Everybody’s had a bad date. But my date with Lucy was definitely the worst date of my entire life. We met online, of course. I don’t think people meet any other way anymore. We really hit it off, she laughed at my dumb jokes and honestly, that’s pretty much all it takes for me to fall in love. We decided to meet up for drinks and appetizers at Applebees. I was nervous, so I showed up early, had a drink at the bar and waited for her to arrive. Meeting someone from the internet and finding out they’re significantly less attractive in person brings a uniquely guilty depression. It’s not that the person is necessarily unattractive, but in your mind, you’ve built up the anticipation for how you think the person will look. Expectation ruins reality. Usually this is just a result of normal people trying to look impressive. Which is understandable in the dating world. But that’s the thing, when I saw her walk through the door, Lucy did not look normal. She looked very far from normal. Her face was too thin and her nose was entirely too big. Freakishly such. She probably knew this because the she covered it up with three or five or nine inches of chunky, pasty white makeup. It could have been Plaster of Paris, who’s to say? That shit was out of control. She wore a giant green sweater, which in and of itself is not necessarily a bad thing, but it was almost eighty degrees outside, even after the sun went down. At first, I thought this was to compensate for being overweight, but she didn’t seem overweight. She seemed deformed. Like two or three different skinny people squeezing themselves into the same sweater. She had shredded blonde hair and walked with a wobbly limp, like an ether-sniffing marionette doll at a sobriety checkpoint. Her feet were disproportionally big, as if her shoes were hiding something nasty. Oh, God. I can’t do this, I thought. This is just too much. But I feel bad, because the expectations were built up in MY head, right? I’ll just turn and sneak out the back, text her saying I had car trouble or something. “Seth!?” She squawked. Or barked. It was a bark-squawk that was entirely too loud for the public, very unfortunately public situation at hand. Heads turned. Ah, shit. She saw me. Of course she saw me. I’ve been staring her down slack-jawed and silly. But really, can you blame me? This poor woman looked like a rubber horse mask wearing another rubber mask of Gary Busey’s face. “Seth! It is me. I am Lucy! The woman you speak to.” There’s no way she’s been using this voice her whole life. My voice was too dry so I just nodded. We’re already here, might as well have a few drinks and enjoy the food. How bad could it be? When my mouth finally began producing enough saliva necessary for conversation, we engaged in small-talk. I intentionally kept it awkward and as far from lively as possible. Maybe she’d catch the hint and we could just chalk it up to a lack of chemistry. I started dumping whiskey down my throat like my soul and sanity depended on it. Which, at this point, I was convinced it did. “So, where are you from?” I asked, hoping another unknown cultural origin could explain this catastrophic misstep in acceptable courtship. “Lucy is from Wisconsin. That’s normal, right?” Jesus Christ, whatever they put in that cheese really did a number on this one. Remind me to never drink Budweiser again, either. “I don-uh, I mean, yes, yes that is normal. Right. Have you ever been in like, a car accident or something?” She stared at me with big sickly brown eyes. Eyes that were almost yellow. Maybe she has cancer or something? I’m starting to feel bad for her now. Maybe the whiskey is melting the shock and warming my mind to a temperate state of empathy. She’s alone. She doesn’t get out much. Kinda like me, actually. Don’t be a dick, dude. Get it together. Then she laughs, it’s a coughy sort of laugh. It resonates from a deeper part of the diaphragm and I’m reminded of an alligator. Bet she used to smoke a lot. “You make joke! You funny man!” She swipes her hand across my forearm the way women do when they’re being particularly obvious about their intentions. Her fingernails are long. Monstrously so, and badly painted in flecks of a dark red. Her skin is entirely too rough for a woman. Maybe she works with her hands a lot? Oh. Oh, no. I check the neck. I don’t actually see an Adam’s Apple, but the skin does protrude in a hangy sort of turkey-neck way. I begin to sweat uncontrollably. Look, I don’t hate anyone. I believe everyone should live their lives and be happy. But I’m just not ready for this. I’m afraid. I feel like I’m waiting for the cashier in a gas station and a cop gets behind me in line. I compensate with more whiskey. That’ll help. I have to ask. I can’t just not know. “Look, Lucy. I’m sorry. But are you, like, are you a girl?” There’s that laugh again. “Yes! Lucy is girl. Real girl. Clever girl.” Of course she is. Trans girls are girls, too. It’s just… I’ve already paid for the drinks, she seems very interested in me, persistent even. I just don’t know if I can do this. Maybe just a blowjob? That’s not gay, right? I’m gonna need some cocaine for this. That’s it! Cocaine! I’ll see if she’s down to score some blow, then we’ll just see how it goes. Worst case scenario I get all coked up and can’t get a boner anyhow, sorta solves the whole situation. I can blame the coke, she doesn’t get her feelings hurt. Win-win. “Hey Lucy….” “Hey Seth.” She does the cough/laugh. Maybe the hormones haven’t been balanced yet? “You uh, you wanna score some coke?” “What is ‘score coke’?” “You know, like cocaine?” “Cocaine? If we score cocaine, can I get your meat?” Oh fuck. This is happening. “My…my meat?” “Yes. I want your meat inside me.” Not gonna lie, my dick did a little twitch right then. Jesus. Well, I guess you learn something new every day, don’t ya? “Okay! Um, I’m gonna pay the, uh, pay the tab. Why don’t you? Like, and I’ll then go to the car. Ya know, then we can like, you know. Wanna follow me while-“ “We ‘score coke’ like cocaine!” “Yes.” I said. Fuck, I kinda like her now. I can get past the face. And the limpy, wabble-walk. And the…uh. Whatever else I find. After I pay the bartender, we both walk back to my truck. I guess she took the bus or something because she never mentions a car of her own. I call up my buddy Allen, he usually has decent coke. Allen says to come on over, I open the door for her, she does that little laugh again. It’s kinda growing on me, actually. I can’t believe this is happening. As I’m driving, she starts purring and licking my ear. And I’m actually into it. Like, really into it. Once again, I can’t believe this is happening. We pull up to Allen’s place, he sends me a text saying to come on up. Allen opens the door and jumps back. “Holy fuckin’ shit, Seth. Who the fuck is this? You told me it was just you, bro?” “No I didn’t,” I said, “I told you a had a girl with me, Lucy this is Allen. Allen this is Lucy.” “Hello, Allen.” Said Lucy, “Can I also have your meat inside me?” “What the fuck?” Said Allen. Then he laughed, and I laughed, and Lucy laughed, we all laughed. “You didn’t tell me it was like that. Why don’t you both just come on in?” We all stepped inside and Allen clicked on the light. As he did, Lucy tripped over the doorframe. She didn’t fall all the way to the ground, but she fell just enough to cause her hair to tilt. Like, all of it just shifted to the side. This caught Allen’s attention. “Yo, that’s a fuckin’ wig, bro! The fuck is going on here?” “Allen.” I said sternly, leaning in close to him. “Don’t fuck this up for me, man. I need this.” But Allen wasn’t listening. Allen was recoiling in horror because he saw what I had been too drunk and horny to see all along. While Lucy was fumbling with her wig and sliding around the foyer, her tail had slid out of her floppy green sweater. A tail that was long and scaly. Just as scaly as her scalp beneath the wig. It was now painfully obvious. This was not a foreign woman. This was not a transsexual. This was a sixty-six million year old chicken-lizard stalking it’s prey from beyond the confines of the traditional understanding of time itself. And I, Seth Fox, horny drunkard and idiot extraordinaire, had fallen for it’s schemes. Clever girl. Allen screamed the only sensible thing to be said, “VELOCIRAPTOR!!!” And we both dove behind the sofa for cover. The Velociraptor Formally Known as Lucy shrieked, “MEEEAAAAAT!!!” Why? Why me? Why couldn’t she have just had a penis!? The Lucy-Raptor soars over the sofa with a dancer’s ease because she’s a theropod. An apex predator from the Cretaceous Period and I notice what made her gait so ungainly. Her shoes had been hiding a giant sickle-shaped talon on each foot with which her kinship would disembowel their prey. Unfortunately for Allen, he was this prey. The Lucy-Raptor was on him instantly, she sliced open his belly with her toe-claws and his intestines flopped out like folded ravioli. “Nnnnaaaauuuuuggggghhhh!!!!!” Said Allen as the Lucy Raptor chewed on his neck. I had no patience for this nonsense, so I fled the scene hoping, praying, pleading with any deity merciful enough to hear my cries. I did not want to be eaten by a velociraptor tonight. I just wanted a blowjob. Is that really too much to ask from the universe? One measly fucking blowjob? But the Lucy-Raptor wanted to feast on the flesh of living prey, and I was still fumbling with my keys when Allen had breathed his last. She came bouncing into the parking lot. “CAAAUUUOOGGGHHH, CAAAUUUOOGGGHHH!!” Said Lucy. The truck door clicked open. Lucy reared back on her hind legs ready to pounce. I yanked open the door and hurled myself into the driver’s seat, turned the key and started the engine as Lucy sailed through the air like a shark through calm seas. Her claws barely missed my fender as I sped from my dead drug dealer’s parking lot. I stomped the gas. At 20 mph, there she was, nipping at my window. I turned onto the street. There she was. 30 mph. 35, 40 mph. When I hit 55 mph she slowed down and wailed a roar of defeat. I had bested the Lucy-Raptor. Turns out velociraptors can run at speeds of up to 40 miles an hour. But a ’97 Dodge Ram can go up to like, 120 miles an hour, so FUCK YOU, VELOCIRAPTORS!! Dating is hard, folks. But remember, “Life finds a way.


(WP) Everybody Wants to Rule the World She didn’t remember much about being human, but she remembered love, or at least, the echo of it. That warmth that climbed into an almost unbearable heat, that all encompassing desire that resulted from a smile from the other person. But to even think of it was like trying to remember a dream after you awoke; there were a few key details, but it was so blurry that she didn’t like to think of it. It had been centuries since she’d been human, and anyway, what was humanity in comparison to godlike power? Now, she was uncontrolled, accountable to only herself. She’d crushed civilizations like dust in her fingers, collapsed societies with a flick of a wrist. But these memories, distant as they were, were a reminder: Though she wasn’t human anymore, she wasn’t unstoppable. Not completely. There was a way to control her, and invoke her power, but she would be damned all over again if she was going to let anyone control her for anything. She was a demon, true, but she still had free will. Many had tried to seduce her, claim her, but none had come close. Until now, when a man and woman stood in the chamber in which she’d died, reading an incantation that was older than time, compelling her essence into their plane of existence. As strong as she was, she could not ignore such a summons: Dissolving into glittering, navy smoke, she found herself trapped within a bright red circle, its corners etched with shining demonic runes. The pair outside of it exchanged bright smiles, manic in their victory. “I told you it would work! Her Dark Unholiness, The Demoness Who Shatters Worlds, Temperance! We summon you here!” How ironic was it, that her name was fucking *Temperance* and she was one of the universe’s most powerful forces of evil? It was beyond ironic; it was pathetic. If she ever found the unlucky demon who’d unearthed her human name, she would disembowel them and use their guts as garters. Taking a lithe human form with dark skin, long black curls, and scarlet eyes, the color of rage and blood, she tilted her head to the side, studying the pair who’d dared brave her presence. “What do you humans want? I’m not immune to flattery, of course, but you must know you cannot hope to control me.” “That’s not what the book said,” A woman’s voice broke through the haze of smoke, calm and more than a little arrogant. “The book said that there was a way to control you.” Temperance said nothing, keeping her face impassive. This wouldn’t be the first time a couple of reckless, curious humans found the book that detailed her birth, powers, and weakness. But she wasn’t about to give them the answers. They should’ve thought of that before demanding she come here. “The book said,” The woman continued, smiling wickedly, “that we had to make you fall in love to control you.” Where was the harm in letting them try? No one had ever succeeded before.


It was pitch black on that back country road that night, the car was almost out of gas, and a baby who he knew would never know fame nor success nor love was crying in the passenger seat. You wouldn’t have known it at first sight – at one year old, she already sprouted a mass of jet black curls that spilled down her head and a tendency to grasp, squirm, experiment, escape and cause trouble that you would not have known would alienate and drive away any adult that would have otherwise helped her in life, were you not told. The politically wise would have guessed the truth at the sight of the caramel-colored skin that would, in no small part, mark her fate. You’d have really known it as you saw her claw at him. He’d have been sick of her shit a long time ago if it wasn’t for the job. And of course, he’d have to pick *this* road. A grand total of forty-five miles away from anybody else, the shoulders overrun with weeds and grass and brush, and the only illumination at his disposal of course being the fucking moon, *this* was the safest route, and the tank was running on empty. He couldn’t even risk turning on his emergency headlights for fear of discovery, even out here. He pulled down a wooded dirt road and stopped the car. And it was there, shielded from the harsh cold light of the moon by silhouettes of maples and oaks, enveloped and wrapped in the thick lush growth of early summer, that the fucking baby finally, *finally* stopped crying. The lone pink barrette donning her hair had come loose; the other one was lost in the aftermath of her fit. Her black, rhinestone-endowed tee was soaked in drool and sweat and tears. He was fairly certain she had soiled her pants. With each tiny breath, she turned to and fro, examining her surroundings with the kind of trepidation you would normally expect to see in someone decades her senior. He could see her body shaking – feel her tiny fingernails pinching his flesh, even still – and was thankful that at least for now, she was quiet. Each second of the first attempt in her life to regain her composure was followed with a hiccup, or a sniffle. She pushed her mop of curls away from her face with hands that in three decades' time he knew would kill millions. And she looked up at him with large, soft, puffy dark eyes that he knew, had she been born in better days, would have melted hearts. Her cheeks were slick with her tears. Her grip was loosening. His hands were slick with his sweat, and with blood. He wouldn’t be able to deal with her like this. He wouldn’t even be able to hold the knife. Actually getting a hold of the kid in the first place had been a fucking nightmare. Her father was every bit as monstrously violent and ruthless as she alluded to in her final writing now dubbed The Last Manifesto. His neck still hurt from her father’s stubby, steely grip – he understood now why she hated the motherfucker so much. And speaking of mothers, it was strange to him how despite clearly knowing what he had come to do, that the baby’s mother didn’t do anything to stop him. She had cowered, and she had begged, and she had cried, sure, but her actions, her every moment up to her last, were consumed by this grey, tepid resignation that he was certain was the root of her apathy as described in The Last Manifesto. It was in those ten decisive minutes that led up to this that he discovered for himself why it was his boss made him read the fucking thing over and over again, not just to memorize it but to truly absorb it, to embrace it. He looked at the baby – material and social conditions at this point in the past really were just as bizarre and horrifying as she had described. And for all of the pure shadowed night and clean air and lush growth around them, he couldn’t understand why. That house of theirs was fucking loaded. What had possessed her parents to become such monsters? The Last Manifesto had briefly mentioned a brother and spoke at length about a sister of hers who played an integral role in her path to vengeance, domination and destruction. He supposed he – and his knife – had managed to get to them before the sibling's conception. He saw no sign of the elder brother when he infiltrated the house. Four years old, and blonde, and completely unmanageable from what he could gather from historical records, her brother would likely spend his life marked by the trauma that would guarantee everyone else a lengthy and prosperous existence, as miserable as it may be for him personally. And that was the only comfort he could take as he pushed down his seat, shook his hand away and dug around the back, looking first for a cloth to wipe his hands and then for the knife. It was only when he pushed the seat back up two minutes later that he had noticed her watching him and she had started whimpering. Her earlier attempts to dig into his flesh stung throughout his hand, his arm really. Little droplets of blood trailed down his pale, hairy skin. It didn’t matter though; he’d just patch himself up after the job was done, but in the present moment, there was nothing he could do to stop that *whimpering.* It was a helpless, squealing, pathetic equivalent of begging from the baby, begging that his boss and his people had yearned, struggled, and spent years fighting to hear, yet now, in a moment that for anyone else from his time would have been a cathartic and magnanimous triumph, he just felt so… hollow. Unsteady. Not right. The inside of the car was hot, stiflingly so. It was only now that he had noticed the thick pocket of air his faded fatigues were holding in. The thick heat in the air sat heavy in his lungs with every breath. He flexed his toes – they were squished tight in his worn black boots and the laces were tied so tight that he could feel a very particular cramp from his left ring toe start to flare up. He could feel his M9 poking at his backside. His grip on his Ontario MK3 Navy issued knife was slick, not with the blood from the first half of the job, but with his sweat. The air in this car was like home, too much like home. In his time, the average temperature ranged from around 65F in the wintertime, if they were lucky, to on average 115F in the summer, and this was up in the mountains. The humidity permeated the air so utterly and completely that it would leave his skin clammy and glistening during training exercises. His boss, a tiny, steely woman with obsidian eyes would give you a look that would pierce you in very particular and very nasty ways if she caught you buckling even slightly under the burning weight of the air. She purposefully trained him for this mission in that shit, in her own words, to make him appreciate. He fucking hated it. He fucking hated every inch of her short, scrawny, bronze-skinned little ass every time she would make him do it. But the first thing he noticed when he stepped through the portal at the start of the mission was the soothing cool breeze in the evening air, and that was when he realized why she did that. He’d never known the wind to bring relief. In his time, it brought destruction and radiation and misery, all thanks to the tiny baby sitting next to him, whimpering. The first loving, icy lick of the stuff already had him addicted. That was what he was here to fight for. To kill for. The job was supposed to be simple, a quick in-and-out. Portal jump to June 15 1987 7:04 PM, capture the target, eliminate any and all witnesses, eliminate the target, meet at rendezvous point at exactly 11:24 PM, portal jump back home, and hopefully reappear in a better time where all he would be is a stranger to the people he saved. A time where the land was still green and pure and not seared black and grey by plasma blasts and nuclear fire. A time that the baby sitting next to him, whimpering, would never get to see or enjoy or appreciate, because of the actions of the maniacs in that house with her, and the choices she would make in kind. She was a cute little thing, or as cute as a terrified, traumatized, stinking, whimpering pile of fat and curls and flesh could possibly be, and it was at that moment that the weight of his knife pulled his hand downward. He rolled down the driver’s side window. His neck was lovingly kissed and stroked by a breeze the other grunts back home would never get to feel, and the little bits of it that made it past his large and imposing frame made the kid sigh a soft sigh of, relief, he guessed? At least now she finally shut up, if only for a second. Now came the fucking cooing. He hung his head down and an exasperated sigh pushed past his lips. His boss would’ve been ashamed of him to see him like this. He could already imagine her putting a hand to her greyed, thick hair and shaking her head – and then glaring at him. On September 15th 2026, the baby cooing next to him would make the world burn in nuclear fire, and according to his boss and The Last Manifesto, that burning was only about 53% as intense and all-consuming as the burning she felt every day as a result of the irreversible psychological damage brought upon her by her family and by the New American Empire that subjugated her. His boss made him read The Last Manifesto over and over and over again, not to memorize it, but to truly *absorb* it, to *embrace* it. It was only as he looked upon the baby as she played with her tiny blood-stained sneakers, that he realized that his boss didn’t just do this to prime his mind against the inevitable guilt of murdering an entire family that would have hung on his mind regardless of the good it would do. It was something particular about the baby’s big, soft, dark eyes – maybe it was the full moon shining from the roof window downward, he didn’t know – but the light sparked a hint of sharpness in them, a hint of obsidian. And the boss’s greyed, thick hair, though perpetually tied in a bun as per Coalition of Humanity regs, would sometimes betray the barest hint of a curl. Per his training, he was required to study the history of the New American Empire and the height of American civilization from the 1980s, to the start of it’s downfall in the early 2000s, and the rampage started in the early 2020s by the little baby next to him, who had some-fucking-how managed to unlock her seat-belt, that would consign humanity to a fate as horrific as it was indelible – at least until his boss managed to rise in the ranks. Some-fucking-how, that bitch had managed to rise from lowly grunt to petty officer to chief scientist in the space of only three years, and in the twenty-five years since the destruction of the biosphere from the nuclear fire, she had managed to somehow, some way, build a fucking time machine. A portal, she had called it. It was she who proposed its construction as the only way to undo the massive influx of radiation and irreversible runaway climate change triggered by the rampage that would otherwise doom all of humanity to extinction. It was she who had proposed changing the past, and undoing the bearer of all of this destruction, before she could undo everyone else. It was she who had purposefully chosen *him* for the most sensitive and most important mission in all of human history – and it was *she* who had forced him to read The Last Fucking Manifesto over and over and over again – sometimes forcefully, sometimes balefully – not just to memorize it but to truly *absorb* it, to *embrace* it. And now he understood why. The baby was crawling into his lap now, using his thigh as a stepping stool as she tried, in her own haphazard infantile way, to grab his wife-beater and pull herself up. The baby was likely already deeply traumatized. The baby was an orphan now. The baby was filthy. But he’d be damned if he’d let his boss down, and he’d be damned if he’d let her grow up to bring about the end of all life on this planet. What he didn’t know was whether his boss had actually anticipated him doing what he did next. He took hold of the baby and popped the car door open. He stepped out into the deliciously cool night air, and as the baby snuggled into his chest, he wondered how much of that was due to the chill air and how much of it was due to the fact that she was likely unused to gentle treatment given in earnest. He checked the watch on his wrist his boss was reaching for as he started walking. It was already 11:15 PM. There was no way in hell he’d make it to the rendezvous point, but he didn’t care. He knew there would be a better time – he’d make sure of it. And he’d live out that better time with his boss now, not just to experience it but to truly *absorb* it. To *embrace* it. And he’d make sure his boss could, too.


Dead Not Gone I am dead not gone, I am as here as I was the night I was murdered. I still feel the pain, if not more, I have no human barriers holding back the flood of emotions. I feel them from everyone. I still feel love and the loss of love. I watch as life begins to be normal again without me. I watched my love seal me away in the deep, dark corner of his mind. I watched him pretend with others, always looking for me in their faces, or the way they laugh. I watched him find love again, living a life with her that we had often talked about. He often visits telling me about his life, how happy he is, how sad he is that he can't live it with me. He named his daughter after me, to honor a memory of us and what we never had the chance to have together. He's grown older now, frail, his life has been beautiful. I know he will go to sleep for a very long time soon, and I am happy for him. My mother missed me fiercely, some nights more than others. Some nights she'd wail just as she did when she found out. Those nights I'd lie with her and sing to her, and I swear she'd hear me. She was never the same after I left. She wasn't whole. I'd talk to her while she slept, hoping I'd bring her mind to a happier place, but she'd wake with the same look in her eyes. She'd looked the same as the day she found out. She'd tuned out of life and I lost her to a place she could no longer hear me. I watched my little sister grow older than I ever was, she still insisted on calling me her big sister even when she was three times as old as I ever was, her life wasn't always kind to her. She lost a lot of trust in the world when she lost me. She looked for solace in things rather than people, anything to numb her from feeling sadness about me or our mother. She had to grow up a lot at a young age and will forever be sorry to her for that. She met a man after our mother died and he showed her kindness, he showed her how to love herself. She started to feel again, she lives a good life now. She helps those who seek the same numbness that she did not too long ago. I watched my killer, grow old and frail all alone. Life did not treated her well. She would often revel in that night. When she couldn't fight her urges. Just one quick motion and I was lifeless, all my hopes dreams ambitions gone and buried with me deep in that river. My killer often thought of ending it for herself and I willed all of my anger to make her. But she was a coward until the day she died in that nursing home all alone stinking of piss and death. Even the way she died was too good for her. I've watched everyone in my life grow old and live their lives without me. I am sad that I could never have children with my love. I'm sad I couldn't be there for my mom as that darkness took over her life. My sister will now forever be my big sister. I was taken too soon, and the world didn't slow down for me or for the ones I loved.


Found lurking in the depths of every crowded bar and concert hall is the notorious Red Cap. His appearance has changed over the centuries to fit with the current generations. Thus what once appeared as an aristocrat now showed his face under the brim of a snapback. The gentle rhythm of bass lures him into darkened rooms where drinks and cares are loose. The one mainstay of the Red Cap that has traveled through the years with him is that if he grabs hold of your hand and you don't instantly escape, you're doomed. His grip is the single invite to the dance of death. The concertgoers and bar dwellers always shout at first, but they're grateful to have dodged the invite themselves. The risk of public libations doesn't deal with the bridge trolls or taxi goblins, no, the real threat of a night out with friends is that the Red Cap might catch you and make you dance until you die. Which then he'll take your bloody, battered feet and dye his Red Cap once more with the blood of the unfortunate and foolish. Escapes from his grasp have been dramatic and rare. Many people have taken to wearing loose clothing they can slip out of just in case. The fashion of harem pants and silk tops tripled Chinese exports in one summer alone. An unprecedented double attempt occurred to the initially unfortunate and then warily smart, Arthur Tomkins. Arthur was an arborist by trade and came to Finnegans Hall for a weekend drink. The night had already fallen when the distinct clue of the Red Cap's company was clear. Red flickered to his side and a long peal of laughter that cut through the music in the hall before Arthur felt a cold grip on his hand. He looked to find the wide grin split into the dark corner of the room, crowned by a red hat. Without thinking Arthur's other hand shot to his hip and drew his hatchet, it cleaved the Red Cap's grip before he saw the consequences. The Red Cap snarled backing away. Even he played by the rules; it otherwise meant incurring the wrath of Mab. Arthur bested the Red Cap, but at a handy price. He stuck clear of taverns and dance halls for many moons until they had seen him grow accustomed to his prosthetic hand. It was more appropriate for the public than his work claw, which he argued gave him steadier purchase in the trees. The bar brought chills to Arthur's spine as he fingered the handle of his hatchet. Stiff drinks and fast music made the fear fade from his mind. Surely no man had been tapped twice by fate for the same task. Arthur froze at the sight of Red as it slipped his eyes. He was peeking in at the corners before a hearty tug found the Red Cap clamped down on his right hand. Fear should have frozen it, but what's dead can never die. Arthur returned the Red Cap's laugh that he safeguarded as sweet revenge for years, as he stepped away from both the Red Cap and his prosthetic hand. Twice bested- by bravery and wit, a third victory would elevate Arthur above the station of mortal men and into fable. But all Arthur longed for were tall trees and calm breezes. He knew without prophecy, that if he ever set foot in a bar, tavern, or dance hall again, the Red Cap would descend upon him like a rabid dog. So he never did. His life was his own, as he doomed the Red Cap to a life of fear, that he might reappear in those dark halls to best him one last time.


Big Villain, by Hana Aianhanma, December 2019. This story is made up. Any and all resemblances to real people or animals are truly coincidental. The author would like to emphasise that this story should in no way be taken as an endorsement of villainy as a career option. ***** # Big Villain Samuel Snortinsdotter had a grievance. Not his name, though he would have liked a few minutes of loving conversation with a crowbar and the Snortin in his ancestry who had had a daughter. Nor had he that much anger to direct at the fellow pupils who called him Snorty during his time at school, much as he wanted to pin some red-hot needles into them in embarrassing and painful places. No, Samuel´s biggest discontent at the world was that Santa never brought him what he wanted. When he was six, he wanted an electric train set. Santa brought him a tea cup that was decorated with drawings of cute bumblebees. At seven, he wished for a remote controlled car. He received a wind-up toy with an accompanying one-foot track. At eight, he was seen salivating at the games console section of his favourite toy shop. Santa decided that a digital watch would be good for him. One that was branded with the logo of the company his father happened to work at. The first time, when the electric train set had failed to materialise, Samuel had written a polite note. Surely the gift had been an administrative mistake? Could Santa please correct it before the end of January? Santa sent him a response that dripped in sarcasm at Samuel’s expense. Santa, it concluded, does not make mistakes. Samuel stopped complaining about Santa’s presents after that. Still, he fumed inside at the injustice of it all. Mentally scarred down to the soul. Samuel Snortinsdotter was going to get his revenge if it was the last thing he ever did. He held a cup of coffee and thought about his plight. Unfortunately, the world was filled with evil people. He needed to not only figure out some unspoken horror, it also would have to be something less common. His first Evil Deed would need to be original to make a splash. So Samuel considered, watching the table next to him. The student sitting there slurped his cappuccino offensively. Samuel bet he always got what he wanted from Santa. That student was smugly wearing a new suit and exhibiting an obviously new laptop for the world to see. The back of the gleaming screen was only marred by the picture of a cute little dog. That was it. Samuel was not going to take that. He was angry enough to kill puppies. Yes! The more he considered it, the better the idea seemed. A truly dastardly deed. Attention grabbing amongst the world’s horrors. Appropriate for the announcement of the arrival of a modern humble Big Villain. He would find the dog shelter with the most puppies in town and blow it up this Christmas. Let’s see, what would he demand in his threats? The shelter in question was a lone building next to Percy Park. Samuel had sent the announcement of his intentions to all the newspapers in town. Not a single animal shelter seemed to have increased security. Did they not believe he could do it, or did they simply not care? There were no people at the shelter. Just the dogs and not that many puppies at that. No extra treats for Christmas, it seemed. Samuel shook his head before he descended into the cellar. He carefully placed the explosive, plugged them into a wall socket, and set the timer. Samuel climbed the stairs back up. Before he could reach the front door he passed the dogs. They drooped in their cages, an occasional whine emphasised their misery. They barely reacted to his passing. Clearly, the shelter’s owners were either unwilling or unable to take proper care of them. Their failure to be present during the festive season suggested the latter. Pathetic. Samuel opened the door and looked back. Oh well. The newspapers were satisfyingly alarmist in response to the explosion. The screaming headlines declared that some madman had actually gone through with his threat to “blow up some puppies”. Luckily there had been no victims in the explosion, they said. No mention of what happened to all the dogs. Typical. The threatening letters were dug up. Neighbours were shocked. Questions were asked. Fingers pointed. Samuel could hardly contain his evil grin. He had made an impact. From now on, no one would dare ignore his threats. All would cower in the glow of his villainy. He finished his celebratory macchiato, folded his newspaper, and left the coffee shop. When Samuel arrived home he was greeted with welcoming jumps and barks. It had been exhilarating and frantic near the end, but he had managed to move all the occupants from that shelter before the blast. They would do fine as his new henchmen. Or should that be henchdogs? ***** Thank you for reading! Feel free to share. This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.


The first time I saw Stephen, he painted a hex sign on my right arm, and I couldn’t move my fingers for three hours. When I found him again the next day, I asked how he had done it. He just gave me a lopsided smile, the kind when someone knows something you don’t, and I decided right then that I was going to become his friend no matter what. I wanted to be in on his secrets. I agreed to let him practice his symbols on me, simply to have an opportunity to observe him work. Sometimes it was fun, like the time he turned my hair purple. Other times it wasn’t, like when my nose swelled up so big that I couldn’t see around it. He had to lead me out of the woods where we practiced, and I tripped four times. The swelling went away by the time I had to go in for dinner, but the scraped knees and scratched arms didn’t. But every time I would rethink my agreement to be Stephen’s guinea pig, he would offer to teach me a new hex. He knew he had me that way. I was a curious girl and desperate to learn such a rare skill. What he didn’t realize was that I was also a lonely girl and desperate for a friend. So our hex experiments continued throughout the spring and into the start of summer. Until Brittany moved in down the street. She showed interest in Stephen, and he showed interest in her blonde hair and curves. That’s when he decided he couldn’t be seen with me, and he definitely couldn’t be seen doing hexes. He needed to be normal. I wasn’t done with him though. I had so much more to learn. I’d had a taste of the hexes and I couldn’t just give up on them. I wasn’t ready to go back to my old life, my old helpless lonely self. I knew it would be easy to win him back. He would feel the pull of the hexes’ power eventually, especially if I helped him along. At first, I painted the symbols on myself. I made my hair blonde and swelled up some of the features I wanted to enhance. I wanted to show him that anyone could make themselves beautiful, but not everyone could share in his secret. I could tell it caught his attention at first, but then Brittany and her friends mocked me. And I got tired of having to repaint the symbols every time I went to the bathroom. I was trying to think of ways I could use the hexes to win Stephen back, when Brittany fell asleep in class. I carefully drew a hex sign on her right shoulder blade. When the bell rang, she found that most of her arm had gone numb and she couldn’t carry her bag. Stephen offered to help her and cast a glare over his shoulder at me. That was the first time I became angry with him. Before that I just saw him as lost, entranced by a fading beauty, soon to see the error of his ways. I knew he would eventually long for the hexes, and me. But that cruel look he gave me sent rage bubbling up from my stomach to my throat. How dare he act that way towards me for doing something he had done a hundred times? He is the one that started this, but now he judged me? That night I stood underneath the old oak tree in my back yard and looked up. The branches arched over me and the moss hung around me like a protective shroud. Although I knew they were there, I couldn’t see the stars. I lowered my gaze and with the snap of branches and the crunch of leaves my feet moved on, the sounds reassuring me that they would alert me of any intruders on my night stroll. I followed the worn path through the woods we practiced in, needing no light for guidance. Soon I saw Stephens front door. It didn’t take long to paint the hex sign there. When I was done, I returned home to wait for morning. I left early for school the next day and stopped just inside the woods across from Stephen’s house. I heard the creak of hinges first. Next came his foot, stepping across the door frame before giving out beneath him. His head came across next as he fell, his neck oddly stiff. He reached his arms out to brace the fall, but as they crossed the threshold they froze only halfway up. When he landed, his outstretched arms gave an audible snap and his head cracked the pavement. When Stephen’s eyes found mine from down on the ground, I felt like he was looking at someone else. Without the help of his facial expressions I couldn’t read his mood, but I didn’t think I saw anger there, just pain. The sight of his blood snapped me from my efforts at interpretation. I ran toward him as the realization of what I had done landed on me like a boulder. I flung myself on the ground next to him and cradled his head on my lap. He was fine; he had to be fine. I knew he would fall and become paralyzed, but I didn’t realize how hard the fall would be. I just wanted to get his attention and have him all to myself until the hex wore off. I didn’t want this. What if he never forgave me, never came back to the hexes? The thought had never crossed my mind before. If I couldn’t resist them, how could he? I didn’t know what I would do without him. I wouldn’t be able to learn any new signs. I would be alone. For a moment it occurred to me to swear never to use the hexes again, if only he would be ok. I could send that out to the universe and seal it with a promise sign. But I couldn’t swear off the hexes, not even for the boy who gave them to me. So I just sat there with him bleeding in my arms, waiting for someone to come. Not knowing if anyone could save him. ...


I was half joking about stashing that PopEyes sandwich by my bed before leaving to go to the company Christmas party. But the truth is I really did leave it there. I'm not sure what Super Drunk TWoN did with it when he got back but still semi-drunk TWoN woke up to a bunch of dirty wrappers stuck to his face. I got up to use the bathroom in the morning feeling disgusted at the pathetic human who had eaten that cold sticky sandwich at 3 in the morning. That was until I made my way back to the bed and notice something... The last piece. The final bite of the sandwich was there sitting in my bed. I must of forgotten it in my intoxication. The perfect shaped last morsel of goodness... Just the right proportion of bread to chicken. You could tell I had been surgical in my drunken state because it was all breast; plump, breaded, bulging. I had purposely ate around the sandwich to leave this perfect piece. Maybe I had even spotted it first and laid out my plan of attack from the second I opened the wrapper. It was in this moment, when I was faced with a perfect last bite laying alone in a dirty cum stained sheet, that I realized something... I'm going to die alone. I could of left the piece. I could have carried on the facade that those moments of disgust are only perpetrated by me at my most drunken vulnerable state. It was a test. Not a test for anyone else, but a test for myself. Would I eat that disgustingly beautiful spicy chicken piece, the one my drunken twin had forgotten and then have to admit to myself that there is no differentiating between the inebriated human who fills his life with gluttony and sin, and the one who judges him for it, or would I leave it and save the last bit of dignity I had in exchange for the last piece of chicken that I saw....? The truth is... I actually thought about it. I honestly looked at it and made the mental calculations of if I should. I weighed the consequences of scooping up that tiny shimmering succulent poultry. I mean no one is watching... I could eat it and pretend like it never happened. But I would know. I would know what I did and I couldn't blame it on the drink, and now that I've acknowledged and weighed the consequences I could never pretend like I didn't know the low depths of patheticness I was willing to stoop to. My reflection lasted about half a second, though it felt like a lifetime, before I lifted up the that perfect piece of chicken.... slapped it back on the waging stale pieces of bread which had found themselves on opposite ends of the bed, and ate it. I had a choice... I could have spared my soul.... I could have been disgusted... I could have not told anyone... but the shame is my penance...


The window creaked open. A small figure squeezed through the gap onto a narrow ledge. Its wing caught on a rusty nail hidden in the wooden frame, tearing the fragile structure. Blood trickled down its side. A gush of icy wind knocked it back. It took a moment to steady itself, then inched slowly to the edge and peered down. A lamp cast a dim glow on the deserted street. An ambulance siren wailed in the distance. Coming to save someone's broken body... useless for a broken heart. A voice drifted in through the window. "Babe.. stay." It was a male voice, desperate and exhausted.  The creature turned around. Maybe there was hope? Maybe it got it wrong? But it couldn't be…  "It's late. I don't want you going out there so late. Stay, please. For one more night." "It's broken. We broke it." Another voice, female, teary and barely audible. "I know." "I'm so sorry we broke it." "Me, too." The male voice broke; he gave up.  A sharp pain shot through its stomach, and it knew it was over. It watched the two of them through the window, its tiny hands pressed against the frosty glass. It watched as he opened his arms for her, and she stepped into them. It watched as he held her tight and buried his face in her hair. It watched much later, their bodies entwined under the covers, breathing as one, for one last time. Then it sat down wearily, pulled its knees under its chin, its back resting against the cold wall. The ache in its stomach was becoming stronger.  And now, the wait… It was odd, really. It remembered when they met, and it didn’t even seem like the beginning of a love story at all. And then it unfolded, slowly at first, the first kisses, the first nights, the first I love you’s, and a thousand ordinary moments turned into a thousand memories that now cracked and shattered and spilt with its every breath.  It wondered when it would hit fully. It wondered about the anger, the longing, the sadness, the emptiness. It wondered who would be the first one to let go.  “You're very beautiful.” The silver cat appeared quietly, seemingly out of nowhere. Still as a statue in the window, his piercing yellow eyes bored into the stranger with a mix of suspicion and curiosity.  The creature lifted its head to meet his unblinking stare. Its injured wing swayed slightly. It was a simple statement, and yet it somehow required an explanation.  The cat tilted his head slightly. “Who are you?” “I am.. Well, it’s difficult to say at this moment.” It looked sadly at the sleeping couple. The cat followed its gaze, then turned back to inspect its broken body. "Oh." His eyes fell. He observed his paws, lost in thought. “I don’t understand humans. They complicate things. They fight and hurt each other. It’s messy.” “Love is like that sometimes.” The Cat mulled this over for a moment. “So.. Can’t you fix it?” “No. I am but a reflection.” “Of their love?” It nodded. “But you’re in much pain.” The yellow eyes were rounded with confusion. It nodded again, slowly. "And yet you are so very beautiful." A statement, again. The cat seemed to be in a struggle. "So, what happens now?” There was a hint of worry in his voice. The creature did not answer but waited instead for him to understand. “I see. I will give you some privacy, then... Goodnight.” The cat held its gaze for a while and tried to communicate something that he somehow could not put into words. Then he bowed slightly, turned around and disappeared in one swift motion.  “Goodnight.” the creature whispered to no one in particular.  It watched as the first snowflakes began to fall, swirling in the glow of the lamp. It thought again of the two. It hoped they would not be too lonely without each other.  It hoped, and wondered, and felt so much and so little at the same time.  It finally fell asleep hours later, a deep and dreamless sleep, with its wings curled around its tiny body for shelter.  It was then that a soft paw picked it up, gently, and carried it inside, away from the freezing cold.


A Nazi and a Buddhist each write a symphony. The Nazi forces out the full potential of the orchestra, utilizing all of its colors and dynamics in a long, grandiloquent development of themes and textures that culminate in a glorious climax of sound and emotion. The Buddhist creates a short, spare piece that utilizes a reduced orchestra and foregoes concepts such as development and variation in order to facilitate an eternal moment of pure experience. Each composer is inspired by his philosophy: it is almost as if Nazism created the Nazi’s piece and Buddhism created the Buddhist’s. Years later, a young composer discovers the symphonies of the Nazi and the Buddhist. She does not know of the composers’ convictions; she merely ran into these pieces by scrolling through YouTube. She is entranced by both of these pieces for separate reasons. She particularly enjoys how each composer masterfully utilizes the orchestra: the Nazi’s kaleidoscopic stretching and twisting of the ensemble’s dynamic, range, and color; the Buddhist’s ethereal and subtle contemplation of sonic concepts. These two pieces begin to mix within the young composer, and soon she begins work on her own symphony, directly inspired by her contact with the Nazi’s and the Buddhist’s products. What eventually results in an intriguing combination of the two pieces, a sort of medium-length work that, despite its virtuosity, seems to simmer on the subject of the orchestra itself, that expands and contracts and swirls, yet never seems to leave a certain space. Decades pass, and some well-established music historians and theoreticians take it upon themselves to trace the development of the young composer’s piece, as it formed itself in her psyche. Their work culminates in a shocking thesis: due to its direct influences, the young composer’s symphony represents the first Nazi-Buddhist music in existence. This unleashes a flood of political strife within music academia. Should the work—and the composer herself—continued to be used as an example of refined orchestration, now that its ideological bases have been revealed to be some sort of grotesque chimera between two opposing philosophies (including Nazism)? Some professors stop mentioning the composer in their courses; others go farther and blatantly denounce her work, caricaturing the flaws of the symphony and attributing these flaws to the composer’s miscegenous philosophy. Musicology courses take an opposite tack by highlighting her as a point of interest within the history of Western composition, glancing at her as though at a curious artifact, but no longer do they dwell on her musical contributions. Despite this, the new generation of composers, particularly those sufficiently distanced from academia, continue to listen and study the composer and her symphony. They know neither her history, her ideologies, nor her influences, and those who do know—forget. They only know the music. A collective of some of the more philosophically-minded among this generation posit their own thesis on her symphony: because she did not know of the philosophy and ideology behind her influences, the young composer had not allowed these philosophies to write the piece for her, but rather the orchestra itself had written this piece through her. These composers hope that the spirit of the orchestra will also influence them in such a way.


There once was a tortoise village. The village citizens lived a calm and predictable life and thrived on lettuce, carrots and love. One night, a wolf came to the village and ate two of them. The tortoises were in despair. Those two tortoises that were eaten were among the most popular and kind of the tortoises that lived in the village and their absent was agonizing. In their sorrow, the tortoises decided to gather up the eldest and wisest of the tortoises and leave it to them to decide what should be done. The eldest and wisest gathered therefore and sat down to decide what to do. The first tortoise, who actually wasn’t that old, and definitely not that wise, said that the best thing to do was to commit a collective suicide by jumping into the lake. At the bottom of the lake, he said, no wolf will find the tortoise. The other tortoises rejected this idea and said that it was probably the stupidest idea they have ever heard in their long lives. The second tortoise, who obviously neither was that old (or for that matter, wise), said that the tortoise’s best choice was to migrate to America. In New York, said the second tortoise, no wolfs walk the streets – not even during nighttime. This idea, said the other tortoises, was – even if it wasn’t as stupid as the first one – among the most ridiculous they have ever heard in a long time. Migrate to America? Asked the tortoises – had the not-too-old-or-wise forgotten they were tortoises? It would take them half an eternity to get there. Before they would reach halfway the wolves would have eaten the whole lot of them. The third, and considerably older and wiser tortoise in the gang, had an idea. The tortoises could build a tower, he said, and every night they could place a guard on top of it. Should the guard see a wolf approaching, he would start screaming: “Wolf! Wolf!”. The other tortoises, who were then sound asleep, would thereof wake up, and seek a hiding place. The wolf would have to go and search for consolation among the chicken in the neighboring village. The tortoises liked this idea and decided unanimously to accept it. They raised a tower in the middle of the village and took turns guarding during the night. Exactly like old and wise said, if the guard on duty saw a wolf approaching during the night he warn the others, who were sleeping, so they could go and hide, and the wolf went hungry away to try to find consolation by means of the chickens in the neighboring village. Order had returned and life in the tortoise village was once again calm and predictable. But one night, it was Bertil’s turn for night guard duty. Now, it wasn’t so that Bertil was a loner or in any other way a troublesome tortoise – on the contrary, he was a popular and sociable citizen and everybody who knew him (which everybody did), loved him. The only thing that distinguished Bertil from the others was that he suffered from stuttering. When night came, Bertil climbed dutifully up the tower and peered all night for the wolf. When he suddenly saw it approaching, he began to scream, but the words got stuck in his mouth and all he could say was “Wo! Wo! Wo!”. The other tortoises, who lay asleep, woke up, gazed up the tower, and decided that Bertil might have drank too much carrot juice, and then went back to sleep. That night, the wolf ate three more tortoises. In the morning, when the disaster revealed itself, despair was back in town. But before the tortoise mob could lynch Bertil to death, the tortoises decided once again to gather the elder and wise in order to decide what should be done. And so, they did. The first tortoise, who, as mentioned before, wasn’t particularly old nor wise, said that the tortoises should stone Bertil to death, as a punishment for his behavior. That idea, thought the rest of the tortoises, was, although tempting, very stupid. The tortoises were a peaceful folk and punishment was not a part of their agenda. The second tortoise, who neither was particularly old nor wise, said that the tortoises better exile Bertil, and why not to America. That idea, thought the rest of the tortoises, was only a hair less idiotic than the first one, and of the same reason. The third tortoise, which, as discussed before, was the oldest and wisest of his folk, had an idea. Let life run it’s course as usual, he said, and as the evening comes whence Bertil’s turn it is to guard at night, let us warn the village citizens, and remind them that should the guard start screaming “Wo! Wo! Wo!” in the midst of night, it is not because of over consumption of carrot juice, but instead because he suffers from a quite common disorder and tries to warn us of the coming wolf. Go and hide, citizens, and let the wolf go hungry away and once again try to find consolation in the company of the chickens in the neighboring village. The tortoises decided that the shrewd senile once again was right and did as he had said. The evening before Bertil’s guarding duty they reminded each other of the circumstances of the stuttering guard, and went to sleep, albeit slightly concerned. In the middle of the night the tortoises woke up, hearing the guard’s screams. They saw poor Bertil up in the tower screaming “Wo! Wo! Wo!”, and even if they first thought it was just another case of carrot juice intoxication, they could readily remember the warning they got the evening before and want and hid themselves. The wolf, who had an utter craving for a tortoise supper, had to indulge himself once again with a couple of chickens from the neighboring village. When the tortoises woke up the next morning, they were out of their minds with happiness, and decided to organize a celebration. They wore their best shields, served the most delicious meals a tortoise could ask for, and danced in the streets. In the midst of the festival, the tortoises heaved Bertil up on their shoulders in order to praise him. Bertil yelled: “Hip! Hip!” and the tortoises answered “Hooray!”. Bertil screamed again: “Hip! Hip!” and the tortoises answered: “Hooray!”. And then came a hippo and ate them all.


Growing up, I was always appreciated. Never once was I told I wasn't good enough, or that I wouldn't amount to anything. My parents weren't like that, my father was a pastor and my mother stayed at home raising us kids. They always looked after us, did what was best for us. And back when we didn't have much family was all we had, sounds a little cliche but it's true. And you would do anything for your family. August 2013 "Antony, come hear," those few words changed my life forever. My father was the type of man who liked to keep his cards close to his chest, never telling anyone anything if he didn't have to. My mother was the only exception to that rule, but the rest of us knew what was really going on. Me and my brother pretended like we didn't, but we did. When he called me over I didn't know if I was getting disowned or rewarded, and that was how he liked to have it. "Antony, me and your mother have been talking and..." the way my father spoke is how I always imagined someone like Caesar talking, a voice of confidence and control that just made you not just want to listen to him, but like you had no choice but to listen to him. "We both think it's time you start helping me down at the church." Now to a normal sixteen-year-old boy, spending their after school time in an old church may not sound like all that much fun. But to me, it was a dream come true, I would get paid to hang out with my dad and I would finally be let into the family business. Little did I know what a rude awakening I was in for down the line. After all, not everyone's father was the head of a major New York crime family. February 2014 By this time the screams and muffled gunshots coming from the back of the church had become less than a mild bother, most of the time I didn't even realize they were there. In a world like this one with violence and death on a daily basis, you had to grow a spine real quick. My father had me keeping the books, making sure that the real one and the one the cops would get if they ever ask were consistent enough to not seem suspicious. I was always good at math, a skill that the rest of my family didn't share. So while my brother Romulus was being groomed to take over the business someday; all intimidation and muscle, I was becoming a cheap teenaged accountant. And as hard as it may be to believe I was actually fine with where I was, unlike most people in the crime family, I didn't have ambitions. I didn't want to be in charge, I didn't need to be. I got to stay in my small room in the back of the church with a desk and a lamp, all that I needed. March 2019 Flash forward five years. Five years of me doing the exact same thing, crunching numbers and putting them in the books. The family was stable, it wasn't what it was but we were doing alright. But that all changed when it came time for my father to name his successor, he didn't give the seat to my brother, who he had been raising into the kind of leader he was… no, he said my name. All and all I was surprised, honoured, but surprised. And when I asked him why he chose me over my brother, he told me, "I don't want another tough brute running this family Antony, we've had enough of that and now they way we make our living is going extinct." He wanted someone smart to help run the family back into its prime, and he chose me to do it. I couldn't just say no, I wanted to but men like my father didn't accept no. So if I couldn't get out of it I would just have to do what he wanted, and I would have to do it the best I possibly could. I respected my father too much to half-ass a job he entrusted me with, even if it was one I didn't want. My brother wasn't too pleased with my father's choice. And I couldn't really blame him, imagine that your entire life, you believed that you had something as a sure thing and then when the moment finally comes it's given to someone else. He felt betrayed, and when our father wasn't around he made sure I knew it, "you scrawny mother fucker, I don't know how you did this but I'm going-." But as soon as dad was back in the room, he went back to being the voiceless thug he actually was, "You're doing the family proud, Antony." He didn't have to like Dads decision, but there was absolutely no way he could question it, not if he wanted to stay in the family. And once he was out of the family he lost all protections, and you don't do the kind of business he's done without making a few enemies. It sounds cliche but it's true. It only took a few months after the announcement that I would be the new Boss for my father to decide that it was time for him to retire. One hand I agreed with him, he was getting older and he didn't need the kind of stress that came with the job. On the other hand, him retiring meant I would have to take over sooner than I was expecting. I thought I would have enough time to prepare myself, I wasn't ready to run the family yet. I always thought my dad would die before giving up his seat, that's just the kind of man he was, he would give everything he had. But he decided to give it up while he was still breathing, and I wasn't quite sure what to do with that, but I didn't have to think about it long. They got me when I was walking home from the church. I should have been safe. But no, one minute you're walking down the street, the next you're chloroformed and thrown in the back of a van. The next thing I remember is waking up in the cliche mob torture warehouse tied to a chair. I mean this place had it all, broken windows, in the middle of nowhere, lots of floor space, the works. At first, I was alone, it's a technique that lets the victim realize the gravity of the situation, let their fear build up. But it didn't really bother me, when my kidnappers finally decided to show themselves, I was entirely disappointed. The pair, a man and a woman, were wearing these weird anime masks with blank smiling expressions. If they were wearing masks that meant I was going home alive and that they would be hunted down like dogs. "Hello, Mr Blackwell," the woman, talked first, calm, clearly a professional. Fortunately for myself, being the son of a crime boss made being kidnapped a real possibility growing up, and learning not to be afraid of stuff like this was just a part of it. My father would have me kidnapped a couple of times a year, just for a situation like this one. "You are going to give up your seat as the head of the Blackwell family and pass it down to your brother." You have no idea how much I wanted to give it up, just to get out of this damp warehouse if nothing else. But my father was the God of his own little world, and if you disappointed him it didn't matter how much he loved you, he would smite you. "And why would I do that." "Because if you don't, we'll carve your face up so good your own mother won't be able to recognise you," I had heard of this lady before, The Plastic Surgeon. She could make anyone's reflection a grotesque stranger if they didn't do what her client wanted, only ever touching the face, she wouldn't lay a finger on anything else. And now it seemed like it was my turn under her knife. "So… whats is going to be kid?" "I'm afraid I'm going to have to say no." And that's when I got the first of many punches. I'm pretty sure she broke my nose, not that it matters in the grand scheme of things. "Alright, that was your one and only chance. I don't care if in five minutes you cry out for me to stop, there are no second chances with me." And that's when the beatings began, up until she said the words that really made me nervous, "go get the belt sander." Over the next six months, she would take various sharp objects, from screws to sandpaper and shove them in my face, stabbing, slicing, and grinding away at my identity. She was actually quite inventive, something I could respect. Eventually, I couldn't even feel it anymore, it just became the only constant thing I had to look forward to. "Hahahaha!," it was a little scary, "hahaha! C'mon, is that the best you got? You didn't even scrape bone this time." The pain became my life, and why not try to enjoy it more than the masochist torturing me? Near the end, I'm pretty sure I had felt all the pain The Plastic Surgeon could deal out. But eventually, every party must end. “I'll admit you're tough for someone who looks so fragile,” at this point, I couldn't even talk, the skin of my face was more like a mask in itself, hanging on by a few threads. "But I'm afraid it's now time for our parting gift,” and that’s when she wheeled out the acid. You would think that your flesh burning, melting back in place would be my wake up call, but I was just happy to feel again. They dropped me off in the bad part of town, in nothing but a blanket and one of their masks to cover myself and keep my face in place. Some people at this point would have given up, no clothes, no face, a family who thinks your most likely dead. I had basically nothing… Except for a plan. “And now, we find ourselves at the end result of that plan,” in the empty, dimly lit restaurant the Blackwell crime family's dinner of twelve was interrupted by an unexpected thirteenth guest. Wearing the most audacious suit he could find: a bright red jacket and neon green pants, and the same mask his kidnappers left him with. His voice was flamboyant and excited The masks solid expression surveyed the room, looking at his captive audience. Every member at the table was bound and gagged, completely at the mercy of the prodigal son returned. “I mean it wasn't a hard leap for me to figure out that it was my own brother who hired The Plastic Surgeon. Who else would have wanted me out of the picture?” he stopped in front of a young man, sitting at the table, with fear in his eyes. “Just admit it,” he said pulling the tape off his brother's mouth. He was breathing heavily, sweat starting to form on his brow, "Alright Antony, I'm sorry-" “Oh wait, It doesn't really matter if you confess or not,” with that he cut the young man's throat, blood falling from his neck and into the young man's dinner as he struggled to breathe, drowning in his own blood. "But the plan doesn't stop there… after those long months in the warehouse, I thought I had gone insane. But then I realized, insanity is just a different form of clarity. And believe me, I am just starting to see things much more clearly. As soon as I figured out it was Romulus I knew I was going to kill him, I just had to figure out where and when. Lucky for me the annual family meeting was coming up, and even though I never attended one, I did all the books, so your "secret" meeting place," he said making air quotes with his hands, still holding the bloody knife, "was always just that old Italian restaurant dad used to take me to." As he talked he walked around the table, "next I needed to hire some muscle, fortunately, the family has no shortage of people they've pissed off." With a snap of his fingers, four men with gas tanks emerged from the shadows. "Now," he said addressing his father at the head of the table, "in a mobster movie, this would be the time that I say that this is just business, nothing personal… but," he lifts his mask to reveal the grotesque, scared, sliced, burned, and melted collection of flesh he had for a face. "This is extremely personal," on his command the men started pouring the gasoline on the members of the family. He pulled a matchbook from his pocket, tossing it from one hand to another, "now dad, I really don't want to do this, like I said… you were always nice to me. The best father I could have asked for," he takes a match from the matchbook. Lighting it, the match reflected off of the plastic, his plastic mask glowing in the firelight, “but this isn’t about me,” he drops the match and the entire table is set ablaze, the muffled screams of the other men echo throughout the room, his father just stared at him, his expression unreadable as he burned, “I’m sorry dad, but something happened in that warehouse. I didn't want this job at first, but the more they tortured me, told me to give it up the more I wanted to hold onto it. So that's what I'm going to do, make your dream come true, bring this family into the future better than it ever was… bu In order to do that I need a fresh start, the old way, your ways nearly destroyed our way of life, so I'm taking all the old pieces of the board. And we both know that the best way to clear the board is the best way to deal with anything… burn it down.


It was when Steve saw the studio cameras pointed in his direction, when the roar of the audience’s excitement washed over him, and when he caught the eyes of the young girl holding those golden scissors that he knew he’d made a terrible mistake. \- - - There was nothing special about Steve and Christine Gallagher. Sure, they owned two pugs that caught a lot of attention in shopping malls and dog parks, but that was about as far as their shine went. Christine taught at the local school. Steve sold cars. That’s about it, really. Well, Steve was sort of famous in a vague sense of the word: almost everybody in town drove one of Steve’s cars. To be fair on the townspeople, he was the only dealer. On weekends, they would often see Steve and Christine out somewhere. Shops. Parks. Always with the pugs. People would stop and say hello to them - first to the pugs, then to Steve and Christine. The townspeople knew where their priorities lay. But when the town - or, rather, the entire world - found out about Steve’s secret, the Gallaghers suddenly became an overnight global sensation. Even more popular than their two adorable pups! Their sudden explosion in popularity came off the back of an event long ago... As 1970 was coming to an end, high school senior Steve Gallagher and his girlfriend at the time, Kelly Ryan, had spent Christmas Eve wandering the snow-covered footpaths. Together, hand in hand, they braved the cold night for the carollers’ tunes and Christmas light street show. He still couldn’t believe it had been three years since they had survived their first date in the park, when it had rained so hard their car got flooded. Lady luck hadn’t exactly been kind; look what the years had brought them. Steve often said Kelly was what got him through his mother’s passing. That kind, simple smile she used to temper his anxiety, the way she’d tilt her head just slightly and listen. Like she did then on that snowy night, walking beside him, keeping him warm. It seemed like the perfect opportunity - he planned to give her a beautiful necklace with the letters ‘K’ and ’S’ attached to it and to ask her to be his beautiful wife. But as the two edged closer towards the last house on the block, Steve’s mix of excitement and nerves was cut short. Kelly slowed to a stop, turned towards Steve and, with eyes glassy and lost, ended their relationship. Before Steve could even comprehend it, Kelly passed him a small package wrapped in beautiful gold paper and sealed with a string bow. And then she walked off into the snowy night. Gone for good. Overwhelmed by shock, Steve staggered home, threw the gift under the Christmas tree and swore to his family he would never open that present. He never did. But the present never left him. Forty-seven years later, Steve still brought out that old, crinkled, faded gold package and placed it beneath his Christmas tree. This was done, of course, despite his wife’s attempts to get rid of it and the passion their pugs held for the early opening of presents when no one was at home. What started as a hope that one day Steve and Kelly would reunite and could open it together eventually grew into a habit, a sort of charm - that he received pleasure out of knowing he’d kept it for so long without spoiling what’s inside. Over the years he’d taken many guesses as to what could be hidden under the now fading wrapping. Could it be a book, a photo of the two or even a now-crusty box of his favourite childhood chocolates? Although, when he thought on it, the feeling of seeing the timeless gold under his tree every year was a gift in and of itself. That was until his secret got out… After uploading a photo of their Christmas tree and decorations to Facebook, a simple throwaway comment from Auntie June typed up during one of her notorious “Christmas benders” pointing out the forty-seven-year-old present attracted the attention of the whole town. One tag turned into two, two into five, and very quickly the photo of the Gallagher’s Christmas tree had three hundred comments and over one thousand likes. Everyone wanted to know more about the ‘secret present’ and, most importantly, what was inside. By the time dinner was ready, the post had received close to five thousand comments from people all over the country who were now sharing the story and taking guesses at what could be inside. Hoping the buzz would die down the next day, Christine deleted the photo and the two retreated to their bedroom and fell asleep. Though, like wildfire spreading, the interest only doubled overnight. The next morning, Steve was awoken by Christine, who had a phone pressed against her ear. RPM News was calling, saying they wanted to interview him about the ‘secret present’. The deleted photo was circulating on news websites and blogs who were all asking the same question - what is inside? BuzzFeed had even created a list of "25 Things That Would Fit in the Secret Present". Annoyed and unsure how to navigate the unsolicited attention, Steve grabbed the phone and hung up. As he walked towards the kitchen to start the day, he noticed a small gathering of people standing on his front lawn waiting around with their phones in their hands. Puzzled, but assuming they must be a morning walking group, he ate his breakfast and ducked past the windows and into the garage. As the garage door opened and he backed down the driveway, he was met with cheers and waves from the crowd of strangers. Smiling and offering a confused wave, Steve headed for work. He was determined to go about his day as if nothing had happened but when he arrived, he was greeted by his coworkers as though he was a celebrity. Balloons and a cake with an unflattering photo of him and the words “Town Legend” decorated on it was sitting on his desk. Becoming frustrated, he began working the floor, hoping it would distract him. He approached a young man who said he was looking to buy his first car. Though strangely, the man seemed more interested in taking selfies with Steve than of the cars he was looking at. Realising the customer was only looking for one thing - that wasn’t a new car - Steve walked back into the office where he remained until he clocked off. The cake wasn’t bad. Steve and Christine both returned home from work and crawled to the sofa. Their pugs followed. Together, the dogs sighed and dreamed. But Steve and Christine could only sigh, long and deep. The buzz hadn’t died down, in fact it was only growing. Steve turned to Christine and Christine turned to Steve. Right. That’s it. Things need to change. RPM News was more than happy to help with that; so happy, in fact, that they sent around a reporter the following day. As he sat on the opposite side of their kitchen table, Christine noticed that his hair matched the colour of their lemon tablecloth. Steve didn’t like the way he smirked instead of smiled, that little curl to the lip. Shark-like. It felt very odd telling all the gory details of his life to a man he’d only just met. But it wasn't only his life he had to talk about. Her’s too. Speaking about a ghost makes it real - this mystery giver of the gift. Soon enough, the reporter had what he needed: a tragic backstory, a car crash, and a last gift of love. Golden Kelly, the reporter dubbed her. Whatever he called her, Steve was just happy to get that sleazeball out of his home. At least now, their lives could return to normal. Or so they thought. After RPM published the article, the story touched the hearts of people all over the country and, not all that long after, most of the world. In countries as far away as Slovenia, avid Golden Kelly fans recorded songs, edited Youtube videos and campaigned for Steve to open the present in memory of Kelly - who they learned tragically died in a car accident only three years back. The story had gone viral, and for the first time in almost forty-seven years, Steve missed Kelly and almost felt guilty for their breakup all this time later. As Steve’s story of his forty-seven-year-old unopened Christmas present went global, he found Christine becoming more and more distant from him. At first, she stopped engaging in conversations about the ordeal, then she demanded Steve throw the present away - she even threatened to take the pugs and stay with her mother for a while! Then came the break-ins. At first, the Gallaghers were woken by the sounds of voices and steps outside their house. Later on a window was smashed. People all over the world were claiming they wanted to steal the present to reveal what was inside and more and more people started visiting the house. The once humble and meaningful golden gift Steve had treasured for so many years was now ruining his life. The fear of a burglary, the constant abuse he received from people he had never even met, his inability to sell any cars without a small crowd taking selfies around him and the toll he could see it was taking on Christine was all too much. Steve contacted RPM News who offered a solution. ‘***Enter now to unwrap history!***’. It was plastered on every newspaper, magazine and website. One lucky winner would be given the opportunity to unwrap the ‘secret present’ live on television and finally answer the question that had captivated the world. The competition lasted only three days but received hundreds of thousands of entries that came from all corners of the globe. After a lifetime of being under wraps, Steve’s faded gold gift now had an opener - twelve year old Eliza Wood. On the day of the unveiling, #secretpresent was trending on every social network, and fans lined the windows of the RPM News studio hoping to catch a glimpse of the almost five-decade-old present. Christine joined Steve in the studio and held his hand in support - probably glad it was almost over. Steve, on the other hand, was agitated and would spend long periods with his eyes shut in deep thought. He didn’t realise how much the present truly meant to him until now - when the magic of it was about to be lost in front of the eyes of millions. It was when Steve saw the studio cameras pointed in his direction, when the roar of the audience’s excitement washed over him, and when he caught the eyes of the young girl holding those golden scissors that he knew he’d made a terrible mistake. Though knowing it was too late to change anything, he waited as the television presenters, the young competition winner and the crowds of fans counted down from ten. As each number was called out, Steve closed his eyes and could so easily picture the cold Christmas Eve he’d received it. He could hear the carollers and feel the frost of the snow. He felt the necklace in his pocket and saw the watery eyes of Kelly once more. Three seconds remained. The crowd scrambled at the windows, Christine took a deep breath. The scissors were raised, and the countdown finished. The young girl took a step forward, moved the scissors towards the faded gold wrapping and stopped. Everyone froze, and Steve opened his eyes. As the world looked on in stunned silence, the young competition winner placed the scissors down on the table and picked the present up and walked towards Steve. As everyone watched on in awe, the young girl handed the crinkled package to him and said, “I think you should open it”. Tears began to stream from his eyes as he held out his hand and took the present from the girl. Taking a final look down the lens of the studio camera and then towards Christine, who, with tears in her eyes as well, gave a nod of approval, Steve peeled back the loose sticky tape and unveiled his present - forty-seven years later. Inside the brittle golden paper was an empty white picture frame with a note attached that read, “Fill this with your life’s greatest memory. Merry Christmas, love Kelly”. \- - - It’s been two years since the magic of Steve’s ‘secret present’ touched the lives of millions around the globe. While he still does occasionally get recognised in the streets and at work, he and Christine did eventually get their wish of an ordinary life again with their two pugs. As for Steve’s forty-seven-year-old present, it can be seen standing next to his Christmas tree every year with his life’s greatest memory inside - a cut of the gold wrapping paper.


The darkness wasn’t always there. There was once light; beautiful light filling the room. The memories of the light drive me mad. All I can do, all I want to do, is capture another moment in it. Yet, darkness is almost all I see. I am paralyzed. Fear is the only thing I feel as I stare at the door before me. The only small taste of light I have had in a long time is coming through the crack of this door. But it is locked. I have a key in my hand but the same question circles like a vulture in my mind, “What if the key doesn’t fit?” There were other doors, lost in the darkness of the room as their lights had burnt out before. I have tried this key in those doors. Each time it hasn’t worked. There was one door in which I thought I heard it start to unlock, but then it failed. So, I sit here paralyzed, holding this key. I dream of the other room, the one with the light. I imagine the comfort, warmth, and clarity that will come with it. Yet courage evades me; and I sit here paralyzed, holding this key. I hear the laughter, faint but strong, coming from the other room. This is a sound I haven’t made in recent memory. A sudden rush of emotion comes over me. I feel the urge, the need to unlock the door. I grasp the key and move towards the door. I can start to feel the warmth. As I get closer the light gets stronger. I reach my hand out, shaking from nervousness. I insert the key and turn it. It unlocks! For the first time in forever excitement sweeps over me. As I open the door, light starts to fill the room. A smile creeps across my face and then…. It disappears. The light was no more. I understood. It was all an illusion. A cruel trick played by my mind… but no, it wasn’t. The light was there. I know I heard the door unlock. How could I be so close to the light, just for the light to burn out? So, I go back to waiting for the next sliver of light to come through a door. Hopeful. I sit, and I wait. Hope the only thing that is keeping me patient. My memory of what once was in this room has slipped away. It left a long time ago. The only thing I know are these doors. These doors that refuse to let me in. More and more time goes by and I am stuck. Hope dwindles and a new sense of anxiety comes over me. I have waited so long and the only thing I am hanging on to, the idea of light filling the room, seems impossible. There is no rest here. I cannot sleep. I just keep looking, searching for a sliver of light. Then it appeared. A new door. A new light. This time it was brighter than ever before. So bright it seemed as if it should bust through the door. I knew. I knew that this was the door to which I had the key. I don’t know how I knew, but I did. The laughter coming from the new room was louder than ever before; it was calling out to me. As I approached the door, I wasn’t nervous. I wasn’t anxious. I wasn’t scared. I simply entered the key, unlocked the door, and went inside.


Throughout the annals of history, many facts are long forgotten, or were never recorded at all. This can be very accurate when regarding the time us humans were only lurking in caves. Though it is quite unfortunate to think so, there are many tales of hardships in every corner of the world never going to be told. Cultures, traditions, sunk by the rising tide. Deities and beliefs comprise a major portion of these old bygones. One deity, an old deity, the first deity, was forgotten almost sixty thousand years ago in the lands of Eastern Europe. Yes, the first god. No name was given for him; people of this time had no use of names yet. Our first ever belief of a higher power, conjured up in some tiny village. It was near the beginning of winter. His village of worshippers had yet to supply enough for the season. They couldn’t hunt animals; it wasn’t the way he taught them. They were farmers, not slaughterers. So, his people, despite the dire consequences that’ll develop, will only eat the supplies of vegetation they could gather in time before winter. Many kept their hopes up, believing their god will help them in their inevitable struggle in the snow, but some in their community had their doubts. Winter came, and the harsh storms targeted their village. They snuggled inside their huts. The outside was now a trap of white blindness and frost they couldn’t enter. The people stayed in their beds, resting and eating whatever food that was supplied to them. That was their regular routine during all this season: waking, eating, then sleeping. One girl from the village woke up early. She yawned and grabbed inside the nearest basket of rations she’s had for store, and felt nothing. It was empty. She looked inside other baskets, but like that one, they had nothing inside. She had to think of a plan, so she wore the cloths of her bed around her, and headed out in the blizzard. She approached the home of her neighbors, asking for any bit of leftovers they might have. But they had nothing, just like her. For the sake of the neighbors’ child, they joined her into asking people from other homes. Once again, the next huts had no food. The entire village had nothing, they would all find out. Two months and the villagers consumed the remaining batches of provisions. Yet, the people remained vigilant, for their beloved god. But their vigilance in this belief would only further their desperation. Days and days went by. Their methods growing increasingly hopeless. Without a healthy source of food, people from the village usually had to go outside and pick anything edible from bushes and trees. Sometimes, they went outside and picked out the grass from the snow and swallow it. Other times, they’d actually swallow the snow itself. Ingesting this snow would be their main cause of sickness. They were hungry before, now they were starving. One man from the village reserved most of his meals for his younger brothers and sisters during the initial winter. He was now a pale, hungering sight of a man by the end of it. He lied motionless on his bed, he seemed almost dead. His eyes were shutting. He was using up any might he had left in his system to fight off the darkness encumbering him, but without anything to bite, sooner or later, he will pass. His siblings sob by the bedside, and meanwhile, a snow rabbit appears on their doorstep. An idea lighted up in their heads. They grab the rabbit by the neck, and look around for a pointy stick. They stabbed the rabbit in its forehead, and offered it to their dying brother. He was horrified by what he saw. At first, he refused to do such a blasphemous thing in front of what they cared so much for, a divinity whose enlightening practices made them such a wonderful and civilized people in his eyes. But the man feels the burning, excruciating pain of desire and hunger. Whether he liked it or not, or whether his god liked it or not, he had to consume the rabbit, for his own survival. He held the rabbit gently, as respect for the innocent little life his siblings took, then he munches on the rabbit like a savage with his bare teeth. From this one moment hinging on his life, he broke the codes his god applied. From a spark of miracle, perhaps from their own deity, the blizzard storm slowly but gradually waned down. It was still not a suitable terrain for farming, but it was suitable for hunting. They had to act quickly. They were no time for debating. This was the only chance they’ll get to make it through the winter. There’s no telling when the blizzard will strike again. The men, women, children, and even the elderly grabbed spears, rocks, and anything remotely resembling a weapon and moved out. They butchered every living creature stumbling in their way: rabbits, racoons, foxes, fishes, birds, and stags. Their old limited way of livelihood was futile and fruitless, they now believed. Ever since that one winter, they stroke out to never fool themselves ever again. The people despised their god for the many families they lost on that winter. In time, the memory of this deity faded, blending in with the dust. The first symbol of a higher power created and the first one forgotten. The first of many.


You're sitting at home on a late summer's night, when you hear the rain begin to patter on your roof. Turning on the weather channel you see that there is a Severe Thunderstorm Watch in your county. 'No big deal,' you think to yourself, 'a watch means nothing besides some rain and maybe two lightning strikes.' Bored, you turn off the TV, and head out to walk towards the bookstore around the corner, but turn around because it's raining a bit harder than anticipated and an umbrella might not be a bad idea. You look around you as you make your way down the sidewalk, 'not many people out tonight.' This was your idea of a perfect night, warm, but not too hot, rainy, with the sun having set not too long ago because it is still August. The crickets chirp loudly and remind you of home. A nice deep breath of cool rainy air brings back pleasant memories. You look at the ground while walking, watching the puddles dance as you walk through them and seeing the rain drops bead up on your shoes. Luckily this bookstore is open pretty late, it's already close to 9. Standing under the awning, you close your umbrella, and shake it out so you don't drip all over the store. Reaching for the handle you push on it with some force, old doors like these are much heavier than the flimsy things built today. A small bell jingles as it creaks open, and the friendly store owner turns his head to you, lowering his book, he says "Good evening Sasha," as he gives you a warm smile. "Hello Mr. Clauson," you answer. You've been coming here for years, and though you don't know him too well, you've had several lovely little talks with that man. A quiet older man, who retired from his day job years ago to take over his grandfather's bookstore. Now his own grandchildren stop in to sit with him and drink their coffee together. You've always loved to see that, it reminds you of when you were young. Walking alongside a tall bookcase, the wooden floorboards creak like the door, you step slowly. Mr Clauson has a very wide variety of books to choose from... romance, cookbooks, mysteries, humorous novels and more. Some of your favorites include the horror and mystery novels, poetry books and the classics. Oh, and the two rooms filled top to bottom with antique books, filling the room with the scent of hundred year old ink and yellowed pages. You decide to head to the mystery section first. Looking down a long row of books you pick out one that catches your eye, a royal blue hardcover, with gold letters spelling out its title, "Buried Under Cherry Trees." You flip it over to see what it's about. 'The story of a family who has picked up everything to move halfway across the country for their father's new job opportunity. Surprisingly everyone has taken the move well. A few weeks after settling in, a disturbing story pops up on the news. "Young teen murdered in coffee shop yesterday morning." Everyone is rattled but seems to move on, until another dies. And then another. Determined to find out what is happening in her new town, Susie, the oldest daughter conducts her own investigation since the police have been proven slightly corrupt. Pondering the cases under the cherry tree one afternoon, she slowly starts to grasp what is really happening, and why they moved here in the first place.' You hold the book a little tighter, intrigued by its description, and decide you'll purchase it, but not until you've looked around a little more. Wandering out of the mystery section, you walk towards the heavy maple bookshelves, holding hundreds of antique books. You run your fingers along the spines of one shelf and land on one. A dull red leather bound book, tough and cracking, showing its years quite beautifully. "The Little Irish Girl," it's titled. You flip through it noticing the tiny print and pages so brittle they snap instead of fold. You think that some books age like people, and some people age like books. You slide it back onto the shelf, talking yourself out of it since it looks a little too complex to get into right now, and you already need to add another bookcase to your living room since you've successfully filled two already. Still unsatisfied with only buying one book today, you pay a visit to the 'poetry and classics' section of the store. Immediately you get excited as you see two books that are absolutely calling to you. The first is "The Great Gatsby," by F. Scott Fitzgerald. One of your favorites, beautifully written, showing the dark side of love and money in an otherwise booming decade. You recall the first time you read it and how you fell in love with it after only a chapter or two. The second book was, "A Collection of Poems and Stories from Edgar Allen Poe." Edgar Allen Poe is one of your favorite poets, and authors for that matter. His strange and dark life pulling you into his deep and odd writings, The Raven of course being your personal favorite. You grab both and head to a corner and sit down in the rocking chair so you can get a little reading in before heading home for the night. After getting lost in Gatsby for nearly half an hour, you stand and yawn, gather your umbrella and walk back to the front of the store. "Find everything alright?" Mr. Clauson smiles, he loves when young people like you come in and pick out a few good books. "Of course I did," you say confidently. A soft rumble of thunder rolls over the roofs of neighboring buildings, exciting you. "Hmm, guess they might've been right about the storms tonight, do you smell the rain? Always puts me to sleep on nights like these," Mr. Clauson says. "Oh me too, I love it" "And that'll be $21.48 tonight dear." He slips a red bookmark into the mystery novel and tucks the books into a brown paper bag with your receipt printed off the outdated yet fitting register. Handing him $25.00, he hands you your change and say goodnight to each other as you walk outside, that little bell jingling behind you again. Once you're down the street a ways, you turn back to see him immersed in another book and chuckle. You don't hurry back, the rain is still pretty light and pleasant to walk in. Back home, you lock the door and head back to your room and sit on the big velvety arm chair in the corner by the window with the lacy curtains. You crack the window to listen to the wind and rain some more. The storm is finally picking up, a perfect time to read. So you light a candle and turn on your lamp, creating the perfect amount of warm light to start reading your Edgar Allen Poe book of collected poems. After an hour of reading you get up to make some tea, a relaxing blend to help you sleep. You begin to feel drowsy while waiting for the kettle to whistle. You've picked out a chamomile and hibiscus blend, and after it's steeped, you carefully carry it back to your room and set it in the porcelain coaster next to the lamp on the nightstand. The moon is bright, almost full, you think as you look at the clock in the other wall and realize it's been another hour of reading and it's almost midnight now. The rain continues but you leave the window open some because it's not enough to get anything wet. You grab a blanket off the back of your chair and slip into bed, and drift off to the sound of raindrops and the soft moonlight.