn't be drunkenness. It sounded like it though. Suzette asked Max another question to confirm what she was hearing, and again his words came out like he had just finished off a fifth of Jack. What concerned her more than the quality of his speech was the fact that he didn't seem to notice it. The ever supportive wife decided that it must be the stir-craziness of a long winter. She put it out of her mind and looked back down at her book. \ The snow began to melt and it was time for Max to go back to work. It was another season without his potato empire, but he knew that it may not be until old age when he'd sit on the porch of his own two-story farm home, watching his under-bosses command an army of hands. The dream of owning his own farm hadn't been lost, just sidelined by the realities of his situation. Max lived in America after all, and in this nation anything is possible with hard work, determination, and a dream. This Spring, unlike the dozens before it, he felt like he wasn't stronger than the year before. Every other season he worked as a potato farmer he could carry more, walk further, and work longer hours than the one before. But this spring, this terrible spring, he felt weak. In late May, as the crop was beginning to get big and Max was feeling proud, something happened. The day wasn't a scorcher like he knew to expect in July, but the cloudless blue sky was a weak match for the noontime sun. Max was walking beside a field to inspect an irrigation leak, when suddenly he became dizzy. He fell down, face-first, into the dirt. Max regained consciousness only when he noticed the footsteps of a laborer approaching him. He denied assistance, and stood up feeling lightheaded. On this day, Max decided to go home early. He knew that something in was wrong with his body. \ M.S. is a disease that slowly robs your body of life, but never quite finishes the job. M.S. is a disease that people have to endure until something else kills them. Heart disease, cancer, suicide; these are what finally end the life of someone suffering from M.S. Suzette was more than accommodating after learning the diagnosis. She read books about the disease, doing everything in her power to keep up Max's spirits as he too learned about the disease. Suzette had even taken a job working as a substitute teacher, knowing full well that Max's working days were numbered. In his final seasons growing the beloved russet potato, Max's boss had kindly allowed him to retain his position. He moved about the farm in a truck, avoiding labor that would be impossible with his impaired movement. Eventually he began to have trouble walking without a cane and his grip had become weak. It was decided that Max was not fit to work on the farm anymore. He knew his boss wasn't wrong, and the decision was mutual. It was two years since Max was able to work, and between the mortgage and the medical bills, there was never anything left for a night out or an extravagant meal. The costs were unbearable and the couple was forced to sell their small blue house which stood on two and a half acres of fertile Idaho soil. Before they sold their land, in an attempt to value the house as highly as possible, Suzette spent the day picking the brown weeds. Max was no longer a farmer, and he no longer owned a farm. Fortunately, their marriage didn't suffer. In fact, the disease brought them together in a strange way. First, they were together much more often, and the love they shared of hearing each other speak intensified. Unlike the days of their youth when Max would return home to a warm meal and tell stories of the farm's exploits, it was Suzette who was telling stories of the outside world. She would tell Max about the polite students who thanked her at the end of the day, and about the students who believed a day with a substitute teacher was a day of true anarchy. Another reason Max's condition caused their love to intensify was that every day he knew that Suzette chose to be with him. Suzette chose to get up and be the breadwinner when he was forced to lay in bed. As a young man, Max never knew why a beautiful woman would stay with a man after he was paralyzed in car accident, but now he knew. He knew that Suzette truly loved him, and he truly loved her. \ Both Suzette and Max were past middle age now. Max's condition had progressed to the point where he could walk about the house, but he needed to be pushed around in a wheelchair outside the home. Even with his walker he'd fallen in public places too many times for that to be a viable option. Suzette was becoming tired of substitute teaching. One particularly rough day, as she was driving home from a high school assignment, Suzette stopped by a grocery store. She walked to the back corner of the store and picked out two bottles of cheap red wine. She purchased them and sat in the parking lot, the radio quietly playing "Hotel California" by The Eagles, and broke 14 years of sobriety. Max could tell Suzette was drunk when she arrived home, leaned down, and gave him a wet, sweet smelling kiss on the lips. He didn't say anything. \ Max and Suzette moved into a trailer. She was past retirement age, but continued to work so that Max could have a nurse on the weekdays. He could still use the the restroom without assistance, but getting to the toilet now required help, as did showering, cooking, and getting dressed. Suzette liked that Max had someone to look after him during the daytime, and that she had someone to prepare a warm meal for her when she came home from work. Max had, on a few occasions, talked to Suzette about taking his own life. He told her that killing himself would save them both a lot of suffering. The disease would cause locked-in syndrome, rendering his body motionless, mouth and tongue included. Eventually a heart attack, a stroke, cancer, or some other ailment would strike the final blow. Suzette didn't know what to say when he brought up the topic of his death. She never responded to these comments, but knew that he was probably right. \ Max was alone one hot August afternoon. Suzette was at the store. It had been a few months since they had to let the nurse go. Max was laying in his bed in the back room of the trailer. A baseball game was playing on the T.V. but he couldn't hear the announcers over the sound of the rattling air conditioner. There was a gun in the nightstand. Max knew that as the days passed it would only become harder to put it in his mouth and that eventually, this too would become impossible. He knew that today would be the day. He struggled himself upright and sat against the cheap wooden headboard. He reached to the lower drawer on the nightstand next to him, and picked up his small german-made firearm. This was the last gun he owned from his rural youth, and he insisted on keeping it next to the bed when they slept. Max had lost all dexterity, and knew he would not be able to write a note. He sat with the gun in his hand and thought about how much he loved Suzette. He thought about how kind she was to stay with him into old age. He thought about the dreams he had of being a potato farmer in his youth and about the fields he would own that stretched into the horizon. He thought about how happy he was when he learned to drive the tractor, and how he told Suzette about it when he went home. He thought about the stories that she told him after a day at school. Max wished so badly that he could write a note to Suzette. He wished that he could say one final thank you, and tell Suzette that he loved her one last time. His crippled hands would not allow it. Max lifted the gun, unable to insert it into his mouth, and fired it into himself.


My fingertips were numb as I stood under a busstop shelter with 6 more poor bastards waiting to take the same ride into town as I. They were seasoned visitors, most of which probably lived less than a mile from the rickety shelter we now stood. I was tired. I leaned up against a supporting beam, my legs weak and probably trembling. I had been walking all week. No luck with hitchhiking. Apparently I used up the rest of my luck on my last ride when he didn't kill me or sell my internal organs. I know my legs must have been trembling because a nice older women asked me if I wanted to sit, and she offered me her seat. I told her I would be alright and thanked her anyways. She reverberated what I remember from my catholic alter boy youth vividly as a Bible verse from Deuteronomy. "You shall also love the stranger, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt." She said referring to me as the stranger. Her offer was tempting but I couldn't take a seat away from such a sweet lady. We talked more. She sure knew her text. She kept notice of my shaky legs and finally she said to me "The Lord watches over the strangers; he upholds the orphan and the widow." And gestured to the seat. I finally agreed to take her seat, as I was near about to fall over and the offer felt well-timed. Maybe the Lord was looking over my shoulder after all. I was so tired. "Could you watch my bag while I shut my eyes ma'am. And wake me up if Bus 33 shows up. I would appreciate it." "Why of course," she responded. She was happy to help. I rested my head on the wall and shut my eyes. I must've dozed because I woke up and it was dark. I was cold and shaking even worse than before, only this time it was my whole body. I was vibrating like a cell phone. A wave of confusion flushed over me. My lack of understanding was short lived as I looked to my right and the lady, as well as my belongings, were nowhere to be seen and probably miles away by now. "Goddamnit!" That lady spoke like a priest and went on to rob me blind! And worse yet, all those people there watched it all go down and payed no mind to even wake me before my bus arrived or to let me know I'd been fucking robbed. Luckily my bus fare was in my pocket so I still had a ride into the city. I caught the next bus, but fuck me if I don't miss my fucking tent right about now. How can someone who's read so much of the bible act so vile? Was it all bullshit, I pondered. Did she even believe the words she spoke or was it all just a gimmick to let my guard down? Maybe. Or perhaps it's those wayward sons and daughters that need God the most. Maybe she was tricking herself more than she was I. I hope she sleeps well tonight. And she will. That was a really nice tent. Hey, thanks for reading! If you enjoyed the story then gimme a follow. This is my first posted short story. Don't hesitate to give criticism or grammar corrections.


“Just a half-gallon?” Frank asked, shifting the Astro Van into park. “Sure. It’s just us. Oh, and Frankie,” Mary put her hand on his arm, “I need some Kotex, too.” She smiled at him. “Ok?” Frank looked down at her swollen ankle then back up to her sweet expression. He sighed. He would have to be the hero. But what brand? How many? What size? Color? Scent? “Um, what kind?” “Just regular.” He continued to stare at her with a blank expression. “You know – napkins. Pads. Not tampons.” Mary leaned back and propped her sprained ankle up on the console. Her face had a contented, angelic look, like she had every confidence in her husband’s ability to produce feminine hygiene products. Determined to fulfill his mission, he mentally chanted his shopping list over and over like a mantra with every step that took him into the corner market. Milk and Kotex. Milk and Kotex*.* As if there was a chance he might forget an item on that long list. Eyeing the checkout clerk as he walked in, he saw she was a plump, grey-haired woman with a friendly smile. Okay, he could deal with that. He wandered around the aisles aimlessly at first, scoping out the place to make sure there were no familiar faces. In a rural town like this, there was always the possibility of running into someone he knew. Satisfied the small store was empty enough, he walked confidently to the dairy section and grabbed a carton of milk. Then he faltered, looking around like a lost puppy. How was he supposed to know what section contained female products? Straightening his shoulders, he told himself he could do this. *Let’s see . . .* *toiletries, right?* He searched the narrow aisles until he found shampoo. *Yes!* Hair spray, deodorant, razors. He was getting close. *There!* “Margolis!” Frank spun around at the voice. *Oh!* “Hey Leo.” He glanced at the 12-pack in Leo’s arms. “Enjoying your Sunday, huh man?” “Naw, just headin’ home to watch the game.” Leo glanced at the carton of milk Frank was holding. “Yeah, me too. I was just heading that way.” Frank nodded toward the end of the aisle where Leo had come from. “Take it easy, man.” “You too, Margolis,” called Leo as he headed toward the registers. Frank walked quickly to the back of the store, feeling his back getting clammy. He stared into the glass doors as if deciding which brand of beer went with this situation, then grabbed a six-pack of Bud Light before reluctantly heading back to the toiletries section. *Ok, let’s see.* He saw rows of blue boxes and scanned them quickly. Tampax Slim Fit, Tampax Super Absorbent, Tampax Gentle Glide. *Geez!* They were all tampons. *There –* *Kotex! Shit.* Those were tampons too. He looked over the shelves. Cotton balls. Massengill douche. Hemorrhoid medication. This had to be the right place. “Hey ya’ Frank!” Frank spun around, hoping the flushness he felt wasn’t showing on his face. “Hey there, Tim. How’s it goin’?” “Just gettin’ some cold ones.” Geez. *Was this the only aisle that led to the beer section?* “Hey, some of us are headin’ over to Wheelan’s to watch the game.” Tim eyed Frank’s grocery selections. “Why don’t you stop by?” “Yeah, I just might.” Frank followed Tim’s gaze over to the toiletries section. He stepped between Tim and the blue boxes and quickly grabbed a razor from the shelf, almost dropping the milk in the process. It just happened to be a pink razor. He held it up and shrugged. “Uh, Mary needed a few things.” “Yeah, we’re slaves to our women, huh?” Tim slapped Frank on the shoulder. “So I’ll see you at Wheelan’s?” “Yeah, man.” Frank waited until Tim was at the end of the aisle before putting the pink razor back. He gave up on the search among the blue boxes, satisfied that none of them were of the pad variety. Hell, did they even make those anymore? Maybe his wife was just behind the times. He decided to give it one last try and went down the aisle with paper plates and napkins. Just a shot, but it was dark. He proceeded through the check out and walked out to the van feeling like he’d failed at the hunt. He handed Mary the bag through the window, and waited while she looked inside. She gave him a look. “Is there some language I don’t know about, Frank, where Kotex means beer?” Her tone suggested amusement, but her eyes weren’t laughing. “I looked, Babe. All they make are, uh, tampons now, I guess.” It pained him to say the actual word. Frank looked down at his feet. “And I didn’t know what – um – size you are.” “*My* size?” Mary started laughing. “Jesus, Frank.” She shook her head, then asked, “Did you look over by the diapers?” “Diapers?” *As in* *baby*? He would never have considered looking there. Wasn’t that a contradiction or something? “Just go back in and look by the diapers and Depends. If you can’t find them, just ask someone, Frankie.” Frank gave a slight nod as he turned away. Yeah, right. Like that would happen. He shuffled back into the store and saw a guy he sorta knew buying cigs. They nodded in recognition and Frank hung around the front of the store flipping through a Popular Mechanics magazine, waiting for smoking man to leave. Then he quickly scouted out the baby products aisle. Sure enough. Right there. But again, the choices. What the hell was the difference between panty liners and panty shields? And how the hell should he know if Mary had light days or super maxi days? He bet there weren’t this many choices in baby diapers. He checked it out. Sure enough, it looked like diapers only came in one absorbency. “Is there somethin’ you and Mary have to announce, Frankie honey?” Frank recognized the southern accent instantly and turned around flustered. “Hey Gloria. How’ve you been?” They did the cheek kiss thing that Gloria always did. He saw that she looked great. And smelled even better. He sheepishly put his hands in his pockets. “Well, Sugar?” Gloria asked with raised eyebrows, looking past him to the diapers. “Oh no! No. I’m just here for Mary. She had an accident. She’s out in the van if you want to say hello.” Like that would happen. Those two hadn’t spoken for years. Ever since – Hell, Frank never did figure out what caused the falling out between the best friends. Whenever he would ask Mary to explain it to him, she gave him that exasperated look that meant if he loved her he should know. Gloria put a hand on his arm. “So, does Mary’s accident involve Depends?” Her voice was deathly serious, but her eyes showed the mischievousness she was famous for as she held out a package of adult diapers to him. “Uh, no. No,” he stammered, taking the Depends from her and putting them back on the shelf. “She sprained her ankle.” “Oh. I see.” Gloria scanned the shelves, as if looking for anything that had to do with sprained ankles. It was clear that she wasn’t going to leave without a full explanation of what he was doing in the store. “I just came in to pick up some, uh, supplies for her.” He quickly turned and grabbed the first pink box he could reach. Gloria put a hand on his shoulder and laughed, then took the package from his hands. “Let me help you, Sugar. I doubt Mary wants these.” She returned the pink box to the shelf and Frank saw that he had grabbed Carefree Thong. He couldn’t pull his gaze away. They made ‘em for *thongs*? Gloria’s lilting laughter brought him back to the moment, along with a red face. “I don’t know what the hell to get,” he admitted. “Here, Frankie, honey, you take her these.” She put a box in his hand that said Ultra-Thin Super-Long with Wings. That seemed to cover all the bases. Gloria pulled his neck to her, gave him a kiss on the cheek, and whispered, “You tell your Mary that Gloria said hi, okay Sugar?” She left him standing there with his pink box, waltzing tantalizingly to the back of the store. He couldn’t get to the checkout fast enough. The grand-motherly woman who was checking before had been replaced by a pimply-faced guy with a pierced tongue. Frank got a good look at the silver stud in the tongue as the young man yelled out “Hey, Joey! How much are these Ultra Thins with Wings?” The paunchy kid with the buzz cut lumbered down the baby aisle and yelled back, “Is that the Super Long or the Curved Classic?” Just then Pete and Jose walked in. “Hey Margolis! How’s it hangin’?” “We’re headed over to Wheelan’s.


Death. It wasn’t anything other than a distant notion. Something that would eventually happen but, you know, in the future. Until now, it was simply an idea that surrounded my daily life in a shroud of fear. It was always looming, but never a real threat. Maybe that’s why I never thought about it. Or maybe all of those video games wrought with carnage and destruction and those horror movies filled with gratuitous gore really did desensitize me to the point of laughing at or altogether dismissing the idea of actually dying someday. Sure, I’ve attended my share of funerals and I even saw that guy get hit by a car right in front of my apartment. Those moments did ground me back to reality for a while. Over time I always went back to the ever so popular “that will never happen to me” mentality. Of course, that’s when I accidentally stumbled into death’s path. All this time, I thought I had control of my own life. I mean, I didn’t think I was above fate, or destiny, or whatever you want to call it. I thought I still had time to make more mistakes, maybe even go on that trip I've been putting off. I simply never gave death much merit. I carved my little niche of a life out of the choices I made. I, like so many others I’ve come to know over the years, struggled my way into and out of most of the cliché of life’s virtues and vices. I kissed my high school sweetheart, Jessica Martin, under the stars near the soccer field. It began to rain a bit but neither of us cared. I was pissed at my boss when that bastard, Jim Montgomery, got that promotion and third floor office with the custom executive desk and shiny name plate. I thought it was “in the bag” until it was announced at the Christmas party. It may have been a simple life, but it was mine, dammit. If I could cry I would. Maybe I am. All of those times throughout the years I thought I was indestructible, and even now. Well, not right now of course. You see, I didn’t realize just how much I cherished the world around me until I could watch myself being devoured by one of its creatures. I would be more accepting of this predicament if it was my fault. I wish I could blame some ancient curse on my family lineage or if I neglected to honor the god of “insert religion here”. Hell, I’d even accept it if in a drunken stupor I accidentally pissed on a mystical being wrought with vengeance in its hollow heart. But no, this thing, this monster that has taken what seemingly insignificant life I had at my dead-end desk job, was simply a “human being”. I use that term in the loosest sense of the word of course. Even as I watch my body move towards lifelessness in this strange third party view that can only be experienced when your head is severed from its home, I can’t imagine any true “human being” possessing such raw violence and a seemingly preternatural enjoyment from the turmoil of others; especially since that human is a thirteen year old bitch of a little girl. I even know her! She spent the night at my house just last weekend. Now, she is feasting on my entrails like my body is part of the raw food diet. The darkness is coming soon, I can feel it. Not in the usual sense of the word. I really don’t feel anything anymore. It’s peaceful really. I’m not sure how much longer I will be in this state of “transition”, for lack of a more appropriate word. It seems like hours ago when I felt that first pain throughout my lower back. That tingling sensation you feel when your hand falls asleep. You know, that damned unshakable “pins and needles feeling”. I felt that flood through my body as it collapsed to the floor. Then came a wincing pain as my upper spine was shattered. My skin and throat were ripped apart and I, well my head at least, finally came to rest here. How appropriate for me to find the best possible position so I can bear witness to the rest of this dreadful show. I find myself trying to recall things, memories, anything. It’s hard. I really just expected, no, I *wanted* this to be some bad episode of a low budget television show. I mean, who the hell ever thinks that a leisurely jog around the block in an attempt at redeeming a New Year’s resolution would turn out like this? Sure, it’s July and the New Year is halfway over, but better late than never, right? Well, I guess in retrospect, never starting would have been much better for me. The humor and irony of those thoughts are lost in the moment it seems. This sight is surreal, like that one movie. Or was that a book? Ha-ha! She really is having a grand old time with my carcass. What the hell is she? And why is she devouring my lifeless body like it was a Thanksgiving feast? Who am I, and who the heck am I even talking to? Oh great, and now here comes ‘nother guy. Is that the calvinry, the cavalry? Hey, too late there, buddy! I’m already decursertated, descalpitated... what the hell? My head is over here and the rest of me is being digested by that little, um, whatever that is! Wait! He isn’t here to slaughter that monster, he’s joining in! Not sure why he chose to start at my groin. I hope you choke on my pipe organ; you freak! I don’t know how much longer I will be in this state of “translation”, for lack of a butter wand. Wait, didn’t I just say that? The blackness is covering most of my eyes now. It’s closing like the ending of the Looney Tunes cartoons I used to watch as a kid. Ha-ha! ‘member that one about the orange monster and the bunny? That was great. All I can thank of, thank if, think of is that fade to black and the simple word ‘fin’ written in fancy white letters. The darkness is coming, and I don’t see the light. They said there was a light when you died! Where’s the light? I want to see the light! Don’t let me die! I’m sorry.


Floaters are funny little things. They disappear when you don't pay attention, but the moment you spot one, you realise just how many there are, drifting quietly in your vision, just waiting to be noticed. That's how lovelines look like to me. You can't really tell until you consciously keep an eye out for them. Don't bother Googling what lovelines are. It's just a term I came up with, one that you're probably curious about right now. I certainly was. Imagine how a thread would move underwater. Now picture that thread connecting two people, sometimes more, and you'll get the gist of what I see on a daily basis. Sometimes I like standing at vantage points overlooking the city so that I can see this weird light show in action; they can get quite pretty at night. Not everybody has a loveline though. Monks mostly don't, though you'd be surprised at the number of them that actually *do*. Ditto priests, nuns, and other people who've sworn to celibacy. It got me wondering how much of a choice love actually is. These single people with threads seem to be doing a good job. Some people have frayed ends, while others are just threadless beings. I never really got around to understanding the meaning of all that. All I know is that these lines connect soulmates together. Neat, huh? It took a while before I made sense out of all that. Maybe it was the fact that most couples I had met were joined by these lovelines. It also helped that most of my childhood friends, who'd had many partners throughout the years, ended up with the people they're connected with. That was around when I began to connect the dots. Of course, that discovery was marred by the fact that mom and dad didn't share the same thread. For years I wished I was wrong, but I finally gave in to the truth when they split up. "Ethan's just a friend," mom said, a year later when the new guy came into her life. But I saw the connection, and it wasn't in the figurative sense either. They shared a loveline, and despite the circumstances, I found myself being happy for her. I was curious about my soulmate too. I'd often watch my thread flutter ever so slightly, as if connected to someone hundreds of miles away. I would have a couple of girlfriends throughout the years, but as I watched their lovelines float away from me, as mine did from them, I'd realise that maybe the dating scene wasn't somewhere I wished to be. That was until I met Natalie. My company had sent me on some boring upskilling seminar where attendance was compulsory. A woman in a pencil skirt took the stage, and I found myself instantly enthralled not by the things she said, but how she said them. It might've had something to do with social media returns-on-investment or something, I forget. All I knew was that my loveline was tracking her as she paced back and forth across the stage. I was sure she couldn't see what I saw, but could she feel what I felt? I had to find out. That wasn't the only thing I sought to clarify. The other thing I noticed was that our loveline was frayed, hanging just by a little wisp. What did that mean? I'd seen it in people with no soulmates, their lovelines unconnected and broken at the ends, but this? Natalie's presence helped make the seminar more interesting. Two hours flew by, and I was the first to approach her for the after-event discussions. I swear it felt like I was in a rom-com of sorts. We completed each other's sentences, made the same references, and had our own inside jokes before the minute was up. Our first date turned into a second, then a third, and pretty soon things became serious between us. It went so well that I'd totally forget all about our frayed thread. But I would soon learn what that was all about. \*\*\* "You have what?" I asked. This was six months into our relationship, when she'd dropped the 'we need to talk' bomb. "Pancreatic cancer. Apparently it's one of the most silent forms of cancer." "Well what did the doctor say?" "She's not sure either. There are still lots of tests to be done, so we'll just have to wait and see." I told her we'd work through this together. I said that I'd be there no matter what. I told her that I loved her, and that she's the only one who's ever made me feel this way. She said she had noticed me walking into that boring-ass seminar. She never believed in love at first sight, but fell for the cliché the moment I stepped in. She even mentioned that there was a weird connection between us, a pull that was hard to explain. I knew exactly what she meant. I felt like I could explain a part of it, but I kept quiet. "Do you think," she said, then paused. "What?" I asked. "You think we might've been lovers, from like, a past life?" "I think that's the only reasonable explanation." We hugged each other the entire night through, sharing tears and laughs along the way, recalling all the moments we'd spent together for the past six months. Then she was gone. Just like that, a week after she was diagnosed. She complained about a headache and had difficulty breathing, so she decided to nap it off. She would never never wake up again, and I would never get to say my goodbyes. Nothing remained except her memories, not even my loveline—it had disappeared completely upon Natalie's death. Not that I cared. I was certain that I'd never love again. It's been years since she'd left, and I still see the lovelines connecting strangers, waving this way and that, almost like the tendrils of a jellyfish, numbering in the thousands. Then I look at myself, empty both inside and out, trying to work out the meaning of it all. They say it's better to have love and lost than to never have loved at all, and my lack of a loveline might attest to that, but I've begun to see things in a different perspective. I haven't loved and lost. I'm still very much in love with Natalie, and I'll always be. And maybe not having a loveline means she's with me now—and always will be. *** *This story was inspired by the writing prompt: Every person is connected to their soulmate by an invisible, red string. You are the only one who can see them and the one connected to you is cut and frayed at the end.


Hi! Here's a short little thing I wrote a moment ago. Please take in mind I am a complete ametur and have little writing experience given my young age of only fourteen. I hope this does not sway your opinion of my writing, and I sincerely hope you enjoy. Also, please tell me what you think in the comments. I would throughly enjoy reading them and taking your critique. Constructive criticism only please. Ego is a rather fragile thing and I would prefer to keep mine in tact for the time being. With that being said, enjoy my story. She knew from the moment she had turned the doorknob something was wrong. There was a feeling--a sudden dread if you will--that enveloped her. As she walked through the threshold, she found her passage difficult. She felt as if she were passing through a viscous wall of heed. Like her body, her soul, her mind--was preventing her from entering the room. It's funny, actually, how our minds will do such things to us. The situation is not dissimilar to that of a mother pressing her child against her hip when she feels uneasy, as if someone--or something-- would harm the child, a child she had conceived a child she had given up her freedom to, as if she had signed an allegorical contract upon giving birth. Locked in for life, as one would say, to take care of this thing that is now hers. This thing that is now a part of her, soon to grow into a shadow of herself. The human mind can make us feel the same sensation as the child. Something's wrong because my Mother is protecting me. Something is wrong because she believes there is. I must stay away from what she deemes to be unsafe. But, similarly to a child--something she once was--she rebelled against the feeling her mind had eluded her to feel. She couldn't help herself from rebelling. To see why this is something to be protected from. Anyone could assume she wished she had listened to herself. As she entered the room, the smell of death was prominent. She had not noticed it before, although it was clearly strong enough to be smelled from far away. I wonder, she thought, why I couldn't smell this before. She fought with her own sense of smell until she finally convinced herself that it wasn't as bad as she had made it out to be. Of course, it was worse. But she had convinced herself enough to hardly smell it anymore. Her eyes were in the spotlight now, her nose seemingly dulled to leave room for her eyes to be the key sense. Because what she saw could not be unseen. A cliché, of course, but it was true. The sight she had witnessed at that moment would scar her. It would make her wish she was in the place of what she was seeing. Not mangled and brutally beaten, blood obscuring any features, any human identification vaguely recognizable--if not completely erased. No. She wished she had been released like the person in front of her. She wished she didn't have to see the unsightly scene. She wished she was dead.


I had an idea rolling around in my head. To stop the rolling, I took the idea and turned it into a story. This is the result. I hope you enjoy it. The old man rubbed his knotted hands over the smooth head of his cane as his grandsons sat before him. The boys knocked their feet against each other and giggled as they played with the edge of the blanket they were sharing. The old man rubbed his hand over his sparse hair as he prepared to tell his story. He told the boys “Tonight I will tell you a story about two brothers just like you two. Their names were Ahmed and Samir.” The older child piped up, “grandpa, your name is Samir but you don’t have a brother.” The old man gazed at the boy and replied, “it’s just a story, my child. Just a story, but remember that in all stories hides a grain of truth…” The old man tucked the boys in tighter and told his tale. Once upon a time in a land far, far away, there lived a fisherman and his wife in a small fishing village. The fisherman and his wife lived a simple life until one day their lives were changed forever when the wife found out she was expecting a child. Their joy was complete and their hearts full. After some time the fisherman's wife went into labour and a beautiful baby boy was born. They named him Ahmed.The child was cherubic and beautiful to behold with large, dark, sparkling eyes and a mop of curly brown hair. He gazed into his mother's eyes and from then was the joy of her life. A few minutes later the wife felt another contraction and this was truly a surprise for it did not occur to her that there might be a second child. From the moment his mother went into labour, this second born child was a torment for his mother. While Ahmed's birth had been quick and uneventful, this second child took his time entering the world. His mother toiled through a long and difficult labour and once he entered the world the child screamed his discontent at his undignified entrance. He was smaller than his brother and was born with a clubbed foot. While Ahmed cooed contentedly, this second child scrunched up his tiny face and screamed his displeasure at the world. He screamed from the moment he was born and continued to scream, refusing to be consoled for the next 3 months. He was named Samir and by the time he stopped screaming, the damage was already done. He was labeled a difficult child and a difficult child he would be. Ahmed and Samir grew up together in the fishing village but their lives were very different. From the very beginning Ahmed was the favourite while his brother Samir was a burden to his family and himself. Ahmed was a charming boy beloved by all, and in their eyes he could do no wrong. Samir was quiet, introverted and preferred to hide in his brother's shadow. His eyes slanted down in the outer corners which gave him a mournful expression, and while Ahmed was quick to smile and had a sparkling personality, Samir kept his eyes downcast as if afraid of being noticed. To compound matters Samir became self conscious of his clubbed foot and he developed a habit of hiding his misformed foot behind his other leg as he followed in his brother's wake. In this way he could never quite catch up to his brother's confident strides no matter how hard he tried. The fisherman's wife favored her firstborn and it was clear he was her treasure. Sensing this unfortunate truth and not knowing what else to do, Samir avoided his mother and snuck into shadowed corners at her passing. He only scuttled out when nobody else was near and even if he did happen to meet someone he kept his eyes down and hurried past ignoring their worried stares. When they were at home Ahmed was constantly surrounded by a group of friends who hovered around him like moths to a lamp. He passed the days surrounded by laughter and cheer. Samir on the other hand took to hiding himself behind the large pistachio tree in their yard and gazing at his ebullient brother and his charmed life. At first when Ahmed saw his brother’s shadow he would call him over but as time passed and Samir failed to join the group, Ahmed was at first disappointed, and then frustrated and finally disdainful of his brother. He developed the habit of flicking his wrist in a dismissive gesture so that only Samir noticed and it was clear what Ahmed thought of his brother. Samir took to spending long hours alone inside the family home and there above the mantle in a place of honour hung a beautiful, intricately decorated calf-skin belt. The belt was a remnant of a life his mother no longer spoke of. Long ago, before Ahmed and Samir, even before the fishing village and everything that came with it, the fisherman’s wife was the daughter of a wealthy man. This man was the head tailor for the wealthiest families in the city where the family lived. This man created the best clothes for all the wealthy families and his skills were sought after far and wide. His daughter lived a life of leisure and her life was expected to be happy and easy. The man betrothed his daughter to the son of a wealthy neighbour. He was a handsome lad with dark curly hair and the tailor’s daughter blushed when she thought of him. All was well in her world until one day civil war broke out in the country. Rich and poor alike the citizens of the city were affected by the changes dictated by war. The value of a bowl of rice was greater than the need for silk jackets. The previously wealthy families of the city no longer had any need for new clothes. Fine garments became an unaffordable luxury and the tailor had no choice but to close his business. The once well to do tailor found himself struggling to support his family. Regretfully and despite his daughter’s pleading, the engagement was cancelled and a hurried marriage was arranged for the once spoiled tailor’s daughter. She was married to the son of a fisherman and from then on her life was full of mending nets and she could never quite get the smell of fish off her once silky white skin. This calf-skin belt was the last beautiful piece of her past world and was the last item of any great value in the household. Samir spent many hours silently tracing the scalloped edges of the belt and hoped to one day wear it with pride. As the boys grew older, the fisherman's wife kept Ahmed close by her side and had him sit by her as she worked on mending the nets. She could not tolerate the thought of her precious Ahmed being buffeted by the rough winds of the ocean where her husband caught fish for a living. She smoothed her hand over his rounded cheek and told him he was the light of her life. Ahmed was only too happy to sit by his mother as he kept her company. Samir, having no place in the bubble Ahmed and his mother created around themselves, naturally gravitated to his father's side and after some initial hesitation and concern over the slight boy, the fisherman warily invited Samir aboard his boat and to their mutual surprise realized that Samir had a singular talent on the water. A brusk man not given to displays of emotion, the fisherman worked Samir hard but no matter how hard he pushed, Samir put his head down and got the job done. Over time Samir won his father’s grudging respect as a boatsman. Day after day, with his father’s coaching, Samir worked hard on learning the trade. He was unaware of it at the time but his father’s shoulders stiffened with pride whenever the villagers mentioned how diligently Samir worked. How every time his knuckles cracked and chafed, he merely rubbed his aching hands and kept going because his son was by his side working just as hard. Though their life was simple and they worked from dawn to dusk every day, Samir’s father was proud of the life he had built. His own father had been a fisherman all his life but had been unable to afford his own vessel and had worked for other fishermen. The day Samir’s father was able to purchase a run down boat of his own was a proud moment. He worked hard to make that boat seaworthy and was never prouder than when his son Samir expertly sailed the vessel out to sea for the first time. As Samir engrossed himself in learning the secrets of the sea, Ahmed often leaned one shoulder against the rough bark of the pistachio tree in their yard and watched as Samir and their father worked side by side. With a hard stare he watched as they worked in tandem to ready the boat. Their wordless synchropathy was fluid and effortless and in this Ahmed felt inadequate and could not compare to his brother. He watched as Samir expertly wrapped the line around his forearm, knotting it neatly together. He watched in silence as his father’s mouth curled up in a half smile so fleeting he wondered if he had imagined it. Day after day, Ahmed kept his mother company while Samir learned the trade at his father's side. Ahmed was such a beautiful and naturally lovable child that his laziness and vanity was overlooked by everyone. Ahmed spent his days ruling the village square and keeping the villagers entertained with his cocky demeanour and cheeky antics while Samir worked long and hard hours on his father's boat. Over time, Samir learned how to read the waves, where the best fishing spots were and most of all he learned how to be patient. As the boys grew into adolescence, their uneven relationship solidified as Ahmed grew increasingly more handsome. The sweet rounded cheeks of his childhood became a chiseled jaw and high cheekbones with the healthy flush of youth. His sparkling eyes became hooded and knowing when the young ladies of the village glanced in his direction. They whispered behind shielded hands to each other when he passed and he was only too happy to run his fingers through his full curly hair when he noticed them looking. Samir was still smaller of stature than his brother and he never outgrew his awkward nature amongst the villagers. While Ahmed grew tall and lean, Samir’s shoulders stooped from his long hours working on the boat. While Ahmed’s naturally olive skin retained it’s suppleness, Samir’s became roughened from the salty ocean air. Ahmed, the golden child grew up into a handsome young man admired by the villagers for his physical beauty and adored by the young ladies of the village, while Samir grew into an introspective young man who preferred to spend his days on the dock kept company by the seagulls. As the boys neared their 17th birthday Ahmed grew closer to a particularly beautiful young lady named Laila. Laila was as fair and beautiful as Ahmed was dark and handsome. The young couple was the talk of the village and their lives were destined to be full of happiness and joy. As Ahmed reveled in the throes of young love, his brother Samir blended into shadows and gazed at the beautiful couple for as much as he tried to ignore it, he knew that he too was in love with the beautiful Laila. He tried to ignore these feelings but Laila was as kind hearted as she was beautiful. Laila showed nothing but kindness toward Samir. The more silent and gruff Samir was toward her, the harder she tried to be kind to him. Her kindness towards him made it impossible for Samir to hate her and hating her would have been infinitely easier to bear than to witness her falling in love with another. One day Samir left the dock at the end of a long day and ran through the village square through a dense drizzle. There, under the canopy of an old almond tree, he saw Laila waiting out the rain. She dipped her hand out to catch the rain then shook the water off. It was one of the few times he saw her alone, without his brother by her side. Before he could talk himself out of it, he detoured towards her and jogged to where she stood. Laila smiled widely when she saw him coming and shifted to the side to make room for him. Samir stood awkwardly in silence then startled when she placed her hand lightly on his arm. He looked down and saw that she was offering him a neatly folded kerchief. Gingerly, he accepted it and ineffectually dabbed at his face. Laila laughed good naturedly at his wet hair stuck to his forehead. Haltingly, Samir spoke first and asked her about her day. Cheerfully, Laila launched into an entertaining tale about her family goat and how he had escaped through a gate she had carelessly left open. She regalled him with the story of how she spent most of the afternoon chasing him through the village, only to return home to find him calmly grazing on the grass in her yard. Her friendliness was so infectious that Samir found himself relaxing in her presence. He realized that while until now he had kept his distance from her, that was mostly to do with his brother and had nothing to do with her. Samir ached to tell her how he felt. He started to speak then stopped numerous times until finally, out tumbled the one question he most wanted answered. Unable to look at her, he finally asked if there was anyone else she would consider being with other than his brother. He bit his lip hard as he focused all his attention on hearing her answer. Finally, softly and with an unmistakable apology in her voice she merely whispered, “my heart belongs to him.” Numbly, Samir stood under the almond tree even as with a fleeting look behind her shoulder, Laila darted into the rain and jogged away. Samir stood under the tree until the moon shone high and bright in the sky. In his hand he crushed the kerchief Laila had handed him. From that day, Samir ensured he could not be seen as Laila and his brother courted. He melted into darkened shadows and could do nothing but close his eyes every time he saw her almond shaped green eyes crinkle at the corners as she laughed at something his brother said. Samir scraped his nails against the rough bark of the tree when he witnessed the young couple hesitantly link their fingers together. He flushed and strangled an outraged cry when he saw the young pair bow their heads together like two graceful swans. Samir tried to hide his feelings but it killed a small part of him every time he saw Laila and his brother falling deeper in love. Samir's misery was magnified when, one day Ahmed announced his intentions to marry Laila the following spring. The boy's parents, and especially their mother was overjoyed at this news. Her treasured Ahmed would marry the most beautiful and kind hearted girl in the village. The boy's mother jumped up, ran to the mantle and took down the fine crafted calf-skin belt that Samir had so admired. Without hesitation she presented this gift to Ahmed in celebration of his upcoming nuptials. Samir’s face paled as he realized that even this, a whispered wish, a fleeting desire for something beautiful was not his to have. The one thing his mother treasured, she had now gifted to her most cherished. Ahmed had no inclination of how Samir felt, he only saw something of great beauty and he smiled widely as he put the belt on and swore never to take it off. Following this exchange, Samir receded into the shadows and walked to the far end of the beach where his village met the ocean. There, with the crashing of the waves drowning out his voice, finally shed tears of frustration and loneliness. The rough wind stung his eyes as his thin chest heaved. The seagulls wheeled overhead watching this odd spectacle until they too flew away, leaving him truly alone. One crisp autumn morning, Ahmed strolled onto the dock where his father and Samir were preparing to set sail . He announced to his father and brother that he would be taking the boat out this day for he wished to catch a bounty of fish to present to the family of his bride to be. He wished to show them that he would be able to support Laila and for them to bless the union. Samir grew concerned at this because Ahmed had not been out on the boat in some time and at the best of times was a mediocre boatsman. Samir on the other hand spent most of his days out on the water and was well acquainted with the hidden violence of the ocean. He warily looked up at the overcast skies and spoke up. Samir suggested that Ahmed wait a couple of days for the weather to clear to attempt his fishing trip. He worried that the weather was not predictable during that time of year and the ocean was surprisingly cold beyond the breakers. However, unlike Samir, Ahmed had not learned to be patient. He was used to getting what he wanted and had not learned to wait and bide his time. With a dismissive wave Ahmed insisted he would be fine and despite repeated requests to delay the trip, prepared to set sail. Ahmed's boat slid smooth and sure across the glittering water and with a sense of trepidation Samir followed his brother to the end of the dock. At the last moment before the boat cleared the dock, Samir leaned forward and jumped into the boat, rocking it from side to side. Ahmed whipped around in surprise but Samir would not meet his eyes, he merely collected the anchor lines, and pushed off the dock. The boys set off towards Samir's favourite fishing spot and as the day progressed, the clouds grew heavier and the air held a definite chill. Ahmed kept up a cheerful chatter about his upcoming wedding to the girl of his dreams as they rowed further and further from shore. Ahmed was not an experienced boatsman so left most of the maneuvering of the boat to Samir. Samir’s arms strained and his muscles bunched as he worked the oars through the choppy water as Ahmed sat back, leaning out to graze his fingers through the water. Finally they reached the fishing spot but since Samir had done most of the rowing by himself they arrived later than anticipated and it was already mid afternoon. Once again Samir pointed to the increasingly heavy clouds and suggested to Ahmed that they head back and return another day. Undeterred Ahmed insisted they still had a couple of hours left in which to fish and cast his line. Samir shook his head but followed suit. A few hours later the sun hovered on the horizon as finally, Ahmed stretched his back and suggested to Samir that they head back home. Frustrated at Ahmed’s lackadaisical attitude, Samir hurried to get the boat ready as the clouds loomed heavy and dark overhead. As the boys started their return trip, without warning the skies opened up and pelted them with heavy rain and soon the boys were both soaked through. Samir shouted at Ahmed to help him row the boat back to shore. His resentment towards his brother’s irresponsible actions boiled over as the boat was buffeted by high winds. As a particularly sharp gust of rain rocked the boat violently Samir shouted at Ahmed that he should have listened to him. Wrestling with the unfamiliar weight of the oars, Ahmed turned around in his seat and snapped at Samir that it wasn’t his fault he didn’t have as much experience as a boatsman. Unexpectedly, Ahmed launched into Samid about how he was never given a chance to prove his worth. Years of hidden resentment came to the surface as the boys fought to stabilize the boat and their emotions. The storm hit without warning and with such ferocity it took all Samir had to keep the boat upright. Samir fought against the biting wind as he wrestled the sails together and tried to get the oars in place. Again, he yelled above the din of the downpour for Ahmed to help him but his words were whipped away by the wind and all Ahmed could hear was the anger in his heart. Unfamiliar with the oars, Ahmed let them go and hung onto the rigging with a white knuckled grip as the rain plastered his hair to his face as Samir struggled on. As the boys crested a wave, Ahmed lost his grip on the ropes and fell face down, tossing hard on the bottom of the boat as the vessel rocked. Samir squinted his eyes to see beyond the driving wind and shouted at Ahmed to hang on. Ahmed struggled up but was dazed and winded by the hard fall. He had barely dragged himself back up when another wave hit the boat and this time he didn't have a chance to grab hold of the line and was shoved hard against the side of the boat. Samir saw his brother's form slam against the side of the boat and reached out to grab him. In that instant the boat careened hard to the right and Samir grabbed the lines again to right the vessel as he braced himself against the violent rocking. Samir was torn between the fight to help his brother and the fight to keep the boat from capsizing. In that moment of indecision, Ahmed teetered on the edge grappling for a hold but the rain slicked ropes slid from his frantic hands. Ahmed's eyes widened as he tilted back over the side of the boat. Ahmed's mouth gaped open in silent terror as his feet slid out from under him. All of a sudden with a great shudder he felt himself being pulled back. With a grimace on his face Samir grabbed hold of the belt around Ahmed's waist. The one their mother had given to him. Samir pulled back with all his body weight but he was outweighed by his brother and the momentum of the boat shifting was too much. With a horrifying tear the belt snapped in half and Samir fell backwards into the boat as Ahmed tumbled into the great chasm of the ocean. The waves engulfed him in a momentary flash as Samir scrambled to the side of the boat. Samir strained to see into the inky churning darkness of the ocean for signs of his brother. Samir screamed Ahmed's name as the wind and rain rushed around him in a cacophony. Samir let the ropes go and screamed until his voice grew hoarse. He screamed until he could no longer hear his own guilt. As quickly as it had started, the storm died down. Samir let himself drift on the waves until finally, dawn broke over the horizon. Stretching his aching body, he slowly rowed back to the docks. As he got closer he saw the shadowy figure of his father in the morning mist standing on the dock waiting for him. His shoulders dropped but he thought to himself, at least he would not have to face his mother yet. That is, until his mother's frantic form materialized from behind his father's shadow. Samir heard the searching cries of his mother above the drumming of his own heart. As he got closer, his mother raced down the dock towards the boat. On her face he saw the moment she realized Ahmed was not on the boat with him. His mother immediately started a keening wail as she pounded her fist against her chest as if to restart the beating of her broken heart. As soon as he cleared the dock he simply sat back as his father scrambled aboard and searched frantically for Ahmed for surely he must be hiding somewhere. Surely the unthinkable had not actually happened. Samir sat silent even as his father shook him hard, demanding to know what had happened. He sat unmoving even as his mother begged on her knees, holding his hands in a hard grip, tears flowing from her eyes asking where her precious Ahmed was. As chaos erupted around him all he could see was the scalloped edge of a belt sitting amidst the debris on the bottom of the boat. In the days following the accident the news of Ahmed's accident travelled around the village. At first there was disbelief for how could such a bright life be snuffed out so unexpectedly? One by one the villagers came by the family home, and one only had to look at the faces of Ahmed's parents to know that as unfathomable as it was, the rumours were true. The villagers whispered amongst themselves about the dangers of the ocean. How they knew someone who knew someone who had also been lost at sea. They shook their heads and clicked their tongues when Samir walked through the village square. That poor boy who lost his brother, that poor awkward child was all that family had left. Even as some villagers pitied the ill fate of the family, others cast wary glances at Samir. They knew him to be a capable boatsman and wondered how it was that such an accident took place. They had all admired his stalwart fortitude even in the worst weather conditions. The villagers shushed each other when these thoughts were uttered out loud. Of course Samir had tried his best, of course it was an accident. Afterall, he was still just a seventeen year old boy. The boy's father became even more silent than he already was. He rented another boat from another villager and fished out on the ocean for even longer than he usually had. He often did not come home until it was dark and the village was asleep. The villagers worried for him but his hard stoicism did not welcome their concern. He left his fishing boat tied to the dock where Samir had last stepped foot in it and never touched it again. Their mother simply took up residence in Ahmed's old room. She created a small spot for herself by the pallet where Ahmed had slept and spent her days and nights there. Samir didn't care about what the villagers said about him and tried not to worry about his parents, but he did care about what happened to Laila. The once fine and beautiful Laila became a recluse. She retreated into herself and became a shell of her former self. Her concerned parents told her she would meet another, but to anyone who looked closely, it was as if her spirit were broken. She took to taking long walks along the cliffs at the edge of the village overlooking the vast ocean where her beloved had been lost to her. One day, as Samir sat in his yard mending the nets his mother no longer cared for, he saw Laila walk past his house as she headed for the cliffs as was her new habit. Samir started to call out to her but bit back the words as he realized he didn't know what he could possibly say to her to lessen her pain. That day she did not return from her walk and in the evening her broken body was found at the foot of the cliffs. It was unclear whether the fall had been accidental or intended. The day after Laila's accident, Samir packed a satchel with a hard knot of bread, a hunk of cheese and salted dried fish. He slung the satchel on his shoulder and silently walked away from his family home. Samir had come to the conclusion that he was the curse that tainted everything and everyone he touched. From the moment of his birth he had been a source of frustration for his family and he could tolerate this no longer. He would walk away and hope to spare what was left of the lives of those he loved. As he walked away from his village, he looked back one last time towards the dock where he could see the shape of his father’s boat gently rocking on the calm water. Samir eventually settled in another fishing village and earned a living there. He married the hard working daughter of another fisherman and together they had a son. Samir's son grew up and had children of his own. The old man tucked the boys in closer as they had fallen asleep long ago, with their small rounded arms wrapped around each other in slumber. He whispered his calloused fingers over the sweep of their cheeks as he sighed, for he was weary. With some difficulty he stood up and with cane in hand thumped his way outside to stand in front of his small cabin. He looked up at the clear sky and wondered when the passage of time had worn away the bitter sharpness of the memory of that night. As if in a dream he could still remember the shape of the rough ropes on the boat. He could remember the sting of the ocean breeze on his skin. he remembered seeing the relaxed sweep of his brother's back as he spoke of his beloved and his enchanted life. He could still remember pulling out the small tub of lard he always kept on him to smooth on his face to protect his skin from the rough salty wind. He could still remember hesitating before he smoothed the lard on the ropes of the boat. He could still remember wanting to teach his brother a lesson. He could still remember thinking a small slip would be enough and Ahmed would never dismiss him again. A small slip and Ahmed would take him seriously. A small slip and he would save his brother and be a hero for once in his life. A small slip he had thought as the lard glistened on his skin. The old man rubbed his calloused fingers together and remembered.