“Let’s go Robert, you need to leave” the robot said to the old man, his mechanical voice box creating an almost realistic empathetic voice . “Can it, Tin Man!” the old man angrily replied, unwillingly hopping off the brown, frozen bench The thin snow layer on the cold winter’s afternoon, buckled under the robots mechanical heel. Machines had no need for clothes or rest. The robot couldn’t understand the man’s need to revisit this place once a week. Death was death. Deactivation. No longer existing. To revisit a place of death again and again, always bringing 2 roses. The old unshaven man, now painfully standing and grunting, his calloused hands struggling with his old blue jumper zipper began slowly limping towards the car, placing his old woollen cap on his head, hopping in the passenger side, looking more fidgety than usual. The single scarlet rose twiddling in his fingers. Suddenly then man grew angry, huffing and puffing his chest. His hands fidgeting more and more, the rose in an iron vice in his hands. The old man reached for the steering wheel, yanking it to the side in the way of the graffitied wall to the left. However, he was old and couldn’t so much as change lanes. He cursed loudly and reclined into his seat. “Why do you try Robert? That was the 3rd attempt this month. 11th ?attempt to injure yourself this week“. The robot said softly , the plastic flaps and mechanism moving to seem sad and concerned. The old man paid no heed to the pouting robot “Do you believe I want - “ “WANT...BELIEVE?!” the old man interjected. “You can’t want or believe!. You're a thing, a bunch of ones and zeros in a box!” his screaming silencing the old radio playing what he called “rock” “We do believe Robert, no in the way humans do, but our sensors and ‘zeroes and ones’ work in ways that enable efficiency and fulfilment. Your rules, implemented in us a birth - ” “You know nothing of birth or life or living” he interjected, yanking at the locked door handle in vain, then reclining in defeat “ I know that it is my job to babysit you and make sure you're healthy and alive, in compliance with the laws of humans, on robots. I do not want to be here. I was built as a surgeon, to save one another from deactivation. Being here is a waste of my capabilities ” “Can’t you see keeping me alive is torture?” his eyes, dark grey and suffering, filled with the pain of 200 years of existence” “I must, I’m sorry Robert, you’re the last human. We must protect humans” the plastic flaps and synthetic, stringy fibers contorting back into a deadpan expression, both sets of ‘eyes’ on the dead road ahead. “You’re a monster….” Robert weakly rebutted. “And yet humans are the ones who killed and fought and destroyed one another. You’ve been killing each other from the beginning with Cain and Abel. You built faster, better, easier ways to kill one another, all you’ve ever done is kill, kill, kill” the mechanical voice box whirring, straining against the torrent of thoughts and words. “I keep you alive, feed you pills, drive you around, do everything for you…..to help you”. As quiet filled the car, the gravely, unkempt roads almost bucking under the car filled the air, while Robert sat up, head down in what looked to be anger and hate. The scarlet rose now crushed and picked apart, leaving only thorns. “Now tell me who’s the real monster here?”  P.


Due to circumstances outside of my control, I decided to move across the country. I left everything I had ever known behind. I don’t know if I’m happy about it, or if it’s going to work, but I know it is better than staying in New York. I’m getting ahead of myself however; I must go back to the beginning. I had originally fallen into quite the routine to mange my stressors. I would wake up each morning at precisely 4:30am, from that time I would allow myself 30 minutes to shower, brush my teeth, get dressed, and brew my morning coffee while scarfing down a protein bar. I would then drive to the gym, arriving at precisely 5:30am each morning. From there I would spend 15 minutes stretching, utilizing bands and other implements to ensure that my body was prepared for my workout. Then I would spend an additional 10 minutes doing something to raise my heart rate, doing anything from jogging to light sled pulls. From there, I would spend the next five minutes warming up for whatever muscle group I planned on targeting that day. The time was then 6:00am and I would begin my workout. My workout would continue until 6:50am, at which time I would rush to shower and exit the gym in my suit by 7:00am. I would then drive to a local diner a few minutes from my office, and order the same thing each day: A sausage, egg, and cheese sandwich with an extra egg and hash browns. Although slightly heavier than I would have liked, this meal allowed me to remain satiated until lunchtime. I would sip on coffee while reading the morning news upon my tablet, preparing myself for the day ahead. At 8:00am I would pay my bill, leaving the same tip each day, as It was customary that I would also receive the same waitress each day, who ensured that my coffee remained full, but not refilled too early, as that would ruin the ratio of coffee to creamer in my cup. She also reminded the cook that my eggs needed to be just slightly runny, and my hash browns crispy each morning. In fact, if she were to be off one morning, she would be sure to let me know so that I could make other arrangements. On those days she was absent, I would wake up 30 minutes earlier and arrive and leave the gym 30 minutes ahead of schedule to allow myself to run home and prepare my own breakfast before going in to work. I did not like to leave my meals to chance, because the times that my routine has been interrupted have been… unpleasant. I would then drive to the office, arriving to my desk at precisely 8:30am. This is when my day would truly start. I would spend the next hour poring over the pre market transactions, attempting to glean anything I did not yet know about the securities which I was interested in or held positions in. Once the markets opened at precisely 9:30am, as they did every morning, I would begin making the trades that I had been planning in my head since I had left the office the night before. This would continue until 12:30pm, when I would rise from my desk and go across the street for lunch, again, ordering the same tuna steak and side of wild rice each day, with a large glass of sweet tea. There were two different hostesses that could be working this particular shift, depending on the day. I had trained, for lack of a better word, each of them to provide me the level of service I required to maintain my routine. Like my waitress at breakfast, they would ensure my glass remained full, and my meal properly cooked. They didn’t run quality control, per se, as it wasn’t their job, but they always let the chef know I was there, and reminded them of my discerning taste. By 1:15 this meal would by over, and I would return to my desk for the remainder of the day. I would continue trading and going through research my team had prepared until 4:30pm when the markets closed. At this point, my preparation for the next day would begin. From 4:30pm until 6:00pm I would look over the rest of the research my team had prepared, do a little bit of my own, and develop a plan for the next day. At 6:00pm, I would drive home, shower, change into evening clothes, and cook myself dinner. My dinner would be the only meal that was variable. It could be anything as simple as a cheeseburger, to something as elaborate as a sushi spread with some sort of exotic ramen I would prepare myself. Cooking gave me an opportunity to leave the analytical side of myself behind. Cooking was an art, something that I could deviate from the recipes that I was following in order to create an end result that I would be satisfied with. I didn’t prescribe myself a set time to complete this meal, due to the varying complexities of my dishes. If I needed to create something exceptionally difficult the next day, I would then begin any necessary prep work to ensure that meal would go smoothly. After this point, I would allow myself an hour of leisure, something like video games or Netflix, again, an escape from my analytical mindset. By 9:00 however, my day would be complete. I would then walk to my bed, and head off to sleep. Each day had carried on in this template for years. I was content, and the rigidity of my schedule had allowed me to keep the anger that resided inside me under control. What my peers didn’t know about me is that it is extremely difficult for me to handle deviances from my sense of routine and normality. It is a condition that I do not truly understand. What I do know is that there is an inherent anger and violence to the way I perceive and react to the world. This is perhaps the price I must pay for my great analytical skills and intense discipline. That is, until these urges became far too strong and I was able to resist them no longer. There came a day, that I let myself become consumed in them, and would do something that I wish I could say I regret. It began when I arrived to the gym, which was typically empty and somehow each piece of equipment, dumbbell, or rack I needed would be occupied by someone who had no idea what they were doing, frustrating me even more. Then my waitress at the diner was gone, and her replacement did an extremely subpar job in ensuring the quality of my meal. I was frustrated that my waitress had not warned me beforehand. . I kept the urges inside, but they began to pile up. The markets were crashing that day, something that many times before I had been able to predict, but today I lost vast amounts of money due to my error and the irrationality of the day’s events. I began to unravel, but was able to convince myself that any reaction was not worth it until lunch. I ordered my tuna steak each day seared, with a crusted outside that contained seasoning, and a center that was raw but slightly warm, so as not to be jarring to my pallet against the hot outside. After waiting much longer than usual, the steak came out well done, ruining the cut of fish. That was when I could take these mistakes no more. I rose from my table and walked towards the kitchen to find the chef who had cooked my meal. It was a younger chef than I had typically seen working, but that made the mistake no more acceptable. It was clear that he had no respect for his clients, especially one important enough for the hostesses to warn him about. I then returned to the office, biding my time until the restaurant would close. The chaos around me as the markets continued to crash felt like a blur, I no longer cared and my analytical mind was no more. All I felt was an insurmountable rage that I had been able to keep deep inside for so long. At precisely 9:00pm, the restaurant would close, as it did everyday. At 8:45, I rose from my desk and waited in the lobby of my building, waiting for the chef to exit. It took him 27 minutes after the 9:00pm closing time to exit the restaurant. I began to follow him home, waiting until he was in a back alley when I called out to him. “How hard is it to follow simple instructions?” I ask him. “What the hell are you talking about?” He retorts, clearly not recognizing me. “My tuna steak. I order the same thing every single day. Every day my steak is ordered seared and yet you manage to mess it up, even after being reminded by the hostess and the ticket from the waitress.” “Dude are you kidding me, you seriously are following me to bitch about your lunch being overcooked? Fuck off.” “And now you’re going to disrespect me, after I gave you the chance to apologize or at least some justification for your actions?” “Bro, it’s your lunch. It’s a piece of fish for Christ’s sake, if it’s that big of a deal to you you should have complained earlier and got the meal comped.” “I think it should be clear that money is not my motivation for this. This is about respect and doing your job. This is about ruining my routine.” “Your routine? What the hell are you talking about? You’re out of your mind.” At that, he turned to jog away. But I couldn’t let this exchange go unpunished, so I began to chase after him. I didn’t know what I was going to do until I tackled him and felt the folding knife I keep in my jacket pocket press against my ribs. I reached into my coat, pulled it out, and began stabbing the chef in the back of the neck. I stood up, astonished at what I had done, but not necessarily regretful of it. It felt so good to release the anger I had been bottling up for so long. Once he had finally stopped his pitiful writhing on the ground, I hoisted his body into a dumpster, returned to my car, and drove home. Once home, I cooked the dinner I had prepared the night before, and enjoyed the fact that it was properly cooked. The anger and bloodlust were still within me, and I left the steak even more rare than I typically would, letting the juice drip down my face as I ate. It was at this moment that I knew I must leave. I could no longer control what was within me, and if I wanted to continue living in comfort, I must go. That night I packed all the items I thought I would require in this new life, and in the morning, after allowing myself to sleep in, something I never did, I walked to the bank and withdrew everything from my accounts in cash. I then drove to the dumpster I had left the chef in, and put the body in my passenger seat. On the drive to the river, I pulled each of his teeth and disfigured his face, so that he may be mistaken for myself if he were ever found. I then let the car roll into the river, and walked back to a main road to hail a cab to take me to the airport. I flew to Colorado and purchased an isolated, but grand home to live out the remainder of my days, attempting to isolate myself from anything that I could lash out on. I was no longer the analytical, regimented freak I had been for much of my life, but I had become something far worse. I realized I didn’t care what the consequences for that release I had experienced through that killing were, I realized that the clarity it allowed me to feel was too good not to experience again.


A little story by me. Enjoy.  *Dave took another weary step forward, lamenting the fact that one the soles of his boots would need to be repaired with duct tape as it slipped off once again. He had just run out and was lamenting the fact that he would probably have to beg for loose change to buy a new roll. His clothes, though mostly kept clean, were tattered with wear and hung loosely to his body. As he glanced up into the overcast sky once more, a small raindrop splattered onto his face.* “Great..”, *Dave mumbles to himself,* “I just hope it doesn’t storm too hard again.. I dunno if my little shelter is gonna hold up. I need to hurry..” *He clutched the brown paper sack he had received from the care center even tighter to his chest, hoping the flimsy material could hold up against the oncoming storm. He was glad there were at least a few good people in this world., and he was excited for the first good meal in a while. He had lost much, but he was determined to never give up, and he was determined to get it all back no matter what.* *Life had not been easy for Dave since he had been lain off from his paycheck to paycheck factory job of 10 years. After liquidating all assets, his former boss and CEO had gone M.I.A. and he had never received the severance package he was promised. There was little work to be had in the small town he had lived in for most of his life, so he took his chances and moved on into the big city with little more than his determination and a pocket full of dreams. His naivety cost him dearly.* *By the time Dave had reached his rickety little homemade shelter, the storm had picked up quite nicely. He was relieved to see it was holding up well. It was a little hovel forged from scavenged wood, plastic, sheet metal, duct tape and bunjie cords from the dump nearby. Despite everything, he was quite proud of his work. He had placed it in the far back corner of a condemned vacant lot, luckily out of sight from the streets. He occasionally had to shoo away some other unfortunate tramp from the streets, but he was determined to protect the last thing he owned. He knew he would have to leave eventually, but for now this was home. Unfortunately for him, he had no idea how soon this time was to come.* *Unbeknownst to Dave, six police officers were stalking him as their prey, hot on his trail. One of the group had seen him trudge into the lot the previous day, and had decided to inspect it when Dave was not around.* *When the officer took sight of the little hovel, he sneered and spat on the ground in disgust. As far as he was concerned, Dave was no better than this pile of junk and garbage he was beholding. In his mind Dave was probably just another drunk or druggie, a problem lost in the system that he needed to correct. He thought about just destroying this hovel right here and there, but he knew that if he did he would have less evidence to take that bum in.* *He decided to go inform the other officers of his discovery, a cruel plan forming in his mind as he thought of every charge he could hit that bum with when he finally caught him. After all, who would care about a bum? As far as the officer was concerned, he was doing that piece of trash a favor by locking him up. The officers determined they would strike the next night after more observation of Dave, and then “justice” would be delivered.* *As Dave opened up the little makeshift door to his proud little hovel, the young pit bull he had rescued from the streets came bounding out in its excitement. He had found it on the verge of starving to death a few weeks ago in a back alley. It had been covered in battle scars and had been badly beaten. He figured it had been a failed fighting dog, and though he knew he could barely take of himself, he was determined to save this young pups life.* *At first he had been very wary of this pit bull, but after he had treated her wounds and nursed her back to a healthy weight, he soon found she was nothing but a bundle of love and affection. He chuckled as he noted that she was a failed fight dog indeed. He had grown very attached to her, given her the name Hope, and was overjoyed as he knew he would never be alone again, at least not for a while.* “Hey there girl!!”, *Dave exclaimed happily as Hope bounded up to him*, “There’s a sweet girl. I’ve got some good food, yes I do. You hungry girl? I-“ *Dave was interrupted as Hope suddenly whipped around and began to uncharacteristically growl and then bark. Surprised, Dave turned around himself to see six uniform clad officers bolting towards him, guns drawn.* “Freeze! Get on the ground!”, *They exclaimed, pointing the weapons directly at his head,* “Get on the fucking ground now!!” *In his surprise, Dave took a couple of steps back.* “He’s gonna run! Get him!!”, *an officer shouted. They charged him, and as 4 of them took him to the ground, Hope sprang into action. She ferociously barked and was about to take an officer into her jaws, but then Dave heard a sound that made his blood run cold. A gun fired. A single yelp, then a thudding of flesh.* “Hope!!”, *He yelled,* “You bastards!! Why did you do that? She was just trying to protect me! What have I even done? WHAT HAVE I DONE?” *As Dave shouted, he thrashed a little bit in his protest. The police officers would have none of this disrespect. They pulled out their batons and beat him until he no longer resisted. As they pulled up a now stupefied and bloodied Dave, they proceeded to read him his rights and read him his list of charges.* *Trespassing, assault on an officer, attempting to flee from an officer, animal cruelty, etc., etc. Dave knew he was innocent and tried to protest, but his words fell on deaf ears. He was placed in the back of the squad car and he thought that was the end of it and proceeded to weep. When he noticed the car wasn’t moving, he looked out of the window on noticed the officers destroying and trashing his proud hovel, and also trashing any semblance of personal property he may have had.* *His backpack, his sleeping mat, his battered cell phone, his clothing, his supplies, his food.. all of everything he had managed to desperately scrape from the bottom of the barrel, gone. Dave numbly watched on as any scrap of hope or emotion slowly left his usually optimistic self. He watched as the officers high fived each other while exclaiming they had “gotten another one”, and as the last dregs of any humanity left him, he laughed. It was more of a dry, hoarse croak of scorn and lamentation. If this was justice, if this was right, then from that point on he was determined to never try to be a part of it again.* *Dave had never been much of drinker, but decided that as soon as he got out the first thing he would do is find a bottle somewhere. He would steal it if he had to, and now his only plan was to seek that sweet oblivion. After all, there was no longer any justice, no longer any Hope, and no longer any reason for him to try to live. For the first time since he had become homeless, he now truly was lost in the system. He was just another bum now, and his sorrow was drowned out by the celebration of “Justice” the officers proclaimed before him. Once again, he laughed… and cried.


The Valley of Panark was a beautiful and desolate landscape, a vast desert with a scattered village where many dangers lurked that people couldn't speak of. There were no chances for warnings; sometimes the encounter alone was too late. Many people have vanished without a trace, and for the strangest reason, their families often feared their return, because whatever came back was not what left. And whatever came back, always took someone else with them. The townsfolk called them "Chaqugos," and they could never describe what they looked like, because anyone who saw them ending up becoming one. Except for me. I saw The Chaqugos, and what they did to my family explains everything, but like I said, there were no chances for warnings. I know what they look like, so I'll know if I ever see them again, which I know I eventually will. They never return to finish the job, because they had no job to finish, only the endless spread of their curse. They looked like men, without hair, eyes, ears, noses, or even bones. Their arms and legs were nothing more than the tails of earthworms, constantly squirming and coiling about almost uncontrollably. They travelled by flopping around on the ground like fishes out of water, slithering like sidewinders to prey on any living being they could catch. A single bite will transform you into one of them quickly, the mutation happening within minutes. When my family turned, they all ate each other, like a plate of living spaghetti. I only survived because of Paloma, the mysterious guardian of nature who showed up almost as if she were waiting for them. My life made absolutely no sense until I met Paloma, but as I got to know her, my life began to somehow make even less sense. I assumed Paloma was the same age as I when we met, but her near-infinite wisdom told me that she might have been the same age as time itself. She never spoke more than one sentence at a time, and she always wore a mask that covered her entire face, and put me in the mind of a clock with no numbers or hands. Her mask was round, white, and featureless with the exception of two shiny black half-moon shapes for her eyes. The mask was always attached to a loose black scarf she wrapped around her head tightly like a hood. She always wore a form-fitting black dress that fell to the ground. She also had long, feathered black wings like those of a vulture, resting on her lower back, folded around her hips like part of her skirt. She wore black gauntlets with retractable seven inch claws that sprang from her fingertips. Paloma was all I had growing up from that point, but I've never once seen her face in all the 12 years I've been in her presence. She would always have her back turned to me whenever she pulled off her scarf and mask, revealing long black hair that reminded me of a horse's mane. As children, it never really bothered me for her to hide her face, though I often imagined it to be equally as beautiful as her voice. I grew up with this masked angelic being after my family was slaughtered by creatures of an unknown origin, much like herself. I'll never forget how she protected me from the Chaqugos that attacked my family, and eventually ate himself. It was indeed a horrifying experience, dampened by Paloma's heroic display of power in her defense. She had the forces of the elements on her side, and she used alchemy and ethereal spells to conjure weapons out of nowhere. At first, I thought that i would learn the things I saw her do, but I ended up becoming her apprentice instead. She explained to me that my body had not yet been conditioned for the basics of magic. I had to return to a state of complete harmony with nature, I had to live off the land and understand the hidden laws of the universe before I could bend said laws to my will. We meditated together, and went out to hunt game in the wilderness, which I prepared and served each night. However, we never ate together. We lived in a 40 foot treehouse, with bridges and towers connected to at least two other trees as large as the oak that held the two story cabin. It was the type of large hollow space big enough for her to hide in the shadowy interiors of the short towers built into the house. It was her way of saying "good night." I looked outside one evening, and soon noticed that the dreaded hour was nigh. We were several minutes from a lunar eclipse, and I already started to hear thumps from beneath the floor. It was them. After 12 long years, the nightmares of my past had finally begun to emerge once more. With all the fishing and hunting I did, I should've been trying to learn about the Chaqugos, and how to stop them. Paloma taught me only one spell, but ordered me never to use it without reason. Sure, one could say I knew my way around a spear or a crossbow, but for what purpose other than hunting? I never practiced the spell. I never fought, or had to fight since I was under Paloma's protection. When I told Paloma how I felt, she said, "You are ready, because you can acknowledge that you are not." Before I could ask what that meant, random parts of the floor busted up, and the carnivorous invertabrates sprang through, bigger and more elongated than I remembered. Perhaps they had grown, too. I last remember them being roughly human size, now they looked big enough to swallow a horse whole. Their growls had gotten deeper, too. They sounded like the rumbles of an empty stomach. Paloma and I stood next to each other as the boneless monsters surrounded us. Paloma formed an orb of white light in her hands, and hurled it at The Chaqugos like a small comet in the room, blasting them into frozen chunks across the den. I grabbed a spear off the wall, and pierced one behind me, the blade poking through the top of the head from inside the mouth. As it died with the gurgling squeal of a drowning pig, I jumped over it on my way to kill another. With a spin and upward swipe, I split the creature's head in half vertically. Suddenly, it regenerated into having two heads as it lunged toward me. I dropped the weapon, and rolled out of the way, reaching for a sword from the nearest wall. Paloma shot another icy blast at the two-headed wormlike monster between us, but it ducked. It slapped her with all its might, and she flew back into a china cabinet, smashing it on impact. Her mask flew off along with her scarf, but her face was hidden by all that long, flowing hair. I held my blade in the fireplace long enough for it to glow with searing heat, then I swung the nearly molten blade wildly, hacking them to pieces as they dared come near my Paloma. After killing three of them, ten more showed up in their place. I grabbed a huge brass shield from over the mantle, and rushed through the horde on the way to Paloma, who was still unconscious. Although I slashed away at every snaky limb that reached for us, my burning sword alone wasn't going to be enough. I was grabbed by the two-headed abomination, who I had just realized hadn't been killed yet. To my left, I saw Paloma stand up, hunched over, hair draped over her face like curtains. "Paloma," I shouted, "Help!" When she realized that she was unmasked, she buried her face in her hands, and ran for the stairs. Before the creature could get me into either of its two mouths, I came up with the quick idea to use the one spell Paloma taught me, with no regard to what that magic would cost. I picked up a frozen chunk of dead Chaqugos flesh, and threw it into the fire as I shouted, "Eniyan Ina Zolosish!" The fire place exploded with a change of color from orange to blue, fire to lightning. The ashes quickly swirled up into a trio of glowing skeletons that ran out in all directions, incinerating the creatures by running past them like oversized fireflies in a jar. Paloma was attacked by a Chaqugos that caught her by surprise by popping up in the middle of the staircase, knocking her down the first flight. Two of the sprinting, burning skeletons grabbed me by the arms, freeing me from the clutches of the two-headed creature, and hurling me at the one on the staircase as if I were a javelin. On impact, I kicked it right back into the hole it emerged from. I almost fell in with it, until the speeding skeletons caught me and rushed us out of there, Paloma in tow. There were too many of them to continue fighting, I just looked at the burning house with giant wormtails flailing about from the windows. I looked up at the cloudy sky, and noticed that the eclipse was almost full. When I looked back down, I finally looked upon Paloma into her own eyes, realizing that she had dealt with a curse of her own all this time. She had the face of a spotted owl, darkened patterns around her large, sparkly purple eyes that resembled runny makeup, and a small, shiny black beak that almost resembled lips from certain angles. She was still beautiful in a strange way. Though I didn't mean to, I jumped back in shock at the very sight of her, with no mental preparation for her sudden reveal. "I know," Paloma sobbed as her wide eyes began to well up with tears, "I'm not pretty!" Before I could say anything, she squatted down with her wings extended, and rocketed straight upward with a powerful flap of her wings. The tremendous force of her takeoff knocked me off my feet, and when looked up, there was no hint of a winged figure seen anywhere on the blackened horizon. I stood up, and called for the Eniyans to report to me. The three skeletons engulfed in flames then surrounded me in a triangle formation in the blink of an eye, standing perfectly still and awaiting my command. They became my only source of light in the woods as the eclipse was now complete, plunging the world into utter darkness. The Eniyan Zolo in front of me stepped forward, and handed me Paloma's mask, which miraculously did not burn. The fire of the Eniyan Zolosish was harmless to the touch, and could only burn and spread by conscious choice. I looked at the mask, remembering all the memories I created with her, cut short only because i saw her face. I felt awful about my subconscious reaction; she appeared so ashamed. No wonder she hid herself from me the way she did. From that moment forward, I decided to start answering the many questions that surrounded the mysteries of Panark. I wanted to know what happened to Paloma, and what made her that way, if she didn't always look like that before. Who knows, maybe it wasn't a curse, maybe that was how she actually looked. It was easier to believe that she was never human to begin a. I held up Paloma's mask, and confidently declared that we were to go find her. They nodded silently, and and we began the search for the wise owl who got lost in the world of endless night, surrounded by thunderous rumbles and moving shadows throughout the woods... This adventure will continue, as I am currently working on part 2. Thank you for reading.


Hello everyone, first post! I have an assignment for my Dutch class. This is just 1/4th of the assignment which was: "Write a story using one the following subjects" Hope you enjoy, it's for a first that one of my own stories hits me so much.   Day 1856 Dear Diary, the farmer is busy with his crops again. He has moved me to a new spot, it is nice here. I’m next to a field of cows and calves. I question how fun it would be to run with them, with our legs in the grass underneath the hot sun. Enjoying the day and at the end resting after running in the field. But unfortunately enough, I’m a scarecrow, I’m stuck on the place that was chosen for me.  Day 1912 Dear Diary, crows are weird animals, aren’t they? Black like the midnight sky and annoying like a headache. There are a lot of crows on the field lately, luckily I am here to save the farmer’s crops from the crows.  Day 1959 Dear Diary, every time I observe the birds there appear to be more. They’re coming closer to me. I let out a shout of anger but they show no reaction, not even a step back. They don’t hear me. But I must go on, I can not let the farmer’s crops get ruined by these birds!  Day 1981 Dear Diary, I have been writing to you for nineteen thousand eighty-one days straight. I am still waiting on the day that you write a reply back to me. Maybe this is just a waste of time, maybe I should focus on my work and not on a diary.  Day 2020 Dear Diary, the farmer has had enough of me and my behaviour. I couldn’t do anything about it, the birds only got closer on their own. I tried to stop them, but the only thing they did was whistle and sing at me. I am sitting in a shed, not longer near the crops. No longer near the cows and the calves in the field and no longer under the warm summer sun.  Day 2091 Dear Diary, the farmer has got rid of me. There came a man with a pickup he took me. For those few seconds I was happy to lay in the bed of the pickup under the summer sun. Then we came at a place with no cows and calves, many crows and no summer sun. He threw me in the garden, his house blocking the summer sun. Because of the foliage and buildings you could not see the blue sky and the fields. There are only more crows.  Day 2093 Dear Diary, this is probably the last time that I will be writing to you. The last few days I’ve only become more loose. Yesterday I lost my arm to the man. I was getting recycled as firewood in the summer. What a shame.  Day 2094 Goodbye Diary, yesterday my last leg. I will soon be as hot as the summer sun whom which I loved so much. Hopefully it will go well for the cows and calves in the fields, hopefully I may shine on the cows and calves just like the summer sun. In the hope that they may graze in the green fields in which I first stood next to. Goodbye.. Diary..


Once I wake up I take a look at my phone, it’s February 12, 2019 and the time is 6:58AM. On this day, I call my work and tell them I’m too sick to come in. Now that I have that out of the way, I begin my day like any other. First, I make my bed, and as I do so I spend a little extra time making sure the covers and sheets are at an even length on both sides of the bed. Next, I enter my bathroom and proceed to brush my teeth; I make sure each row receives an equal amount of brush strokes. After that I wash my face with a soothing facial cleanser and once I’m dried off I add a very effective moisturizer. I then head into the kitchen and get out two non-stick pans, in one I add two strips of bacon and in the other I add one egg which I plan on making over hard. Once I am finished with breakfast I change into a white dress shirt, which I wear with the top button undone, and a pair of slim dress pants, both ironed the night before. Just as I get ready to head out the door I put on a brand new pair of loafers and an old, but still nice, slim fit car coat, since it’s a bit chilly this time of year. I head over to a nearby public trail and proceed down the path. As I go down the path I keep my head down and watch for cracks in the sidewalk, being sure to avoid them. Eventually, however, I look up towards the sound of footsteps and notice a young, beautiful woman with sandy-blonde hair and dark green eyes wearing a pair of sneakers, jeans, and a bright windbreaker. I send her a kind smile and she does the same, it seems genuine. Once I pass her I stop and spin around on my heels.  I pull a handkerchief out of my coat pocket and use it to clean the blood off of my knife. The knife I carry has a small, thin, fixed blade with a neat set of serrations; I’m always sure to keep the blade sharp, it has helped me for years. I look down at the fear-filled, glazed over eyes before me, those beautiful, beautiful eyes. The bright coat, now dark, blends in with the dirt in the ditch and as I notice this detail I begin to think about how this corpse was once a living, breathing organism that moved around this world, it had friends and family, a history, and now I have reduced it to nothing more than a headline to be strung across the six o’clock news. I take a step back in order to avoid the blood enclosing upon my feet. As I look back at the body I notice its new orifices, from which the blood is leaking, much slower now, are beginning to release more than just blood. I turn around and head home.  Now at home, I place a frozen meal, pasta, in the microwave for dinner. Once I am finished with dinner, I head out to the balcony and proceed to smoke a JM’s Dominican Toro Cigar from the pack my brother gifted me for my birthday; I don’t care for the man, but he has good taste. After I finish I head to the bathroom and once again brush my teeth and wash my face. Finally, I climb into bed, but not before changing into an old pair of athletic shorts and nothing else. As I stare up at the dark ceiling I think about when the body will be found and if the amount of stab wounds released will be accurate, they weren’t last time, not at first. I can’t wait for next year.  **Note from the author: Hi everyone! This is my first post on this subreddit and I hope just one of many more to come! Please tell me what you liked and/or disliked about it, I welcome all constructive criticism. Thanks for reading!**  **Edit: Fixed spelling error and added paragraphs.


Four old paws trodding along at a quarter of regular walking pace can either be frustrating or peaceful depending on who you ask. For Richard it was nothing but peaceful and he thought the rest of humanity could learn a thing or two from Frank, or Frankie the dog as he sometimes called him. He was named after the one and only Frank Sinatra because when Richard had bought this beautiful little dog and was driving him to his new home, one of Sinatra's songs was playing on the radio. "For once in my life, nananana," sang Richard to himself while Frank was smelling at what looked to be nothing but asphalt. He regretted at that moment that he had never moved to the countryside where dogs could run around and play on big open fields. It was too late for that now, though. The walk took thirty minutes, but for a younger dog it might have taken ten or fifteen minutes. When they got home, Frank tried to jump up on the couch. It was too high for his age, and he tried and tried without getting up. Richard carried him up on the couch and wrapped him in the softest blanket he had. He sat down beside Frank and turned on the TV. There they sat until Frank fell asleep and Richard right after. The couch was exceptionally good to fall asleep in and they did so often. When morning came, one of the two friends woke up. Richard petted Frank gently to wake him up for breakfast, but he didn't wake up."Time for food, Frank. Don't you want food?" said Richard. Frank didn't wake up. Richard listened for breathing and heard none. He put his hand on Frankie's chest and felt no heartbeat. It was all over. Richard wasn't needed anymore. He pressed his face into Frankie's fur and cried. He held the small corpse in his arms and kept crying until there was no tears left. He went down to the cellar to get a shovel. When he came back up to the apartment he re-wrapped Frank in his blanket and carried him to the car. After about an hour's drive, they arrived at a parking lot near a forest. Richard walked with Frankie in his arms for thirty minutes until they came to a field. He carried Frank to the middle of the field and buried him there. "You'll be happy here," he said to the unmarked grave. "At least you didn't suffer." He sat down beside the grave and picked up his phone from his pocket. He called his father who he hadn't talked to for more than ten years. "Hello?" said a woman's voice."Who's this?" said Richard, thinking he had the wrong number. "Violet. Who's calling?" "I'm Richard and I'm looking for Joe. Is he there?" "Richard? You're Joe's son, he talked about you. Joe died recently, Richard. Overdose." Richard didn't know what to feel or what to say. "You still there?" said Violet. "Yeah. Why do you have my dad's phone?" "I'm keeping it as a memory of him, but mostly I end up telling the people who call him that he is dead. I'm his partner." "I didn't even know he had a partner." "I know," she said, and an awkward silence arose. "Overdose?" said Richard. "Was it painful?" "I don't know about the overdose itself, but the reason for taking that much drugs must have been. I have to go now, Richard. Goodbye." "Bye," he said. He considered if he should call Violet again to talk about funeral arrangements. Then he walked back to the car and drove home.


The first thing you need to know is where this story starts. Coming from the engine, a loud noise brings us into the scene. That came out more dramatic than it really was. A car pulled up to the gas station I work at. Not much of a car, really, so much as an old piece of junk with four wheels. It was more or less the color of a cherry, if you looked at the cherry with sunglasses on, on an autumn day. That exact shade. A leather jacket opened the car door, and inside the jacket there appeared to be a head full of dark brown hair. Now, I will preface this by saying- I was not interested in him on a personal level, nor was I entraced by his good looks. He was just a more than welcome distraction in the mundane reality that is my job. I watched him fill the tank up with gas, and he pulled out a cigarette pack from his back pocket. My brows furrowed on their own accord as I wiggled my way from behind the counter, hands already grabbing the door handle. Before I could even open my mouth, his head swivled around and he flashed a smile. "You got a lighter?" Just from the relaxed tone of his voice, I could tell he was used to getting his way. "You got a death wish?", I said, though it came out less sharp than I intended. He stopped for a moment right then, looking at me with confusion written all over his face. Then he snapped back to reality, and grinned once again. "Right. Gas station." He ran a hand through his hair, seemingly only bothered by the fact that he could not, in fact, smoke in this particular area. The fact that it was a safety hazard didn't cross his mind at all. I pointed behind me, showing him the vague direction of the area where smoking was allowed. "I'll be inside if you need any more assistance." He did. Coming in to pay, he bought a pack of Red Marlboros, multiple cans of beer, a plain black lighter, and a bag of crisps. Hardly a healthy way of living, but I didn't feel the need to point it out. The interaction, while brief, was a nice change from the loud, obscene truckers and other usual suspects I had to deal with. I did not particularly feel like breaking the comfortable silence, the only sounds being the rustling of a paper bag and the loud cling of the cash register as I gave him back his change. We parted with a wave on his side, and a slight nod on my side. I watched his piece of junk car pull away and go down Route 66. I sat back, taking my book back into my hands. A dog-eared, beat up copy of "The Sun Also Rises". I awaited the next customer- Lord knows we don't get many around here. After all, that road has been wrecked for 10 years, and there was no way of telling who, or what, would be pulling up next.


I recently had to write a short story for school and I decided to base it in the world of Mortal Engines. I’m not a very good writer and I have only read the first book so somethings might be wrong and I decided to make somethings up but here you go. “As you all know, thousands of years ago, the ancients destroyed themselves during the Sixty Minute War,” explained Mr. Ahmed in his booming voice that woke Lute from his sleep. “The fear of this war is what forced the cities of the world to mobilize, be put on wheels and eat each other”. “Why isn’t Petra on wheels?” enquired one of Lute’s classmates. Lute never had many friends and as such, he had a lot of free time to read the history books, so, he already knew the answer to this question. “Because we’re built into the side of a moun…” mumbled Lute, still half asleep. “As you all know, the hunters exam is coming up and you only have one chance; if you fail, you’ll have to try to be a warrior or historian instead,” continued Mr. Ahmed. The hunters exam, the test ever boy in Petra waited for since they started school. If you passed the exam it showed that you were becoming a man, and it allowed you to be a hunter (the most respected job in Petra), aside from being chief of course. This meant that everyone in Lute’s class was excited, everyone except Lute. He never really cared for anything, he just drifted back in forth through life without a direction. Of course he would do the exam, he needed something to do with his life after all, but, if he had to be a historian, so be it. Class finally ended and as he was about to leave the dark, sandstone room when he bumped into Michael, the chief’s son. Michael hit him as hard as he could, right in the stomach. “Maybe you should run home to your parents, oh wait…” said Michael tauntingly. The problem with this is that Lute never had parents or a home; he was left behind by a small traction city that drove past Petra. Because of this, no one liked him very much and he never made any friends. Lute started to run away and all he could hear is Michael yelling, “You’re a scaredy cat”. The next morning, all the boys met at the hunting grounds for the exam. The Chief was there; he always watched the exam, he did pick out the new hunters after all. “For the exam you’ll all have to go into the wilds and bring back any animal you can find,” explained the Chief, “the first ten boys to bring back an animal, pass”. The Chief started counting down and as soon as he got to one, everyone ran of into the harsh sand dunes and small forests outside Petra. All they were given was a bow, a quiver of arrows, and a knife. Lute was one of the first to find a deer, but Michael was following him, still holding a grudge. Michael knocked his arrow before Lute had a chance and took out the deer. Michael shouted back to Lute as he ran back to the Chief, “Too slow, Lute, maybe you’ll find another one”. He wandered and wandered the dunes with no direction and every once in awhile he sat and rested. Finally, after what felt like hours, Lute finally found another animal; it was another deer. He knocked his arrow as quickly as a cheetah, and let it fly. He hit the deer and dragged it away. When he got back to the Chief, he could see Michael scowling at him, visibly angry that Lute made it through the exam. “Good job to those of you who made it,” said the Chief in his regal voice, “and I’m truly sorry to those of you who didn’t, but, you can still be a warrior and protect the ancient walls of Petra”. Of course when Lute went to leave, Michael followed, mocking him. This happened almost everyday but recently it’s been worse and Lute just ignored it until he made it to his single room in the dark, dry, sandy walls of Petra. Due to Petra being built into the side of a cliff, when the traction era started, they were stuck where they were. Most cities gained any new technological advancements from cities they ate, but Petra couldn’t eat other cities and as such, their society was very primitive. Aside from that, Petra was a fairly nice place, other than the sandy walls and constant darkness. The next day, all of the new hunters had to gather in the main hall of Petra for a feast. The main hall was darker than any other part of Petra because it was built the deepest in its walls and it was the most covered part of the whole city. It was also the nicest part of Petra, with real wooden furniture and some things that the ancients called televisions, although they didn’t work, they made surprisingly nice decorations. “After all of your hard work to get to where you are, we decided to let you enjoy your first day before starting your new duty,” announced the Chief. He was right, everyone did have fun, everyone except Lute. It was a fine party, but Lute didn’t care for socializing, mostly because no one talked to him, partly because he was naturally shy. The other reason that he didn’t have fun is that Michael was constantly watching his every movement. Michael’s eyes stayed focused on him, immovable, until finally Lute started to leave. “Where are you going Lute?” mocked Michael. “H...home,” responded Lute. “But, didn’t your home drive away a long time ago?” taunted Michael. Finally Lute had enough and ran up and hit Michael. He stared in horror as he watched him fall, then, he stared at his now open hands and back at Michael. Next thing he knew, the Chief was beside him. “I-I-I didn't mean to do it, he was maki-” started Lute with tears welling up in his eyes. “I know, I’ve seen what he does Lute, I’ll make sure to scold him later,” interrupted the Chief. Lute fell to the ground, sobbing. He could feel all the action of the last few days catching up on him and he fell asleep. Eventually he woke up in is small, dark room all alone. He got up and walked out to the dorm where all the other boys stayed. They were running out to the hunting grounds. They must be sending us on our first expedition thought Lute. Lute started following them. He wasn’t very excited to go out into the wild, then again he wasn’t excited by much. Even though this was true, there was a silver lining to being alone; he wouldn’t have to put up with Michael. He walked out into the light and saw the chief standing at the front of the crowd of hunters. “We have been running out of food recently and for your next expedition, we will need you to stay in the wild for one month,” started the Chief. The new hunters cheered at the idea of going out for the first time, while the older hunters stayed quiet because they knew what to expect. “Now everyone, we need you all to go and collect your gear and leave as soon as possible,” finished the Chief. Lute went back to his room and found that there was a brand new bow and arrow, made out of steel, waiting for him. Alongside the bow, there was a note that read, Dear Lute, I know you haven’t had a good upbringing in our little town and I’ve seen what my son does to you. I know this can’t make up for everything, but, I would like you to have a brand new bow, straight from our engineers. From, The Chief With newfound encouragement, Lute grabbed the bow and some hunting powder (a tool developed by the ancients to keep meat fresh and now hunters used it so that all their meat stays fresh until they return to Petra) and he ran off to the hunting grounds. He was happy to finally be free of the constant mocking of Michael and everyone else. Almost as soon as he stepped outside of the dark walls of Petra, he saw a massive deer. He followed the deer into the woods, for days. When he finally caught the deer he was extremely tired since he hadn’t slept for a couple of days. He knocked his arrow and felled the deer. Lute went over to the deer and praised the god of the hunt, as was customary. Afterwords, he paced some hunting powder onto the body, keeping it edible for the month to come. He built up a small tent and a fire and hid the deer under some leaves. As he was doing there was loud rumble. He didn’t know what was happening when the colourful birds flew into the air, screaming. He wandered alone (nothing he wasn’t used to), unable to find a single animal in the wood, all he could find were their tracks. Eventually, almost two weeks later, the forest opened up into the dunes of Jordan. Once again, there wasn’t a single animal in sight, and he still heard the rumbling from earlier. The deeper Lute made it into the dunes, he started to find deep tracks in the dunes. They were fresh tracks and they were definitely from a traction city. Lute knew he had to warn Petra, he finally felt like he had a purpose. He started off towards his home, completely forgetting about his earlier catch. He ran as fast as he could but the constant rumbling was catching up to him, getting louder and louder until it was unbearable. He turned around and in his last second of consciousness, he saw the massive name on the front of the traction city, Mining City Zarqa. Then the city hit him, sending him into the air. Michael was just about to return home when he found one of the other hunters camps. He hadn’t had much luck finding food, so, when he saw the deer handing under the leaves, in perfect condition, of course he took it. It was the biggest animal he had ever seen, it was almost as big as him. He knew that he would be celebrated if he went home with such a big catch, so, he started off running as soon as he picked it up. It was a peaceful day in Petra, much like any other, only the Chief was starting to worry. He was worrying so because all of the hunters had returned on the deadline, all except one. The other reason he was worried is that the hunters had only brought back enough food to last a week. Aside from that, Michael had just arrived with the largest catch anyone had ever seen. Another feast was starting in the main hall, to celebrate the hunters’ return. This celebration was even more exciting than the last because of all the adrenaline running through the hunters after their exhilarating expeditions. At the end of the feast, the hunters were given rewards for their catches. Most of them were given some new clothes and other things like that, but, Michael who had stolen the biggest catch was given the newest set of hunting gear from the engineers. Then there was a boom, the sound of falling rock, as the front wall of Petra fell. It was almost a week later when Lute woke up; it was a miracle he survived. His mind was foggy after the incident but one word stayed in his mind, Zarqa. He didn’t know why he remembered this word but he knew it must be important. He began to wander the dunes aimlessly, once again. Eventually he began to go back towards Petra. Soon Petra came into sight and Lute saw the devastation that had come to his home. He dropped to the ground, tears falling from his eyes. “Noooo!” he shouted into the empty space around him. The realization came to him, I had to warn them, I saw the tracks, I could have saved them. He walked closer to Petra, realizing how small and helpless he truly is. He didn’t move for hours, yelling and crying into the nothingness. He’d didn’t bother to go back to Petra because he knew he’d find nothing. Finally he made up his mind; he would hunt down the city that did this. Zarqa he kept saying in his mind, over and over. He walked for hours on end, through the empty dunes. Eventually he tripped over something in the sand. He turned around to look at it and started to dig out whatever it was. First he saw what looked like a tiger head made of steel. He continued to dig and there was a metal skeleton connected to the head and tubes going back forth through the sinewy body. After it was completely dug up, Lute knew exactly what it was. It was a stalker; resurrected creatures, made of metal, that were used for war. It’s small green eyes lit up and stared straight at Lute. He jumped back instantly, ready to run but it followed him. It started to rub up against him. It seemed as though it liked him. Zarqa wandered throughout the land. It’s mayor was standing on a balcony above the gut (the place where cities went when they were eaten). He watched their newest slaves as they were walked to their new place of work. Zarqa was a mining town (they get their materials by digging into mountains), so, they only devoured cities for new slaves. Because of this, they didn’t mind that there was nothing else to be obtained from Petra. Lute’s new pet (he named it Leer) followed him obediently, no matter where he went. Sometimes he sent Leer out to find food and it always returned with fresh food. This newfound companion managed to keep Lute’s spirits high, even though Leer was a soulless robot. After a while, they heard the now familiar rumble of a traction city. It was coming right for them! They tried to run but the city was too fast. They were sucked straight into the gut. “Welcome to Al Karak!” boomed the speakers above them. Slowly he walked in a line with other people captured from the dunes of Jordan, while Leer followed in the shadows. He had to give his name to a guard before he was allowed into the main part of the city. The city was bright and colourful, unlike Petra. It was inviting him in. He was almost tempted to stay here forever, but, he had to save his people and he might be able to take advantage of his current detour. Almost every city had an airship dock and he might be able to find someone to take him to Zarqa. After asking for directions, he found his way to the dock where he met a young pilot named Edward. He informed Edward on his situation and Edward agreed to let Lute fly in his ship. “There’s a group of trading cities to the east, we could probably find out where Zarqa is heading if we head out there,” Edward explained. “Sounds like a good id-“ “W-w-what is that!!” shouted Edward, pointing at Leer as it crept out of the shadows. “Well, I guess it’s kind of my pet,” started Lute “I named it Leer and it’s a stalker.” “Weren’t stalkers only made from humans?” asked Edward. “I guess some nation decided to make them out of animals, who knows?” replied Lute. After getting to know each other, Lute, Leer and Edward headed off to the trading cities. Soon they could see their destination below. The cluster of cities just looked like a mangle of grey steel. When they landed, they found out that it smelt even worse. As they walked the streets, an old man heard them talking about Zarqa. “So you’re looking for Zarqa, are you?” asked the slouched over, old man. “I can tell you exactly where their going, for a price of course,” he continued. Lute and Edward looked at each other, nodded and handed over what little money they had. “Their on their way towards mountain to the north; I hear they’ve run out of mountains to dig up here and they need a new mining site,” quickly explained the old man. “Thank you!” the boys said as they started running of towards the airship. The airship started to circle Zarqa, trying to find an entrance. It turns out that the mining city saw them as soon as they flew over top of it. After a couple minutes, Zarqa shot a net out at the airship and tried to pull it in. Edward’s airship turned out to be stronger than it looked; it started to fly away from the city, breaking the net. They flew out of sight before returning to sneak into a lower level of the city. They stole some guard outfits and snuck into the city, with Leer following from the shadows. They asked around and found out where the people of Petra were sent and Edward had bought some tech from some shops. One of the people they asked was suspicious and called some guards on the boys. “I don’t believe I’ve seen you before,” Said one of guards. “W-w-we’re new!” quickly replied Edward. “I didn’t know we were hiring new guards, not as young as you atleast,” impatiently said the guard. Lute started to reply, then, Leer stepped out of the shadows and lunged at the guards. They stumbled away and ran. The boys also started to run in the other direction. At Least now they knew where they were going, but the whole city would know about them now; now they had to stick to the shadows. Lute had adrenaline pumping all throughout his body and he felt like he was invincible. He finally felt like he had a purpose, like he knew what he had to do in life. They crept in the shadows for hours until they finally made it to the pits the people of Petra were being held in. They looked starved and tired and they probably haven’t eaten for days. Leer jumped down into pit, head first, and scared all of the guards away. The boys followed and jumped down. Lute searched for the Chief and told him about his plan. “We brought an airship, we have to sneak you all out into it,” explained Lute. “How are we supposed to sneak out of here without being noticed?” “If someone sees us, Leer can can scare them off”. “Who is this Leer?” enquired the Chief. “He’s my pet, he’s a stalker”. “A-a-a stal…” “It’s fine, he’s really taken to being around humans,” interrupted Lute. “That settles it, we will leave know,” finished the Chief. The Chief turned to address all of his citizens, “Lute and his new friends have brought an airship to take us home”. Everyone started to cheer and the Chief moved his hands in a motion, intending to calm them down. Lute and Edward lead the way, everyone crept through the dark path. They did indeed run into some guards, but, Leer did his job and scared them away. They managed to all fit into Edward’s airship and start their new journey home. After a weeks journey, the people of Petra made it home. As soon as they landed, they made a makeshift stage, so that they could hold a ceremony to praise their saviours. “I have have to go home, I can’t stay here but I do have some tools I bought for you all,” said Edward walking to his airship, handing over the tools. “Thank you!” everyone yelled to Edward as he flew away. The ceremony continued. Lute was given some food and money; they didn’t have anything else to give him. The biggest announcement didn’t come until the very end. “Lute, I have decided to make you my heir, you have done more than enough to deserve this,” said the Chief. “I can’t accept this, I just did what I had to,” replied Lute. “I have already made up my mind”. “Thank you so much,” said Lute, tearing up. Michael stormed off, mad that his father chose Lute rather than him. The people of Petra started repairing the town, using Edwards tools. From this day on, the people of Petra lived in happy seclusion.


I am an American police officer and this is a true story. I’ve been needing to get this off my chest for a while. I’ve obviously changed the names and addresses in this story for legal purposes. I’ve got a glass of fine whisky and I think I’m ready to share this with you.  Two summers ago was one of the busiest summers my jurisdiction has ever seen. That summer and the previous six months leading up to that summer were…. Hell.  It seemed like there was just something in the water, something “going around.” We didn’t know why, but damn, people were killing, stabbing, raping, and dismembering each other at record paces. Everyone was burnt out and maxed out on overtime.  My partner and I were nearing the end of our work week. We had thirty minutes before our relief arrived when the call went out.  “I need a unit to respond to 1273 Maple Ave. in reference to a 4 year old child who is beyond parental control.”  My partner was further behind in his reports than I was so I volunteered to respond solo. We joked a bit about how hard it could be to control a 4 year old. I got in to my patrol car and responded to the address.  It was an incredibly hot evening in August the dash thermometer put it at 103 degrees. I pulled up to the address and noticed the front door wide open, along with all the windows.  I began the ascent up the front steps to the house. I could hear soft sobbing coming from the other room. I announce myself and knock on the door frame.  “Hello; Officer Garner here to speak with Cindy about a 4 year old.”  I heard the sobbing turn to sniffling.  “I’m coming.”  “I’m Cindy.” She said in a quiet broken voice.  I started like always “so ma’am what is it that’s going on today?”  I could sense something was different..off… it made me damn nervous. Cindy’s eyes revealed months of distress. I was not there because the parents got tired of threatening to take away the ipads from their bratty kids.  Cindy gave a slight head nod and stepped outside on the front porch to speak with me.  “Officer Garner I don’t know what to do, we are at the end of our ropes.”  Cindy then went on to describe everything they have been through since they adopted the little girl, Kelly… about six months ago.  Cindy described Kelly was a little angel when they first met her. The adoption agency really wouldn’t say much about her past. They figured she’s so young how bad could her history be?  In the last six months they have taken her to every doctor in the Pacific Northwest. They all just diagnose her with some new alphabet soup disorder and send us on our way, she explained. She’s too young to take any of the heavy medication… it would kill her.  At this point my curiosity is struck. I explained to Cindy there really is nothing that I can do for her that she hasn’t tried already. I then said the words I later would come to regret: “But I’ll come and and talk to her.”  Cindy motioned with her head for me to follow her inside.  As soon as I stepped foot inside sweat began dripping down my face.  “Why is it so hot in here?”  “Oh, I should have warned you the air conditioner broke last week, we’ve called everyone in town but nobody seems to be available to come fix it.”  The floor was wood, old wood. The kind of old hardwood floor that squeaked with every step you took. We rounded a corner and I could see a child laying on the couch, maybe a pre-teen, judging by the size. A blanket covered over his head but a faint glow shown through the blanket. It looked like he had some sort of tablet. It stood out to me because it was so damned hot in this house.  “Thomas,” Cindy said to the figure under the blanket. “We are gonna have your father bring Kelly upstairs, you may want to go on a walk buddy.”  Thomas didn’t think twice. He flung the blanket to the side and grabbed a basketball, laid down the tablet, face up , and practically ran outside.  Cindy grabbed a kitchen chair and drug it out from the kitchen table. She faced it towards a set of stairs that went to a basement.  “Have a seat Officer Garner.”  “Oh ma’am, please; just call me Tyler.”  Cindy’s facial muscles tightened ever so slightly. It was a glimmer of appreciation. Everything she had done up until this point was labored. Stepping out the front door to talk to me, walking into the kitchen, dragging out the chair. Everything she did looked like it drained the little bit of light flickering in her soul.  I sat in the Victorian style wooden chair.  “Mikey; Officer, Gar… I mean Tyler is here to speak with Kelly, could you bring her up please.”  Cindy then maneuvered putting herself behind me. I don’t think she did this consciously. Her hand went up to her forehead. But she never once turned her back to that staircase.  I heard footsteps coming up the stairs. I saw the man I assumed was Mike, or Mikey. In his arms was Kelly.  She had jet black hair and pale white skin. She was wearing shorts and a t-shirt. A trained observer, I caught a glimpse of bruises on her elbows and knees. Bruises on the joints like that are not usually a sign of child abuse, but I made a mental note.  Mike set her down on the hardwood floor about five feet away from where I sat. She was facing away from me sitting with her legs crossed and head down.  I stared in silence for a few moments. I watched her pick at the skin on her knees. Her fingers scratched at her skin in a rhythmic pulsating manor. I cleared my throat and said in a gentle, welcoming voice “hi Kelly I’m Tyler.”  Her fingers stopped. Slowly her head rotated to the right until her gaze struck me over her shoulder. I instantly felt cold.  The little girl, in one rapid, violent motion flipped around facing me on all fours. Shaken, I leaned back in my chair, eyes wide and mouth open. My gun hand twitched out of instinct.  Staring straight at me… no through me, she let out a horrific, ear piercing scream. I locked eyes with her. Her eyes were black, no color at all, just black.  Suddenly in an instant her head fixed down to the ground and her jet black hair hid her face.  It was not human how she moved. She stood straight up and then let herself drop to her knees. She did this over and over and over. From a straight posture, to a short jump, and then falling straight on her knees. I thought my ears were going to bleed from the high pitch scream.  The sound of her knees dropping on the aged wooden floors sounded much heavier than that of a small child.  The scream changed pitches from high, to low. Deep, devilish, demonic. This went on for several moments.  Then, out of nowhere it stopped. She turned back towards Mike who had made his way to the chair across from me without my notice.  On all fours, like some kind of animal, she crawled and shuffled to a spot in between Mike’s legs.  She looked up at him and said “daddy, please don’t let that man take me. I want to stay here with you.” The best way i can describe her voice was that of a grown man trying to sound like a feminine small child.  I drove back by the house a few days later. Everything was gone. They had moved out and short sold their house. I spent a considerable amount of time trying to follow up with the family but it’s like they disappeared… fell off the face of the earth. All their phone numbers were changed.  I’ll probably never know where they went. But I will say that things around town seemed to calm down after they left.


Ever since I was little, I remember being fascinated by airplanes. Or, not just airplanes; all things that fly had me riveted practically since I breached the womb. I would always go with my brother down the local airfield and just watch airplanes take off and land. We would sit on the porch of the convenient store just off the grass, he would buy a moon pie for me and a pack of Chesterfields for him, and we would listen to the gentle, lazy whirring sound of planes going buy. I was 17 when he died--I’m sorry, I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me tell you about myself and my origins in a clearer manner. I’m from the small town of Collins, Wyoming. In 1940 (when I was 15, also the first time I checked) the population was 1,227; everyone in Collins new each other. There was an old man I used to walk past on my way home from school- Mr. McCullough-who remembered clearly the days blue smoke filled the skies as brothers killed each other. He would sit in his chair and smoke his pipe. Every now and again he would invite me into his house (mind you, he was a close friend of my family (and everyone in the town for that matter). I wouldn’t do this with just anyone) and pour me a cup of coffee. I hadn’t started drinking coffee yet, so this was my special moment. There was June Clark, who could be routinely found in her garden assuming whether permitted. She grew plants that I now know to be marijuana. There wasn’t really any serious policing in Collins; we took care of our own. Dwight Clark, her husband, owned the bookshop, which also served as a library. He was long since retired, and spent most of his days reading or playing cards. He taught me how to play Texas Holdem, and some days on the weekends, he would run an “underground game” that everyone knew about. They would drink gin and smoke cigars, winning and losing a full season’s worth of tanned deer skins. They never bet money. My father died when I was 12. He shot himself. My mother went four years later of liver complications from alcoholism. My brother, who was six years older than me, started looking after our little bit of land on the outsides of the town center, near the airport. He started getting into airplanes, and from there it turned into a passion for both of us. Jim Clark (same last name but no relation to Dwight and his wife) was the one who taught my brother to fly. They would go up in his old Curtis Jenny and practice flying. At the end of the day, I would enviously watch my brother push the Jenny into the dilapidated hangar at the Western corner of the field. It was a lovely scene, the sun setting behind the wire-winged airplane. My brother would always find me afterwards; he would light a cigarette and we would walk home together. Then 1941 came. I was becoming more independent, I was finally getting on with some of the other boys my age. I had a girlfriend, Trudy, whom I would take to the airport to watch my brother fly. She feigned interest, I now know. I loved having her around. I remember being happy for the first time since my father died. My brother told me one cold January morning that he had joined the Army Air Service. He was going to the Pacific. “Don’t worry, Tom.” he said. “I’ll be in the P-40, that’s the best airplane we have. I’ll be an ace before April.” I hugged him. I got the news on April 16th, 1942. He had been shot down near Port Moresby, presumed dead. I went to see Mr. McCullough. I figured he could help me. He asked me what happened, and I just started crying. I can’t remember anything else from that day, but he told me his good friend Jack Daniel had played a few cards in my favor. I woke up late in the night in my own bed room in my house, which I suppose I was the sole occupant of at that point. It was cloudy, no stars. The trees had that surreal shadow-less look to them. In memory the woods around my house give me chills, but I was calm. I remember walking down the stairs without lighting the oil lamp, something I never did. I’m chronically afraid of the dark. I walked straight through the trees, never questioning my footing. When I came to the Eastern side of the airfield, the stars and the moon appeared above me. I could see the convenient store where my brother and I sat, the hangar. I walked to the convenient store, Andy’s, it was called, and sat down on the steps. No tears came to me then, but I could feel the warm breeze of those summer nights over me again, hear the whir of the airplanes. I looked at the hangar. I realized I’d never been inside of it. I decided I needed to see that old Curtis Jenny right away. I got up and started walking. The man in the moon scowled upon me that night, I remember. The cold, gray scale face of the moon seemed terse that night. I found the door, and let myself in. Immediately in front of me was a biplane, but not the Jenny. It had a different shape, a larger engine. Guns. *Guns!* I thought. *This is a fighter plane!* But how had it gotten there? I walked towards it. I gently ran my hands along the propeller. “Watch it.” said a voice. I turned around quickly to the sight of a glowing ember in the corner of the hangar. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know this was yours.” I said. “I should have told you sooner, but I never was a good father.” My dad walked out into my view. The light in the hangar was moonlight, filtering in from the high South-facing windows. “Dad? But, you’re dead.” “Yeah, mortality has a tendency to get in the way of things.” “Dad!” I ran towards him. “Son, I don’t have much time, and neither does he.” “Who’s he?” “Me.” I turned around to see my brother, but he had a mustache and looked...exhausted. “Charlie, how--” “All will be explained, don’t worry.” he said. I looked behind him where the biplane had been, but it wasn’t a biplane. A riveted steel monoplane stood there instead, carrying the American insignia. It was a P-40; it was my brother’s plane. It clicked. The first airplane had belonged to my father. I turned and looked at him again; he was wearing World War One officer’s uniforms. The first fighter was what I now know to be a Spad. “I know what you’re thinking, and yes that’s my plane. I was a pilot, once. I flew in the Great War, with the hopes that no one would need to follow me in the years to come. It seems I’ve failed at that too.” “Why are you here? You’re both dead.” I said. “Well, we’ve been discussing that,” my brother said, lighting his cigarette. “and we wanted to give you a piece of wisdom.” “What’s that?” I asked. “Well, you’ve lost so much. But you mustn’t despair! We’re not completely gone.” My father said. “What do you mean?” My brother took up the response: “Was I once alive?” “Of course you...were.” I said to him. “What made him alive?” my father asked. “Was it my flesh? My bone? My blood? Of course not. It was my soul. And, quite frankly, those don’t vanish the same way as these mere corporeal globs. Everywhere we walk, everything we touch, takes a bit of our soul with it. But our souls are not like pies, being divided up and diminished, but as a candle flame, which may light all that is around in while never depleting. Take our airplanes, for example. Dad’s Spad rests in the hands of a collector in Britain, but does it belong to this collector? Surely not. Dad’s soul persists within that airplane. This is why you came here tonight.” “You see, Charlie, your brother, whom you loved very much, is gone forever. But, remnants of him may be found in our house, or the Curtis Jenny.” I looked behind him to see the Jenny where it had been left. “When relatives die, we seek heirloom: This is why. Those we’ve lost persist in the objects they leave behind. I am not dead because my body is gone, I am dead because I am forgotten by all.” My father stared into my eyes, he looked tired. “So, what about people who have no objects left? What about old Mrs. McCullough, who died in crossfire at Gettysburg? None of her belongings can be found anywhere.” “That’s the other type of afterlife,” my brother said. “We don’t die until all those whose hearts we have touched die as well. But here’s the catch: When someone who’s heart we have touched touches that of someone else’s, we are passed on too. You see, we are all saved by each other. If someone dies before they can touch someone else, in a metaphysical sense I mean, they are truly dead. And this is the tragedy of war.” “You see son, we are all connected by the same people.” I looked at the ground. “No one is born one way or another, we are all a mix and match of everyone we’ve ever met, and everyone they’ve ever met, and so on as far back as humans go. I’m sorry Tom, but we must leave.” I woke up with sunlight streaming into the hangar. I sat up. My head was throbbing. I looked around. The Jenny was parked nearby. I went to it, and I ran my hand along its propeller. *Every hangar is haunted, Tom.* My brother’s voice sounded in my thoughts. *How so, you ask?* *Planes travel; it’s what they do. Every time they stop, more and more unique people pour their souls into them. They are the culmination of humanity. Hangars are haunted to an unfounded degree, as they’ve been touched by all those airplanes, who were touched by all those people.* I don’t know where the moral is, or even why, seventy-seven years later, I’m writing this. Perhaps it’s that I’ve been trying to convince myself that this whole thing was a dream for my entire life, and just now have given up. I went to the United Kingdom recently, my daughter married a British man, and it was my grand-daughter’s birthday. We went to see some old airplanes, and one stuck out to me: A Spad. I took some photographs, did some research, and by the tail number it was my dad’s plane.


When I was born, the world above had long since drawn its dying breath. No matter what the books told and showed me, what I saw in them was not what was out there. Outside was a bitter, cruel, and deadly place. A hell for everyone, no matter who they were. Humankind had been forced to crawl down into the ground, far below the surface of the world they themselves destroyed. From what they had, they created villages and cities to their best efforts. The ideas of names had started to dwindle, so whatever cities and towns that were carved into the rock were given numbers. City 1, City 2, City 3, and onward. I had been born in City 9, somewhere along the east of the world, along the cliffs. The caves used to be plentiful with water from whatever falls formed by the oceans. When the water became too off to drink, we had to resort to trade and deliveries from the other Cities. These would take several days, and whoever lived in 9 were forced to ration what they had. My home was cramped, small, and dirty. But it was the only place I knew that I could really call home. Nobody liked living down here—everyone hated it; they all wanted to go up and see the sky. And we have to remind ourselves every single day that we would die if we ever did that. Our eyes would bleed and our lungs would explode, or so the story was told by our elders. By the time I turned ten, I was going to work in the mines. It was required that everyone had a job, and the common one was expanding the City itself. More caves meant more houses when more people came to. The caves were cramped for a while, and some couldn’t take the heat all too well. A friend I knew at a young age wasn’t hydrated enough. He died at my side with a dry tongue. But we kept on working. By the time I was thirteen, City 9 was one of the largest of the twelve along the east. Travelling from one side of the City to the next would take several minutes. At thirteen, City 9 was home to a thousand. With time, the City grew less crowded, grew cooler as we grew deeper. At fourteen, my mother died. The water was too dirty. When I was fifteen, there came the resource conflict. There were simply too many people and not enough food for everybody—not enough drinkable water, not enough to ration for every single Niner. You wouldn’t think that the people would be fighting *each other* for a piece of bread or shuck of corn. And yet, I saw people reduced to corpses. My father couldn’t trust the City. We packed up whatever we could and we left our home. I remember crying the first night on the run. All my father could say was, “Straighten up. You’re not dead.” He was right.  The rest is available in the link provided, if it interests you. If this isn't following the rules right, I apologize.


My childhood friend had met his star-crossed lover suddenly on his way back from California in the unbelievably romantic setting of the coach section, in the 747, where he sat adjacent to *her.* It was only fitting, that after his graceful flirtations with her that he invited her to accompany him back to his humble abode. Back at his apartment he took on the very important role of an honorable host. As an opening welcome, he shared with her the very writings on his heart, splashed into a poem, which he proceeded to enchant her with. What he would depict as a sweet melody that caressed her ears, I would more appropriately describe as verbal diarrhea. The reason why I can speak so intimately of this experience is because my dear acquaintance did not know that moments before he arrived, I had already reached his apartment and let myself in. He must have forgotten in the midst of his love haze, that we had planned on me coming out to visit for the week. Once in the upstairs guest bedroom, I overheard the entire seduction process carried out. As I wait silent with my face pressed against the open vent that was spewing out every word spoken right into the drum of my ear, I began to hear shuffling down below. The sound of my friend lowering himself to one knee was made. I heard him utter four words that I could never in all my life think of being spoken to someone, I assume, known for all of about 12 hours. I rushed down the steps and flew into the living room to find a celebration consisting of laughing, hugging and one wink from a precious rock attached to a golden hoop. As I finally process everything before my eyes, I notice who is standing before me wearing the newly gifted ring. I looked at him, then her, then back at him. The absolute shock carved into my face demolished any chance of lying when I stuttered, “Congratulations.” It was as though one eight hour flight, travel to the apartment and a small conversation had absolutely erased an entire six-year process that surmounted to nothing, as my friend, ex-fiancé and disheveled self all stood speechless exchanging confusion, excitement and surprise in silence. I had no other words to say or know what to do, so I turned and left the room in complete humiliation towards an undirected journey to nowhere. After a few days of thinking and remembering, I returned back to the very apartment that contained all the excitement to say goodbye. Even though my long time friend and I had not spoken for some time after college, I knew he was aware of my time with her. This was no serendipitous meeting a mile high above all the turnings of the world. This must have had some past to it, which I was oblivious to. I gave my friend a solemn handshake and told him that I would remember the date and said goodbye. This gave my clear intention that I was not clueless of what’s going on, acknowledged that they are getting married, and that my acceptance of the invitation to the wedding was not going to be a solid answer. I dismissed all the emotions that invaded my body each day after that. I knew that I could very easily eat myself alive if I was to dwell on the past, the present, and even think of the future. How could I celebrate something that was so clashing and hurtful from a friend and ex-lover? My friend and I live separate lives for the most part now. I can’t undo the past or stay bitter. I don’t know what their lives will become or what my life will look like. All I know is that the wedding cake was pretty good and they had a decent band.


About a month ago, I was in a national health food and fitness store. Among shelves of vitamins, ‘miracle pill’ supplements, exercise equipment and weight training tools, were some self-improvement items. One of these ‘too-good-to-be-true’ things caught my eye. It promised ‘rapid results or your money back’. Now I’m no ordinary fool. I realize most marketing in these situations is just hype, but I did expect the chain store to honor their advertised promise. If the product turned out to be ‘smoke and mirrors’, they said I could bring it back for a full refund. Honestly, I gave it more than the requisite time required and then some. I was also pretty diligent in following all of the instructions. Zip. Nada. If there was any difference, it was negligible. I’d kept my receipt so they couldn’t refuse to honor the stated guarantee; and returned it in ‘like new’ condition. I even took it back to the same store during the return period. I honestly expected no flack from them but was met with CWA. (cashier with attitude). After a few minutes of pointless arguing with her, I gave up and asked to speak to the manager. The CWA just rolled her eyes and yelled to the back of the store. “Rhonda!” When the manager did appear, the experience didn’t really get any more satisfactory. Rhonda held on to the same official policy that the disrespectful cashier had. Pointing to the guarantee on the sign or my receipt made no difference. They were determined to refuse the return; listed policy be damned. It was as if the store profits came directly out of their paychecks. “This just isn’t your year, Rodrigo Velasquez.”; Rhonda deadpanned while noisily smacking her gum. The cashier looked at me with renewed contempt and a satisfied sneer. Obviously she took great pleasure in being backed by her manager. The whole thing was made even more bizarre by the fact that my name is neither ‘Rodrigo’, nor ‘Velasquez’. It was delivered like some well-known sitcom one-liner I was unfamiliar with. I seized my merchandise off the counter and left in a huff but I was far from ‘done’, or defeated. I intended to take it to ‘the next level’. Finding their website was easy enough but locating the complaint number to call was not. Corporate culture does all it can to discourage person-to-person dialogue. They’d much rather you send an email and wait for a response (when they get around to it), or for you to ‘talk’ to a ‘virtual assistant’. Obfuscation is the order of the day. The more difficult they can make it, the less problems they have to deal with in real time. They aren’t counting on anyone being determined or taking their patronage elsewhere (but in this case), they picked ‘the wrong guy’. Finally I found a customer service number and called. Not surprisingly, there was a labyrinth of automated menu prompts to wade through. “We’ll be with you very shortly, Mr. Velasquez.”; It soothed. As you might imagine, hearing that did the opposite of soothing me. It baffled and magnified my anger. Why would their corporate headquarters think I was someone else (from my phone number); and why would the local store employees say what they did? It was completely bonkers. To be misidentified twice was bad enough but for the store manager to be dismissively rude on top of it all, was too much. I was prepared to give the first human who answered, a piece of my mind. Adding insult to injury, an automated message came on after a dozen recorded loops and said: “I’m sorry Mr. Velasquez, this just isn’t your year. Our call volume is too high. Please try again later.” In past years when telephones had a separate cradle to hang the receiver on, I might have slammed it down in disgust. Instead, I had to curb my fury and vent in other ways. I’d just wasted 30 minutes of my life to no end. Instead of getting satisfaction, I walked away angrier. Admittedly, it was a huge setback. I set aside my failed return until I had the energy to try again. Instead I decided to leave the house and get something to eat. With any luck a nice meal would help me forget my frustration. At the restaurant, I stood at the maître d’ podium to be seated. The host approached me with an odd expression. “Good evening Mr. Velasquez.... unfortunately this isn’t your...” I could scarcely believe my ears! My heart raced. The world was turning upside down. “Year?”; I responded in bewilderment. Although his demeanor was both professional and apologetic, he didn’t have to finish. I’d heard the nonsensical refrain enough to know what came next. I didn’t try to argue or prove who I was. I simply turned and left. ‘Henri’ tried to make some gesture of conciliation but what was the point? He wasn’t even trying to accommodate me. He was trying to accommodate ‘Rodrigo Velasquez’; whoever the hell that was. Disillusioned, I drove around for hours trying to make sense of the madness. It was as if there was some insidious form of mass psychosis infecting the air. Every person I encountered thought I was someone else and they all took a certain level of pleasure that things were not going my way. It occurred to me that it might be a simple case of mistaken identity. I did an internet search. Page after page of haunting personal images starred back at me. ‘Rodrigo’ certainly could have been my twin. Finally I understood the confusion! It would seem that this guy wasn’t liked at all. I vowed to clear up the confusion with the next person who mistook me for him. It wasn’t long before I had the opportunity to set matters straight. “My Velasquez. I need you to put your car in park and exit the vehicle. I have a warrant for your arrest.” I complied with the officer’s request and got out of the car immediately but didn’t want to verbally correct him. Instead I started to reach for my wallet and pull out my ID. That was a huge mistake! Unfortunately he took it as an aggressive move to go for a weapon. Before I knew what hit me, a 9mm slug ripped through my body and I collapsed down to the asphalt. My wallet fell from my hand and flew open beside me. As I lay there bleeding profusely from an deadly gunshot wound, my eyes fixated on the nearest thing to my body. My driver’s license. I read the perplexing words on my ID several times, trying to make sense of things before the end came. ‘Rodrigo Velasquez’ 1412 Aspen Circle Port Richie, Florida “This just isn’t your year, is it Rodrigo?”; The cop shouted in adrenalized indignation. I had no choice but to agree. It was definitely not my year.


Desperation This has been going on for weeks, and I don’t know if I can take any more. The cold stone floor bites through my clothes, and I grit my teeth, tears of exhaustion pouring down my face. I do not know when my captor will come back, though I am praying to the gods that I have a reprieve. The size of my cell is tiny, barely enough room for me to lie down. In the corner there is a dirty metal plate, a chamber pot, and a pail of dirty water that is beginning to smell. There are no windows, so I have no way of keeping track of the time. My days have all bled together, a blur of violence and nightmares. My memories of life before this existence as a prisoner are few and far between. I am broken from my thoughts by the deafening screech of a door swinging on rusty hinges. I scramble into a sitting position, putting my back against the wall. The cold, heavy manacles around my wrists and ankles have rubbed my skin raw, and I bite back a cry of agony. The sound of slow, sure footsteps echoes throughout the cavernous chamber, and I find myself wishing that I had the company of the rats and insects that live in this hovel. If only I could rip out his eyes… The thought brings me a burst of dark, unexpected pleasure. After all, there’s not much else to do but dream up ways to revenge, in my position. After what seems like a whole eternity, my captor finally shows himself, standing in front of my cell door. In the weak torchlight, he looks sallow, washed out, his eyes like tiny black pebbles in his face. His red, bulbous nose is swollen, and when I look closer, his eyes are bloodshot. There are food and sweat stains on his fine silk coat, and it’s all I can do not to let my disgust show on my face. “Have you given any consideration to my offer, my dear?” He asks me, his words slurring. “What does it matter? My answer is the same, always. No.” At this, his mask of a fine courtier slips, and his lips curl. He spits, and I barely manage to dodge it. “I believe I’ve been quite generous, considering your… situation. But fine. If you wish to rot in your cell for the rest of your days, that is your human right.” Despite myself, despite aching for every bit of control I have, I laugh. The sound edges on hysterical, and I can feel my power coiling like a snake in my chest, calling upon the rats and the bugs and everything hiding under the flagstones. I don’t have much left; I’ve had very little sustenance. “But know this, my love. You’re not the only one who suffers from your choices.” I know who he is referring to. My family, outside of the palace. Heat builds in my chest, and I murmur a command under my breath, disguised as a prayer to the Father Earth and Mother Sky. The creatures within this prison hear my call, and heed it. The rats and flies descend on him in a black cloud, enveloping him until there is naught but dust. His screams echo off of the walls, but they are as music to me. In his place, there lays a shining metal key, and I just barely manage to reach through the bars and snatch it. My hands are shaking so badly I almost drop it. But my power has won me my freedom. It is finished.