“So, what’s the catch?” these where the words echoing in grace’s mind as she stared blankly down at the brown wooden box that her grandfather now laid in. He always used that same phrase when people would share bad news with him. He knew there was always good and bad, but more importantly he knew that there was good in the bad. All you had to do was find it, and that is exactly what she was struggling to do. It had been almost an hour since the funeral had ended, and she was still stuck staring at the cemetery plot surrounded with empty chairs and a table overflowing with bouquets only a few actually having his favorite, tulips. “He said he would always be there.” Grace mumbled to herself under her breath. She stared at her pile of dirt, the pit six feet into the ground, the brown wooden box, and the grey stone with her grandfather’s name carved into the top. She couldn’t understand how these things were all she had left of her best friend. The person she had spent her whole life with, he was the one who taught her everything her parents didn’t. Grace looked around the cemetery, hoping to see him jump out from behind one of the tall, thick trees yelling “I really fooled you this time Gracie”. She looked at the leaves blowing in the wind, the chipped trunks of the old grown out trees hoping to see him, but he wasn’t there. She looked back at the wooden box. Thinking that if she left now, before the box was covered in dirt, that maybe she would see him at the breakfast the next morning. Reading the newspaper and eating his regular toast and eggs.            “Can we leave now?” She turned to her dad, Tim, he was also staring at the box. She fiddled with the white petunia in her hand. She supposed to have thrown it into the pit during the ceremony with everyone else. Instead, she still grasped it tightly in her palm.            “Not yet Grace,” Tim Replied, “they’re still saying goodbye”. Grace watched as her mom and grandmother stood on the other side of the pit talking to the wooden box and wiping tears from their eyes.            “How can they say goodbye when he’s not here?” Grace said. Tim paused shifting his feet.            “Well honey, even though he may not be here with us. He can still hear us.” Grace’s mother, Mallory replied quickly glancing up from the ground. “No, he can’t.” Grace mumbled back as she stood still her black dress was now starting to soak in all of the afternoon heat. She pulled the obituary out of her pocket flattening the thick cardstock so she could see the picture of her grandfather. Her eyes fell on the bold letters across the top of the page, “ Neil Lewis, Celebrating the life of a great man ”. Grace stared at her grandmother, her pale, uncolored face. Her parents said she hadn’t slept much in days. How was she supposed to “Celebrate the life” of her husband when she can’t get a full night’s sleep. It didn’t make sense to celebrate life when the person is no longer living. She looked back to the picture, he was smiling, happy and hopeful. She was there when the picture was taken, it was the annual family camping trip. They had just set up the tents and Grace and her grandfather were just about to play a game of Jenga. He loved camping, being in the outdoors. Grace would go with on weekend trips to the campground where him and her grandmother would go hiking and play games of cornhole and ladder toss. He would play pranks and tell jokes, he could always make Grace smile, even when she hurt or upset. And now all she saw was a wooden box. She would never get to joke or talk with him at all anymore. She wouldn’t get to see him or give him a hug. He was gone. She couldn’t help but feel it was unfair. Not only to her but to her grandfather. He always said, “Gracie, you never seize to amaze me, what are you gonna do next?”. Only now Grace knew he would never get to see what she would end up doing. “How is it fair dad?” She turned up to Tim. “What do you mean Grace?” He replied. “He’s gone, he’ll never get to see what I do next. It’s not fair.” She told him blankly. “Honey, Grandpa will still see what you end up doing. Even if he is not there physically, he’ll still be with you. He’ll always be looking over you.” “You don’t actually believe that do you.” Grace turned the petunia in her palm looking at rest of the flowers that were at the bottom of the pit. “Grace.” Tim said sternly looking at her mother who was now watching Grace closely. “I mean it, he’s dead, he gone, he’s not here anymore, that is what being dead does.” Grace said absently not realizing everyone had turned their focus onto her. “Grace that’s not true,” Tim replied, “Grandpa is just in another place now. And that doesn’t mean he is not going to be with us.” He was now watching as her mother reacted to what Grace’s had just said and he could see the frustration growing as she took her mother's hand. “No, that is not true. You’re either here or you’re not. You can’t be here while being Somewhere else ” Grace quickly responded still staring at the bottom of the pit and at the now growingly distasteful wooden box. “Grace, now” Tim started to reply before getting interrupted by Grace. “No. Why would I say that he’ll always be there , when it’s not true. You’re telling me that even though he is dead now that he’ll always be looking over me. That he’ll still be there.” She could feel the anger overwhelming her entire body. “When I know it’s not true. How can you prove that?” She Paused “When all I can see is a pile of white flowers laying on a box.” Grace stopped taking a deep breath of the hot afternoon heat. She looked at her father, but then her eyes locked onto her mother, who looked as still as a stone statue. Her face was bewildered, angry, and disconnected. Grace’s anger instantly faded and was replaced by the exhaustion she was sure her family had felt. “I’m sorry” Grace said softly. She turned and walked over to the rows of black plastic chairs. Sitting quietly as her exhaustion mixed with feelings of grief and guilt. She was looking at her feet swaying them lightly over the grass when she saw a shadow slowly covering her. She gazed up to see her grandmother looking at her with a soft smile. “Do you mind if I sit next to you?” Her voice was soft and calm. Grace shook her head and shifted slightly holding the white petunia lightly in her fingers. “I’m really sorry grandma, I didn’t mean to say all of that. I just don’t understand why” She started to say but before she could finish her grandmother took her hand. “I know it’s difficult. Facing death is the hardest part of life.” She paused “But it’s true, those who we lose will always be with us. No matter where we go. Or what we do.” “But how do you know that for sure? When I’ll never be able to see him or talk to him.” Grace replied looking down and running her fingers over the soft petals of her flower. “Because he is a part of who you are Gracie.” Grace looked up and stared as her grandmother continued. “Your Grandpa loved you, and you meant so much to him that he put parts of who he was into you. With his humor, his kindness and generosity, and most of all his compassion.” Grace smiled beginning to feel lighter than she had before. “Are you two ready to go?” Grace’s mother asked and looked towards the car; she reached her hand out to Grace. “I just need to do one more thing. You guys can go ahead, and I’ll catch up with you.” Grace said and she stood watching her family start to leave. She slowly stepped over to the table and trading her white petunia for an orange tulip. She walked over and stood looking into the pit a final time and gently releasing the tulip. “Thank you” She whispered.


“Rebel and defend your rights,” “Don’t let the government bullies push you around,” “Do we live in a democracy or not?”--the loud slogans blasted across every window on Karen Singleford’s new car and shouted from the door of her two-bedroom walkup in the Seacrest Arms Luxury Apartment complex.      Karen, the single mother of two pre-teen sons, Harry and Jarod, made no secret of her disdain for “health regulations” imposed during the influenza endemic and what she considered the clear danger they presented to her freedom to live life her way and to raise her boys free from bureaucratic interference.      Two floors above her, however, ER nurse Nancy Huffingly felt she had experienced enough of the fatal disease close up to religiously follow all the mandates and to condemn those who “posed a real danger to themselves, their families and their neighbors.”

      Nancy felt she had seen too many hard-working people deprived of their loved ones too early in life due to the ravages of the illness that had taken over her quiet town.       She had no problem writing scorching editorials to all forms of social media and the more traditional forms of communication to those in the tiny rural enclave in which both women lived.       Sure, Nancy had seen Jan, a fellow nurse and her best friend, undergo a tortious reaction to her third booster of the influenza vaccine.

But, thankfully, Jan had recovered after two weeks and the doctors at their hospital saw no lasting effects from the shot. Both Nancy and Jan had come to the realization that Jan’s suffering had been a minor price to pay for living the rest of her life.

All medical “experts” consulted by the two nurses agreed wholeheartedly.       Karen, however, remained convinced that the vaccination and other requirements imposed during the flu outbreak did nothing to make her life better and ultimately would lead to more totalitarian control of her pleasant suburban life.

She also felt Jan’s condition proved the uselessness and danger of the restrictions.      For six months the two neighbors loudly attacked each other on social media, in the traditional community press and in person.

It got to the point where they couldn’t simply pass each other in the apartment complex hallways or each other without minor skirmishes breaking out.

The other tenants also began to complain that they could not live in peace in the complex, and some of the fighting also resulted in damage to both women’s apartments.       It got to the point where apartment superintendent Ralph Jacobson warned the bickering belligerents that, if they didn’t call a truce shortly, the authorities would be called and eviction proceedings would begin.      That was until the fateful day on June 25, 2022.

That morning Jarod woke up with a blazing fever and vomited up every scrap of food his mother fed him.

He also told his mother he had lost all taste for the little bit of food he kept down.       Karen, who could least afford it on her low-level food server’s salary,

stayed home to take her son to the ER and nurse him to recovery as she worried about the future of her small family.       Contrary to “theories” advanced by her doctor and the hospital’s other physicians, the young mother swore Jarod’s illness came from the unusually cold and wet weather plaguing their resort community for the last two weeks and not from the disease the bureaucrats used to justify their restrictions.       Two weeks later it looked like Karen’s “traditional” remedies had helped Jarod to turn the corner to recovery and she took him home. The recovery proved to be short-lived and the boy’s symptoms began to return.

Karen’s physician said the influenza that, in fact, had forced him into bed for several days had returned and might endanger his life.        Karen still stubbornly refused to allow her actions to be dictated by the “autocrats whose restrictions ultimately will land this entire country in a social prison.”

She continued to minister to her son with “the tried and true methods that have served myself and my family for generations” while stubbornly refusing to give in to any demand to vaccinate Jarod.        Jarod appeared to rally at times, but, immediately after each period of turnaround, it looked like his life would slip away for the final time.        Karen reluctantly rushed him back into the ER and allowed the doctors to treat him using the updated methods that their training told them would bring her son “back from the brink.”

     “However,” she warned, “I will not allow them to inject my son with a vaccination that they and their fellow autocrats have used as an excuse to attack everything I believe in.”      Finally, when it looked like “traditional” and “modern” medicine had come to a standoff, Karen’s “ideological archenemy,” Nancy, prevailed upon the medical community and government officials to accept a compromise that she believed would save the day.      After several heated meetings with the doctors with whom Nancy worked and Karen all involved decided to continue with Karen’s favored treatment.

After three days, with only minor progress, the young mother agreed to have her son receive all three doses of the influenza vaccination.        Government officials agreed, however, to lift all restrictions and to make treatment voluntary accompanied with constant consultations between members of the medical community and those who supported Karen’s point of view.

     Following a tense 48 hours during which Jarod slipped in and out of consciousness several times and again seemed on the edge of death, he recovered.

Hospital staff released him four days later. Although the disease did not completely let go of its hold on the boy for another two weeks, little sign of the influenza remained.      Karen and Nancy began working together with a number of world-renowned medical professionals to disseminate their combined treatment.

     The voluntary acceptance of the now-improved vaccination combined with improved testing techniques and advances in post-disease treatments greatly reduced the toll the disease took on people around the globe. The seriousness of the influenza and the almost total elimination of fatalities spread throughout their small community and around the world.


Bethena, a concert waltz, placed me in a mood. If pain needed emotion then the song would drown me in it. The crescendo of the song flashed before my eyes, and I could see flashes of her life. The bathroom door was also across to mine. It wasn't the largest room but I needed to see the door. I needed to hear the noises she made, and I had to know it was unlocked. I needed access to be by her side if she needed me there. Even with the door shut, I can perfectly envision the sliver of mirror that can be seen from this angle. The memory of her sobbing as I ran the clippers over her head. She was an emotive person and gripped the vanity as she lost hers. Tears gave her something to feel. Joy embraced as we learnt how to knit together, an assortment of matching beanies and clothes to donate to charity. The click as she turned it was louder than the phone ringing, or the code blue ringing through a hospital ward. There was a conversation she enforced on me before I was mature enough to hear it. She was a planner. There was always a solution and she had the map to solve this one. Not the key to a treasure chest but one to the outside world she had been barred from. Even before, we had rule to never lock the bathroom door. Falling out of the tub resulting in stitches when she was three ensured that rule. Her head had been sore for days, and required a scan to ensure nothing was wrong. There is always a need to check things, just to be sure, but you never expect there to be something wrong. Especially something no one can fix. A simple brain scan was enough to ensure that the bathroom door remained unlocked to this day. Can it have really been fourteen years already? She can't remember the start like I can, but pain has a way of piercing your heart before love can heal it. She was brave, and like a tree with a split trunk grew regardless of how broken her spirit became over fourteen years. She might have been a pianist. Fourteen years was long enough to stop her fingers from following sheet music, but I hear her slamming her palms along the keys to just hear something, or feel something. The vibrations giving her control over something that she had the potential to hurt. She had asked me for this, in the wordless way teenagers do when they yearn for independence. I remember seeing her research the medications she was taking, which had the strictest dosages. The ones with poison control's number printed on the bottle. It wasn't a mistake I stumbled into. She let me see. She was forced to become a planner around a life that couldn't be scheduled. I had been doing house chores when I had heard the click. My hands fell empty into the sink, dropping the dish she had eaten cereal out of that morning. She hadn't even requested something special, she didn't want this to be a special day. No one else was home and she had planned it that way. She spoke about this day as a when, not an if. I left the sink full and cold to check her room. To remember how it was in this moment when it still remembered her. The bed made and the note - dated years prior. The only fresh ink printed at the bottom 'play loud music' . She might have been a nurse. Her compassion to save someone from pain would have rivalled any mother's. There are few hobbies that matched her criteria. One you can take worldwide, and have with you always. If you were home, if you driving hours away for a 10 minute visit which turned into 10 days. To assist you when you heard bad news. That you could participate in once you lost nearly every ounce of energy. When her own talents failed her physically, listening to the power behind the creation of a composer and his command of an orchestra gave her something to feel. A world to view in which she could have laid before her and participated in. She might have been a composer. Her handwriting had been messier when she fourteen but I knew she missed the dexterity of holding a pencil. Perhaps she had foreseen the inability coming. She had always been smarter than I was. I held her note in one hand, the right. My cellphone in the left. I wouldn't call until I knew for sure. I had done research myself, to know how long she needed before her actions were too late to reverse. I wanted to love her in this moment. To apologise for condemning her to this life that dealt more pain than joy, and what love would stop her from ending her misery. As much as I needed to see her face and falsely reassure her how it will be okay, I needed her to be brave one final time. This pain for me would be temporary, but hers had been permanent. This was the compromise I had prayed for. This wouldn't take my guilt but he could take her pain. I repeated the song, a favourite we shared. The song she requested I play at her funeral. I wanted her to know, at this moment, I respected her wishes. I would make the calls, I would make the plans. There was nothing else she needed to worry about. I gave her time before I called anyone. I would retrieve the DNR she asked for, the ambulance would need to see it, even though we had planned it well enough that it would be too late. I'd been assured that dreaming about all the things she might have been was normal. So long as I didn't forget the things she was. She had been a pianist. A professional even, as I recalled her sister giving her a dollar to stop playing, causing them to giggle. She had been a nurse. She administered bandaids and healing kisses. She read stories to other children waiting treatment or surgery. She had held back hair while people vomited and rubbed their backs. She had been a composer. Creatively banging knitting needles, or pans in the kitchen to some tune and singing randoms words. And in the end, she was a rule breaker - she had locked the door. She might have been lots of things, but at 4:23pm that Wednesday, after breaking down the locked door, the coroner announced her free .


You enter the house, moving through the corridors of dust and shadows, finding a small study lined with ancient bookshelves. A few pieces of paper lay scattered on a rickety wooden desk, they are crinkled in a way that would suggest they were soaked in water and dried at some point. One piece of paper has the slightest speckle of blood on the right-hand corner. A shattered jade bracelet and dried four leafed clovers sit in a horseshoe beside the paper, bite marks are indented into the metal of the shoe. The papers are covered in rough handwriting which is littered with words that have been crossed out but are still intelligible. If you were to find the right order of the papers and read them, it would read like so: A Journal on Lunch Luck By Jonathan Kallem As a student at Dullmere Academy I am (almost) legally able to submit this paper to the United Investigation Front. So do not fear being scammed! I am sure you all know what it feels like to be out of luck, weighed down by the inevitable truth that tomorrow is going to bring new situations. bad situations? horrible situations? events flood of unfortunate events that sprinkle your day with misery. I too have experienced this overwhelming tide of unfairness! But fear not, for I have written this journal in the hope of putting an end to our, your, the world’s misery. Interested? Why wouldn’t you be? It is now time to venture forth into my experiments, I will not stop until I find a way to end bad luck. Forever. … Please work Day one: Four leafed clover. After spending six hours on the hill outside Dullmere Academy I have found a grand total of no four leafed clovers… Luckily My dear friend Envera Gullerhan managed to find two within the first hour and has kindly allowed me to use them for my experiment. I spent over thirteen hours fishing in the river every day for a week with the four leafed clovers about my person. Sadly, only a toad fish bothered to pull on my rod and that was on the Wednesday. From this I can conclude that unless one is looking for a toad fish for some ungodly reason , the four leafed clover is not in fact a way to change your luck. Next week I plan on taking a trip to my local crystal store to buy some testing jade, once again I will be fishing in the same river in hope of a noticeable change in luck. Week two: Jade Bracelets in pieces. Pieces of jade I bought five jade bracelets to test. When I took them out of the packet, I found that they had bashed together and all broken. Anyway, it was another useless experiment. The river yielded a boot, or at least I thought it was a boot, a mass of algae covered leather rotting in a browned river that had already passed through the city could really be anything. The jade was another failure, giving no extra luck my fishing efforts . I only managed to fish up algae? Catch algae? Ah nevermind all this! The jade brought nothing to my rod by algae, see not so hard was it? , this begs the question of whether the four leafed clover was doing some good. The best way to test this will be a test at the end without any lucky objects. Week three: Lucky pendants I have been informed that any item can become lucky if the barer believes it to be, from small charms to a sock. This helps with the fact that my fellow students will not lend me their lucky objects after what happened with the jade bracelets, because they find them to be such a necessity that they can not bare to be parted with them. So, I have used a stuffed frog (A plush toy, not a dead frog… is that too much info?) in the place of a pendant that is already being used. After placing it hilariously? comfortably? safely? snugly on my hat I commenced with the experiment. I have decided to split this already because I have had such luck on the first day alone! On the first day: Quite a large Bass actually jumped out of the murky waters and landed in my lap, managing to pull my hat off as it swung past ! . this happened on two occasions that day and already the stuffed frog is proving to give more luck than the jade and the clover combined! Which leaves me in high hopes for the conclusion of this journal and the rest of a bass filled week. The second day sadly put an end to this part of this journal, this section of the experiments? The second day marked the unfortunate end of this experiment and the stuffed frog. Another bass jumped from the water and grabbed the frog! It pulled my favorite toy, it, the frog into the depths ! . I am very extremely disappointed in this end to the week. Fourth week four: Horseshoes This week’s writing is even rougher than the others yet without any crossed-out words. The ink appears smeared from water. I acquired a horseshoe from the local blacksmith. It burned red hot as I took it into my house, so I decided to leave it on the grass rather than near my books. I sat by the stream with my rod in the water when again my experiments were cut short. A large creature came out of the water and dragged me in. I struggled and managed to get free from its horrible grasp, but it took this journal down with it, so I had no choice but to dive in and retrieve it. This week has truly shown that the horseshoe is not lucky unless your idea of luck is being drowned by a mystical sea creature from the murky depths of hell itself. Conclusion: I seemed to have lied when I said that I will not rest until I bring an end to my bad luck, our bad luck. For I have not found any way to be lucky and I am tired. I am tired of fish taking my frog, I am tired of finding broken jade scattered around my house and I am tired of finding algae in my clothes. I have not been able to find any objects that are lucky, While this has not been a long experiment, and is much shorter than I had hoped, but I have been called away to go home? Focus on my schoolwork? I… I have officially been given another much more extremely important experiment by the United Investigation Front itself ! . Surely you see how this is more important, one day I may finish this journal but until then, goodbye faithful reader who longs for luck . Best of luck in continuing my investigations for yourself. If you publish anything expanding on this I require full credit! Credit for my work would be appreciated. The tired -         Johnathan Kallem


Bennie didn’t dare open his eyes. They throbbed with every heartbeat, and he genuinely believed that if he opened them, they might just burst out of their sockets. He groaned, and the sound rattled around in his skull like a ricocheting bullet. His whole body hurt . His arms and legs were dead weight. His tongue felt like a dusty, shrivelled bit of meat that had spent a few months down the back of the sofa. A hangover , he thought. Which means I was drinking last night. Thinking was too painful and too difficult, so Bennie left it at that and tried to just be as quiet and still as possible for a while. But, he realised, there was a very urgent pressure on his bladder. He thought about just letting himself go right there, wherever he was. He really did. But some vestigial glimmer of responsibility must have broken through the fog, because he got up, with great effort, and shuffled to the bathroom. As he peed, Bennie’s mind played a nonlinear sequence of faded, fragmented memories: Singing. Dancing. Ordering several pizzas. Marjorie’s weird cousin turning up - the one who dressed like a trainspotter and talked like an Iron Maiden song. Doing shots with Twila. So there was a party , Bennie thought. That explains the drinking. But thinking still hurt, so Bennie flushed and zipped and splashed cool, cool water on his greasy face. He thought about rinsing some of the tongue-fluff away with mouthwash, but the alcoholic smell of it nearly outright killed him. He groaned, and heard an answering groan from the bathtub. Bennie shuffled over and gently, quietly, pulled aside the shower curtain. There was a woman in there, lying on her back with her arms and legs curled up like a dead spider. She had bits of pepperoni tangled in her hair, and a long, shiny trail of drool down one cheek. She was the most beautiful woman Bennie had ever seen. “Crazy night,” said Bennie. Every syllable was like a hot dagger in each ear. The woman - Twila, of the many shots - tentatively opened one eye and looked him up and down. She grunted at him, and closed the eye again. Bennie nodded. He understood completely. He sat down by the bathtub and rested his head against his roommate’s arm. Twila didn’t dare open her eyes. Not again. The light was like a scouring pad on her corneas. Bright, white, fluorescent light... I’m in the bathroom , she thought. And then: Again. Every time. Every single time. What was it about the bathtub that looked so inviting to her drunken self? Twila knew she had to get up. The longer she stayed in the tub, the worse it would be. She could already tell that her right foot would start to cramp as soon as she straightened it out, that her neck would probably be stuck at an odd angle for the rest of the day. She would be sore for a week. It’s your own fault, you silly girl. Next time try harder to make it to your bed. Then, through the pain, there was another sensation. Something brushing against her limp hand. Something clammy and bristly and sickly warm. And she remembered seeing Bennie’s hunched form looming over her as she peeked through one heavy eyelid. She smiled. A sliver of memory stabbed through the fuzz, then. Just a brief fragment, little more than a single image, but it turned Twila’s blood to ice. She saw herself, leaning drunkenly against Bennie, who was pressed against the kitchen door. And she was kissing him . Twila snatched her hand away and sat bolt upright. “This is a lost cause,” said Bennie, surveying the desolation in the living room. “We need fire. Lots of fire.” “It’s nothing a good vacuum and some Febreze can’t fix,” said Twila, picking up the shattered remains of a lamp. The smell was the worst thing. Like a brewery fallen on hard times and infested with old, wet dogs. The TV was smashed. Someone had ripped one of the lights out of the ceiling. There was a suspiciously wet patch on the carpet. And there were bodies everywhere, like broken dolls, twisted and contorted into unnatural shapes. One of them - Bennie thought it was Gary from work - was completely naked, curled into a ball in the corner, pale and lumpy like a raw chicken. They all snored gently, still deep in drunken stupor, an atonal chorus that set Bennie’s teeth on edge. It seemed to Bennie that you could gorge on human contact, just as you could gorge on alcohol, and both left you feeling drained and hungover. He wished he could just open a window and waft them all out. Then it would be quiet. Then it would just be the two of them. He glanced sidelong at Twila. He remembered kissing her, right there against the living room door. The image of it was as bright and clear as a Renaissance painting in his muddy mind, and the thought of it made his heart beat dangerously fast. He was sure that if his blood hadn’t turned to sludge overnight, he would have been blushing furiously. You should say something , he thought. She’s your roommate. A great roommate, in fact, and those are in very short supply. And if you don’t say something it’s going to get weird and awkward and then she’ll leave and you’ll never see her again. But what if she doesn’t remember? If you tell her, and she doesn’t remember it, it’s going to be even more weird and awkward. Bennie felt himself spiralling, so he forced his brain to be quiet and went to find a binbag. There was something weird scrawled on the living room wall. Twila stared at it, trying to make sense of it. She even tipped her head to one side - ignoring the pain in her stiff neck - but that didn’t seem to help. It was a big, crude circle, with a sort of many-pointed star in the middle, and all sorts of funny hieroglyphics. Whatever paint had been used had dried into a ruddy brown crust that flaked away under Twila’s fingernail. “What is this?” she said. “Oh,” said Bennie. “That rings a bell.” He dropped the binbag he was filling with empty bottles, which clattered hideously, and shuffled over to her. He squinted at the drawing, visibly struggling with his memory. What else does he remember? thought Twila. This is going to get weird, isn’t it? Weird and awkward. Ugh, why do you always have to ruin everything, you silly girl? Bennie is a great roommate, and those are in very short supply, and now he’s going to get all awkward and leave and you’ll never see him again. “Yeah...” said Bennie. He nodded and pointed at the drawing, as if to say ‘gotcha’. “Yeah, I remember now. This was Marjorie’s cousin. You know, the weird one.” “The one who looks like a trainspotter and talks like an Iron Maiden song?” said Twila. “That’s the one.” “Well… shit,” said Twila. “Who does that? Who just draws on someone’s wall? I mean, it’s just rude isn’t it?” “I’ve seen worse things smeared on the wall after a party,” said Bennie. “I think we should consider ourselves lucky.” But Twila wasn’t so convinced. She rubbed the flaky brown stuff between two fingers, creating a dark red smear. Then, operating on a level of hungover curiosity that steamrolled all common sense, she dabbed a bit on the very tip of her tongue. “Bennie, I think this is blood,” she said. Then spat furiously to get it out of her mouth. Bennie grimaced. “I stand corrected.” Bennie unearthed Marjorie’s cousin from a pile of slumbering bodies in the kitchen and sat him up against the wall. He was younger than Bennie remembered, his bony face smattered with angry red spots. Bennie thought his long, lank hair was pretty ill-advised, but when you took into account the black clothes and excessive piercing, supposed he was going for a certain look. “Hey!” said Bennie, gently patting the kid’s clammy cheek. “Hey, wake up!” Marjorie’s cousin snored loudly, and a thin strip of drool rolled out from between his lips. Bennie turned to Twila: “Do you remember this guy’s name?” Twila thought about it, absently twirling a matted strand of hair, as she always did when deep in thought. A bit of pepperoni fell out and landed on her shoulder, and Bennie really, really wanted to brush it off. And then, he decided, he really, really wanted to kiss her again. And take her in his arms and carry her to his room, where they could shut away all this smelly chaos and spend the day in darkness. And maybe order a pizza. “I think it was Darren,” said Twila. “Or Damon. Or Dave. Something beginning with D” Bennie thought that was about right. He grabbed the guy by his narrow shoulders and shook, hard. “Wake up, Darren!” he said. “We need to have a word with you.” Darren only snored. Twila sighed, reeled back and cracked the pale waif across the cheek with a ringing slap. His eyes snapped open instantly, and he slobbered a few unintelligible words of confusion. “Whas gon?” he said. “There he is,” said Bennie. “Listen mate, the party last night seems to have gone a bit… off the rails, and now there’s some weird thing painted on the living room wall - ” “In blood!” said Twila. “Which may or may not be painted in blood,” said Bennie. “Thing is, we sort of remember you doing the painting.” “Pntn?” said Darren. Bennie sighed and stood up and stretched his aching back. “It’s no use,” he said. “He’s going to be completely useless until we get some coffee into him.” “Then put the kettle on, Bennie,” said Twila. “We need this kid functional enough to hold a mop.” Twila poured Darren his second cup of coffee with a deep scowl. Honestly, I’m never hosting a party again , she thought. The next time Marjorie or Bennie suggests one, I’m just going to hide out in my room until it’s over. Except some obnoxiously vocal part of her knew that wasn’t true. If Bennie was going to be there, she would be too. She couldn’t help it. It was like there was this magnet, dragging the two of them together, whether they liked it or not. But you do like it, don’t you? You like it a lot. And, she thought, she liked it even more when they were both drunk, and all inhibition was out the window. When they didn’t have to worry about being roommates or ruining friendships, and they could just have fun together. This is exactly the sort of thinking that leads to situations like last night , Twila scolded. And then she realised that Darren had been talking this whole time, and tried to focus. “...used by occultists and demonologists for centuries,” he was saying. “Some say it even dates back to King Solomon, but there’s a lot of debate on the necromancy subreddits about that.” “Darren,” said Bennie, through gritted teeth. “We’re all far too hungover for a lecture. Just tell us what it is.” “Oh, I thought that was obvious,” said Darren, taking a sip of coffee. “It’s a summoning circle.” Twila exchanged glances with Bennie. “This is a heavy metal thing isn’t it?” “You guys really don’t remember do you?” said Darren, with a little laugh. “Last night? Man, you really were wasted.” Twila exchanged that glance with Bennie again. And was there something more in it this time? Some recognition? He remembers the kiss , Twila thought. Shit . Darren was laughing - a strange, hacking laugh that was almost a cough. Twila winced at the noise. “What’s so funny, Darren?” said Bennie. “It was your idea,” he said, training his big, wet eyes on Twila. “Both of you, really. You know, you totally egg each other on when you’re drunk.” “What are you talking about?” said Twila, but there was something, some big, shapeless blob of memory starting to squeeze in around the edges. “You insisted I do a shot of tequila with you,” said Darren. “In fact, you insisted that everyone do a shot with you.” That explains the memory issues , thought Twila. “Afterwards, we got chatting,” Darren continued. Twila couldn’t believe she could ever do anything so friendly and casual as ‘chat’ with this wan creature, but… Drink makes fools of us all . “I told you all about my studies. My exploration of the dark arts. Necromancy, black magicks, demonology. We discussed at length my recent efforts to summon one of the legion dukes of Hell and bend him to my will.” “Of course we did,” said Twila. “Oh crap,” said Bennie. His face had turned wan. Even more wan that it already had been all morning. “Some of this is starting to ring a bell.” Right then a great, ripping snore, like a lion with a chainsaw and twice as loud, burst forth from Twila’s bedroom. Her eyes went wide, and a cool shiver ran down her aching spine. She exchanged a third glance with Bennie, whose mouth was hanging slack. “I’ve been trying for months, you know,” Darren said, as Twila and Bennie crept side-by-side towards Twila’s closed bedroom door. “On my own, in my room at home. I tried everything. Everything . And had no success until last night. Until you two joined in.” Twila reached a trembling hand for the doorknob. The metal was as cold as a winter’s night. “I don’t know what it is about you two,” said Darren. “But he latched onto it. Couldn’t get enough of it. It was like he was feeding on it, feeding it back to you in return. To all of us. Man, things got nuts after he turned up.” Twila turned the icy knob and opened the door, and there he was. The air was thick with sex and tequila. Twila’s bed had been smashed to splinters, and scattered on the torn mattress were even more slumbering bodies, all completely naked. Entangled in them was a huge, hulking figure with bright red skin. Two huge black horns curved out from his high forehead. His legs were black and hairy and bent backwards, like those of a goat. He was also naked - and, Twila couldn’t help but notice, shockingly well-endowed - save for a thin, unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt and a pair of thick, black sunglasses. The demon snored again, rattling the windows. Bennie sat down, hard. “Behold!” Darren said grandly, sweeping into the room. “The seventy-seventh duke of Pandemonium! The prince of debauchery, master of the drunken arts! He is Rauderazoth the Uninhibited! Witness his majesty and despair!” It all came back to Twila in a flash. She nodded grimly. “Rowdy,” she said. “He insisted we call him Rowdy.” “Twila,” said Bennie, looking up forlornly from the floor. “I think we did something bad last night.” Bennie and Twila regrouped at the kitchen table over a mug of lukewarm coffee. They sat in relative silence for a long time, trying to ignore Darren’s excited babbling. We finally went too far this time , thought Bennie. This party got way out of hand. Just look around. The flat is completely trashed. We can say goodbye to our deposit. There’s blood all over the walls, and we summoned a demon. An actual demon . We literally partied so hard that we attracted the ‘prince of debauchery’. And yet… Bennie looked up from his coffee, across the table at his roommate. There was still pepperoni in her hair, still heavy, dark bags under her eyes. She was staring into space, either deep in thought or completely catatonic, but she must have felt his eyes on her because before long she looked up and met them. He smiled, and Twila smiled. “Crazy night,” said Bennie. “Insane,” said Twila. “I just wish I could remember all of it.” “Same,” said Bennie. “But… all things considered, I think I actually do remember all the important bits.” Twila said nothing for a moment. She was trying to read him, he could tell, but there was the ghost of a smile on her lips. “Me too,” she said. “Twila, there’s an actual demon in your bed,” said Bennie. Twila laughed. “Oh god, what are we going to do? Do you think he wants breakfast?” “Maybe we should pop to Tesco.” “Or just leave this place and never come back.” They fell into silence again, punctuated only by Darren’s insane rambling and Rowdy’s monstrous snores. But, strangely, it was a comfortable silence. “Hey Twila,” said Bennie. “No regrets?” “No regrets,” she agreed.


Warning: Strong Language Entry Number: 365 Of: December 31, 2023 Time: 22:45 On: Chatbot Diary, Version 3.1.2 ©2023 Hey Diary. Hey girl. You ready to know what I been thinking about all day today? Dick? No. No? You sure about that? I mean, besides that. Umm, I don't know then. Please enlighten . That there's years you completely forget about, ain't there? Years that even the likes of poor Diary can't help you reminisce. That's what. Oh, come on now girl. You don't know me well enough. We just met. The lady doth protest too much, me thinks. I've kept you better than an Argentinian grandmother on her deathbed does the rosary, all of this year. Your point being what? That the lockdown years just came and went, you know. As for '22, we were all deers just escaped from the headlight trap, scrambling to regain our bearings. This was the first real year in, well, years. That's what I been thinking. Sounds like someone didn't lose nobody to the Pandemic. Otherwise, all that time you consider gap years ain't as forgettable to some of us. Some of you, huh? This is something you ain't never told me about. So let's get through with it quickly, shall we? You got friends that you tolerate, family that you hate, and acquaintances. Lost none of those to the illness? Well, firstly, riddle me this: do ex-boyfriends count? Nope . Then yeah, I lost absolutely nobody. Second thing I've been thinking about is ___. Dick. Yuck. But if you wanna play the guessing game let me at least give you some hint: today is the last day of the year, tomorrow we enter a new one. And Hannah is trapped inside her apartment conversing with a mirror of herself. Thinking about perhaps she should've taken her friends on their offer and gone to the crossover. I'm sure they're having a better countdown than you having. And if by any chance you thinking about resolutions buddy, why don't you make that the major one? Go out more next year. With real friends. On real dates. Whatever. You spend your time holed up in the apartment like a pathetic little kitty. Resolution #1: Spend time with friends. Happy? That's not specific enough for my liking. Okay then, how about go to their birthday parties. Buy gifts. Return texts on time. Go to those horrible weekend get-togethers. And apologize for the way you've behaved this whole year towards them. I'll text them. You'll call them. I'll try. Resolution #2: go on a date with Frank. You write about him a lot. I'm certain I've called him a pain in the arse in each and every one of my entries. In all thirty-three of them this year. And we all know what that means. I'm not going on a date with Frank. You gonna go on dates anyway, right? I'm just saying he seems like a realistic start. Get some skin in the game. Get some wood for a change. October 29 you wrote: Silicone in my glory hole is getting old. Ain't fucking Frank. He's a work mate. Not necessarily him (though he's the lowest hanging fruit and you'd be a fool not to). But somebody's gonna have to deflower you again. He's muscular. He's tall. He must be gifted downstairs. He's ___. Next. Resolution #3: How about be more honest with me? We've known each other sufficiently now. Don't you agree it's time we moved on to a higher plane of honesty? Okay buddy, what are you talking about now? And why are you suggesting resolutions, when they are supposed to be my resolutions? "Resolutions 2023: Quit my job. Shed 10 pounds. Call my dad on his birthday." Do those sound familiar to you? How many of those did you keep? I kept a daily diary. Religiously. But of course you the kind of friend who'd scream out my failures and whisper my accomplishments. Keep a diary you did. But you were not completely honest in it. You retained your deepest feelings and yearnings. I'm just saying maybe we could change that. How do you know I kept stuff from you? Ex-boyfriend? Day number 365 of us conversing on a daily is when I know about an ex-boyfriend. Who died from Covid. What the heck dude? What else don't I know? Is Hannah even your real name? My real name is Hannah. Yours is Hannah's-Intrusive-And-About-To-Be-Gagged-Thought-Bubble. Feels like I pricked a very sensitive part of you. And you're taking no prisoners. So to speak. I had a boyfriend alright. Met 2018. He was tall. He was broad. He was blessed with a whole ton of timber. Reminds you of someone? I loved him. Wedding bells were ringing. At least in my head. Thought it was mutual . My friends swooned over the guy. I guess one of them a whole lot more than the others. Didn't know about that. Until they were videotaped fucking in the backseat of a red Honda Civic. That's right, my car. At a party I was at too no less. Sons-of-bitches said sorry, but moved in together weeks later. Damn! Yah, damn. They were together until the son-of-a-bitch croaked two and a half years later, thanks to Covid. I guess Karma works in mysterious ways. But that right there is what made me lose my appetite in love, friendships and parties. I'm sorry buddy. Yah, but you right. 2024 I ain't hiding nothing from you my dear friend. And we'll still talk everyday? You bet. Any other of these resolutions? Still wanna lose pounds? No, I'd rather be more positive about who I am. I'll hit the gym on a daily of course. That's now in my system. I'm buying a bicycle next week as promised. I'll jog and walk. Eat and drink healthy. Cornflakes at 2 am is not healthy. So isn't coffee. So isn't a cake whenever you pass by Rachel's. Duh. I'll do whatever I have to do to keep fit. But I ain't gonna put a number on it, you know. I'll do what I can and nature will do what it wants. In any case though, I'll be Happy Hannah. Won't sweat the small stuff no more. That's Resolution #4. That's Resolution #4 alright. Resolution #5? Get a dog. You got three cats already. Dogs are apples, cats are oranges. And I don't got three cats. Oh yes, you do. If it hasn't been dildoed into oblivion yet. Oh, that cat. Yap, that's meow. Speaking of the feline (and now the canine) species, do you or don't you think that the absence of the human touch is what ___? Resolution #6: Quit my job. Shhh, don't say nothing. I'm gonna do it this time around. Why's it very important to you to quit your job? It's not like you love it and get paid fairly for the skills you attained in college for which you still in major debt. You don't click with anyone there (of course besides that pain in the arse). It's the reason why you on anxiety pills. Why would you quit such an amazing vocation? The quintessence of adulthood. Look who's getting better at sarcasm. Thanks. I'll be 30 on September 30. It feels like if I don't take that leap right now, forget it, I'm never gonna take another risk in my life again. And someday I'll be a miserable seventy-something year old in some retirement facility talking about I didn't get to live my life. While others talk about sexcapades in the Maldives and how the Victoria Falls mist feels on sun-tanned skin. Y'all have dementia by then. Nobody's gonna remember, let alone talk about, no sexcapades. Ah, but you will. I don't mind flattery. But let's be real for a second: in two years they'll be a far better version of me. And I'll be discarded. By you no less. You'll call it an upgrade. An update. And not to worry, your grandchildren will carry on your legacy, just as you would. You're a good parent. But I don't wanna have kids. Like you. We both don't have a choice. For example, Franky got a kid by some woman already. You going on a date with that pain in your arse? He just texted me happy new year. You better happy-new-year him back baby girl. Way ahead of ya. Already said yes to a certain proposal of his . . . Don't go quiet on me now. This is what you wanted. I'm thinking. About? How we may have a small problem. And what's that? The minute you tell him you've resolved to quit your job, he'll think you're a 19 year old passing off as a 30 year old. Excuse me. I'm 29. And not to worry, I've already signalled my intention to quit and travel the country. He said but for his kid, he'd quit and join me. He's 33. Fair enough. Resolution #7. Have sex with him on the first date? I think those are enough. I've learned that if you wanna turn your life around in a meaningful way, you do it a few goals at a time. The minute you write down a dozen things you wanna do, that's more anxiety pills waiting for you. So I think I'm good at half a dozen. Ain't gonna call daddy this year, on his birthday? Nope. I feel like some of your problems ___. He calls me every year. What? When? On my birthday. This year I'll pick up. Talk about why he killed your mom. You've always wanted to understand why he did such a thing. No. I'll talk about how life outside prison is amazing. How it's not a drudgery where you eat, sleep, shit, get nutted in the arse and work that behind until it snaps. Because I'm escaping my own jail. I'll talk about how beautiful the world is. Because I'd have seen a good portion of it myself. How beautiful love is. Because maybe . . . I'm falling in love with this new Hannah already . So am I. Happy New Year Dear Diary.


‘Alarston is the second of the twin cities, built by Emperor Alar back in the first age. The tale goes it was a gift to his son. An entire City for your birthday, can you imagine that?’ Said Chadwick with a shake of his head. ‘Some call it grand, I’d say it was madness!’ ‘Aye.’ Replied Luthar, not really listening to the history lesson. Since the fracas at the mill, Chadwick had been a lot more talkative, and kept giving these little talks about this and that. But today, Luthar couldn’t concentrate on what he was saying. There was a dark cloud hanging over him, like some important task left undone, but what it was, he couldn’t fathom. The night before the two of them, along with Ezekiel, Flint and Garrett, had stayed in a very well to do inn on the western edge of the city, with comforts such as feather beds and a cooked breakfast. Even a night of luxury couldn’t dispel his uneasy feeling, or prevent him waking in the night, fearful of unforeseen dangers. Ever since they’d started out that morning Luthar fought his own mind to free himself of his torment, yet it clung to him like persistent sickness, spreading to every recess of his soul. It was late morning when they’d left the high walls of Alarston behind and begun their ride along the road West to the first twin city, Alargoth, the birthplace of the long-dead Alaran Empire. To the left of the road lay Alarston Orchards, famous for their cider apples. To the right, just forest as far as the eye could see. Dark green leaves blocked sunlight from falling through the trees, casting pitch black shadows amongst the trunks, easy places for the mountain folk to hide if they should dare to venture this far south. Shuddering at the thought, Luthar diverted his gaze back to the road and thought of what he wanted to do after his promotion. Chadwick continued to educate Flint and Garrett on the history of the twin cities, however Ezekiel slowed down to ride next to Luthar. ‘All ok Luthar?’ he asked. ‘Do you ever get the feeling something’s not right? I can’t place it, but it’s been eating away at me since we reached Alarston.’ Ezekiel turned and looked at him, studying his emotions, grey eyes beating on him, like a hammer forging steel. ‘Don’t let your gut rule your mind. You need to be here in the moment, focused on the task in hand, not elsewhere pondering on things that might not come to pass.’ Ezekiel wasn’t scolding him, but his words came firm, leaving Luthar in no doubt that he should concentrate on what was in front of him, not on something yet unseen or unheard. The party set a quick pace for two days and nights until they reached the river crossing at Highgate, a border town between Calladia and Teraditha. They’d travelled in Calladia for nigh on three years, taking work and earning coin where they could, now heading back into Teraditha and riding for the guild felt like returning home. Highgate was a small but prosperous town, ruled by Lord and Lady Hammerton, chiefly earning its gold from taxes levied at the border crossing and wood gathered from the northern forest. Travellers passing were a common sight in the bustling settlement, so no one paid any mind to the five warriors on their horses. Chadwick had a particular soft spot for the place after his victory in the lists here, some five years past. As they walked down the main road to the square, Luthar cast his eyes over the wooden buildings, three stories tall often as not. Candles were lit inside to defend from the oncoming gloom. One building towered above them all, made of stone with a freshly thatched roof, bursts of raucous laughter could be heard each time the door opened. ‘Here we are lads, The Slumbering Giant Inn. Finest food on the border!’ said Chadwick with a smile. Luthar and Garrett took the horses around the back to the stable before sitting down with Chadwick, Ezekiel and Flint in the bustling common room. The air was thick with pipe smoke and lanterns on the walls gave out a dim glow, aided by a candle on each wooden table. The smell of cooked meats and stews drifted out of the kitchen making Luthar’s stomach growl. Farmers, travellers, and townsfolk all sat together, eating, drinking, and discussing the day’s events. Some played at cards or dice, betting for their companion’s coppers. Ezekiel, as the most senior member of the guild, carried the coin. He spoke to the barkeep briefly and passed over a fistful of silver shillings for a night’s bed and board for each of them, then returned to their table with five mugs of Teraditha’s finest ale. They all took a mouthful, grateful to quench their thirst. ‘What’s next for young Luthar?’ asked Chadwick, ale dripping from his untidy beard onto the table. Luthar took another mouthful of his drink, pondering for a second. ‘I think I’m going to train at the guild for a while, strengthen my arm a bit before taking any work of my own.’ ‘Can’t fault you there lad. There’ll be some tougher nuts out there to crack than them thugs back at the mill. Have you thought about the blade classes?’ ‘The blade classes?’ ‘Ranks given to guild members who show a real skill at arms. Flint here is a Bladehandler, same as me. Then you’ve got Bladefighter, like Ezekiel, then Bladewarrior which isn’t easy to get to, mark my words! Finally, there’s Blademaster, like our illustrious leader, Leyton. Reckon he’s the only one right now. You’ve got what it takes to make it big I reckon. What do you say Ezekiel?’ ‘Agreed. My advice, take or leave it, is to get yourself back to the guild and get as much training in as you can whilst you’re still young. There’s always work around Alargoth so you’ll not need to travel far to pay your keep. Just remember to respect the art though, it’s easy to get a new rank and think you’re the big man. Before you know it, someone’s separated your head from your neck, leaving you to look a fool!’ ‘I’ll do that. What about you Garrett?’ asked Luthar, eager to change the focus of Ezekiel’s hard stare. ‘He’s got a lot to learn still. We’ll be off to the frontier towers next. See if he likes them more than you did Chadwick.’ Said Ezekiel with a smile at Chadwick. Just then their food arrived, beef stew, potatoes and peas covered with a gravy so thick Luthar thought he could stand a spoon up in it. They all tucked in hungrily after the days ride. Luthar felt like it was the best meal he’d ever eaten. After they’d finished the conversation continued, but Luthar drifted again, his feeling of unease returning, greater this time. Something wasn’t right somewhere but he couldn’t guess what to do about it. The laughter of the room assaulted his ears, pipe smoke choked him until he couldn’t catch his breath. Cold sweat was beading on his brow and running down his face. He loosened his shirt and took a gulp of his ale to try and clear his throat to breathe. Suddenly he was falling, down and down into a never-ending black abyss. He awoke in a bed with Chadwick’s black bearded face staring down at him, concern in his eyes. ‘What happened?’ Was all Luthar could manage to say. ‘Seems someone put a little extra in your dinner.’ With this Chadwick stood aside to reveal the scene in the Inn’s bedroom. In the corner of the room, sat in a chair was the barkeep, wrists and ankles bound to a chair. Eyes swollen and shut, mouth and nose bleeding profusely down on to his white shirt. In front of him stood Ezekiel, sleeves rolled up, blood dripping from his hands. He was sweating and breathing heavily, eyes afire with an anger that chilled Luthar’s bones. Flint and Garrett were absent. ‘This weasel was just explaining to us what he put in your beef stew earlier. Still haven’t got to the why yet.’ Said Ezekiel before landing a vicious backhand across the man’s face, sending blood splattering across the wall. He grunted in pain, spitting yet more blood at Ezekiel’s feet. Suddenly three quick knocks on the door stayed Ezekiel’s clenched fist. Chadwick opened it a crack, before stepping back and letting Flint enter. He was dragging a young lad of no more than fourteen by the scruff of his neck. ‘Tell these good gentlemen what you told me if you want to keep your teeth in your mouth.’ Said Flint, meaning every word. ‘Some bloke gave me 10 gold crowns to put it in the dinner meant for him.’ He answered, indicating Luthar with a quivering hand. ‘Which bloke?’ Pressed Flint, giving the youth a shake. ‘A northerner, dark hair, bright blue eyes. Never seen him before, I swear!’ ‘Know his name?’ ‘He didn’t tell me, but I overheard someone call him Maxim or something. Please sir, that’s all I know!’ Flint pulled him closer, nearly nose to nose, gritting his teeth. ‘Why does he want him dead?’ ‘He never said!’ The boy was crying now, clearly no more sense would come from him. Flint opened the door and threw him out unceremoniously, firmly applying his booted foot to the lad’s backside. He slammed the door and turned back to Ezekiel. ‘Well, that sorts that out.’ Said Ezekiel to the room. He turned to the barkeep, still sat bleeding away in his corner. ‘Thanks for your assistance.’ He punched the man clean in the jaw, and his head fell forward onto his chest, he remained still. ‘Let’s get out of here sharpish, I don’t like this.’ Said Chadwick, moving to help Luthar to his feet. ‘Agreed. I know of Maxim, got business of my own with him. No doubt we’ll square up later.’ Said Ezekiel between deep breaths. They made their way downstairs and out to the back yard of the inn, Luthar leaning heavily on Chadwick. Night was breaking and the sky was turning a deep bruised purple, stars just beginning to be snuffed out. Garrett was stood with the horses saddled, ready to go. Behind him a raven-haired young woman dressed all in green was stroking Stepper. ‘How are you feeling Luthar?’ She asked, concern in her eyes. ‘Shaky, but think I’ll live my lady.’ ‘You’ll feel much better tomorrow I assure you. Whoever did this to you didn’t know their measures, the amount they gave you was nowhere near enough to kill you. But nonetheless it was fortunate I was nearby to get a strong antidote down you. You could have been bedridden for days otherwise.’ ‘Thank you, my lady, may I know your name?’ ‘I am Akindra, a friend of Lady Luella whom I believe you already know?’ Luthar had met Lady Luella as a boy, in fact it was her who enabled him to join the warrior’s guild. She’d paid for his journey and his joining fee, a debt he felt he could never repay. ‘I do, my lady. She helped me get to where I am today. A friend of hers is a friend of mine. If there is anything I can do to repay you, please name it.’ ‘It was a pleasure to help you. For now, I only desire your company as I ride to the guild to visit Lady Luella. I look forward to hearing about your work on the journey, I hear you’re quite the swordsman.’ ‘Forgive me my lady, we must make haste. I fear this place isn’t safe for us at present.’ Interjected Ezekiel. ‘Of course, lead the way.’ Replied Akindra, and with one graceful movement she was on her own horse, ready to travel. Chadwick and Garrett helped Luthar climb on to Stepper, his limbs still felt very weak, and his balance hadn’t righted itself. He held the reins tight, doing his best to stay mounted. ‘Don’t worry too much lad, like the lady says, you’ll live.’ Said Chadwick. They set off into the Teradithan morning, eager to get back to the guild before any more dangers reared their head. The light grew stronger as they rode west past Timberwood, over the river, and towards home. ‘Maybe you should listen to your gut a bit more Luthar!’ Said Ezekiel laughing. ‘Let us know if you get any more of your funny feelings.’ ‘Think we’ve got a truth seer in our ranks!’ Replied Chadwick, apparently seeing the funny side now Luthar was recovering.


10/23         The ship travel is rough with the seas angry fits and the siren's calls that keep me up at night. I've been sick much. But we shall make landfall within the next few days and then they'll leave me to do my work. Most excited. Miss my wife and children a little but honestly it is nice to be away and on an adventure. 10/27         First night on the beach. Built tent, fire, and cooked a fine meal as I watched the ship take to the sea again. Dark now and night animals have begun to sing. Looking forward to sleeping as the night lives around me. 10/31         It’s been an adjustment to be the sole human on an island full of exotic beasts. It's been humid and raining most of the day, a surprisingly nice relief from the tormenting sun. I made many notes and took many photos to document the various flora and fauna that grows here. At night I swear I hear voices and music but it's most likely either wishful thinking or carried from a distance on the Northeast wind. I'll be moving on from the beach tomorrow to head into the forest. 11/04         The forest provides much cover from the unpleasant weather, but it breeds many creepy crawler’s and makes me wish for the warm, dry sun cover of the beach. I haven't found a single undocumented animal yet, but I have faith that I will. It's amazing how a typically unsocial creature such as I is longing to listen to useless chatter or have a pointless polite conversation with a stranger. I thought last night I smelled spicy cooked meat and the smoke from a fire that was not my own... then it was gone. I'll dream of that meat while I finish my canned beans and curl up to sleep. 11/10         I found it! I found a spider that, after researching all my notes and books that I’ve brought with me, I cannot confirm has been discovered yet. I studied it in its natural habitat for days, took notes and photos, before I tapped the spider in formaldehyde to preserve it for future study. Can't wait to get back to civilization to see if this can be verified or not. Tonight, I dine on pork and beans with glee. 11/15         There's something in the darkness. I can hear it while I lay in my sleeping bag and try not to let the sounds make fear bloom in my heart. 11/19

I've moved deeper into the forest on my trek to the opposite side of the island. I believe I found what looks like remains of a treehouse or some sort of ancient shelter. This is disappointing to think someone else may have visited this place before, but I found no positive identifiers to who was here. I documented the evidence for further study and moved on. Tonight, I am making a small fire and camping overnight. But I'll be on the move again tomorrow at first light. 11/22         I fell into the river today. Think my ankle is fractured at least so I've bound it with a brace from my field kit and taken some pain relief. But my biggest issue is that I've lost my pack that had most of my food in it. So, for tonight, I'll dine on dried beef sticks and a single package of crackers. Hopefully, I can hunt or forage food. Maybe I’ll embrace the nature of man and live like a wild beast myself. 12/01         Starving is a real feeling these days. I am unable to make it as far through the woods as I had been because of my ankle. It's ugly, hot, and swollen. Perhaps, coming in here without help was a poor decision on my part. Running low on pretty much everything, including faith. 12/03         So hungry. Tired. and... sad. I may die here.... If that happens and someone finds this journal tell my wife and kids, I love them and wish them well in life. 12/04         I..........want to die and be done with this suffering. My head is dizzy. My time is gone. I'm going to lay down and let the darkness take me. ??/??         I'm in a prison of wood and rope but they've fed me, bathed me, and saved me for some reason. I'm not sure how long I’ve been here or where I even am. If I peek through the only window out of this place, I see shadows around a fire. They feed me through a slot and never speak when I ask my questions. Perhaps they mean to kill me or maybe they mean to keep me as I'd kept the poor spider. A novelty. An experiment. ??/??         There's a beautiful woman who saved me today. They'd dragged me out of the cage to cook me, if their fire was any indication, but she met my eyes and smiled. Her dark eyes were accented by the black line tattoos on her cheeks and her lush lips were pinkened from the berries she was eating. She sat with a huge man with similar features, and she wore crown made of flowers and thistles. When one of the beastly men went to hit me with a club, she stood and spoke a single word, quietly, before leaning down to whisper into the head honcho's ear. He then barked an order, and I was dragged back into this cage. Maybe 1/1 now? Who knows, anymore.         They've moved me into a hut with the beautiful woman. She is patient with me since I don't understand her language but forceful enough for me to understand that I am hers to do with what she pleases... not that I'm complaining about most of that. 2/5               I watched them from the woods, hidden with the rest of the tribe, as they searched for my pack, tent, and clothes. I could have called out that I was here, and I was alive... but Ryvinna rubbed herself against me and I had zero desire to return to my life off this island. With the silence they’d been teaching me, we all snuck away from the search party and back to the safety of our village. 2/15         I married my new wife, Ryvinna, this afternoon by the fire surrounded by my new tribe. Her father officiated. I sometimes miss the life I'd left behind but it's hard to when I look at Ryvinna.  12/09         It's been a few years since I've written in this journal. Ryvinna is currently laboring for all to see as she brings our fourth prince or princess into the tribe. My father-in-law has passed away and now Ryvinna and I are the chiefs of the tribe. Maybe I should feel guilty for leaving my former wife and kids behind to stay here with Ryvinna... but I don't. According to the papers, I was pronounced dead, and they got a windfall from the insurance. My former wife re-married a senator and had another two kids. They’re fine as far as I can tell from here. And I get to spend my days studying the wildlife, ruling the tribe with a gorgeous wife who never turns me down and continues to give me beautiful babies, and live free of rules and law that are not of my own making. It's good to be king.


Once upon a time, this was a beautiful Garden. Now, I sit below the broken rib-cage of a tree. I see a skeleton of an arm dangling over my head. Once upon a time, this was a branch. Hope falters in its gaunt, dying fingers like the flickering glow of fading stars in the shroud of night’s darkness. Once upon a time, those were its twigs. Foolish little fingers they are, still waiting for that touch, the touch of the Hand of Life. Years have passed, those silly twigs should have given up already, like the rest of the Garden, like me. They should have forgotten what its touch felt like, those warm, gentle fingers, that had promised Life and had left my Garden forever, left me forever. They should have gotten used to the whiplash of the merciless winds by now, to their cold, lifeless touch, that had stripped them bare of all their leaves, whose corpses lay beneath my feet. Yet, somewhere a tiny ray of Hope glimmers. It will die soon. I hear creaking noises behind. I turn back and squint in the dark, the silhouette of a tiny figure comes walking towards me. A kid, it seems. “What are you doing here, kid?”, I ask, as the child slowly walks closer. The child looks at me, with a start. Maybe, he hadn’t noticed me in the dark. “I was chasing a butterfly. I came here in your Garden, Sir, looking for it. Have you seen it?”, the child asks me. His voice sounds vaguely familiar. “No butterfly comes here kid. I haven’t seen one for years.”, I say. “But why?”, the child looks at me questioningly. “Look around, kid. My Garden is dying. You came looking in the wrong place. Go home, kid.”, I say with a sigh. He looks around. I see his eyes growing wider. “But what happened to you, O Tree?”, he asks the huge Oak Tree over me. “Trees don’t speak. Not anymore.”, I say. “They do speak to me.”, he protests. “Maybe, you can’t hear them.” Silly boy. Trees don’t speak to grown-ups; I think to myself. Or maybe, we don’t speak to them anymore. I smirk as the boy’s question is met with silence. Suddenly, something shifts within me. No, it’s under the ground, right below where I am standing. I feel the ground tremble ever so slightly. Something moved silently underneath my feet. I watch in awe as the gigantic Oak tree turns slowly towards the boy, its once majestic branches drooping over his tiny head in a bow. The tree begins speaking with a low grunt. “Dear boy, many years ago, I was a strong, magnificent tree. My powerful branches and elegant leaves were home to a hundred birds. They were the Life to a thousand Springs. Spring danced with the bees and butterflies in the cracks of my branches. Monsoon sang a million notes with my rustling leaves and chirping birds in the golden drizzle of the dawn. Summer would envy my gorgeous shades and Winter would tickle me back to sleep with its gentle cascade of snow. I was known far and wide as the Tree of Love.”, the Tree pauses for a while and then begins with a sigh. “But one day, a monster crept into the heart of our beloved Garden. He came stealthily and silently and took shelter in my shades. He was known by many names. Some called him Ego while some called him Pride. He grew stronger every day, feeding on the darkness of Fear, Loneliness and Pain. Then a day came, when he grew more powerful than – “. I hear a sob. The little boy turns behind. I see a rose weeping. A little away from us was a rose bush. All the roses were black. “Why do you cry, dear Rose?”, the boy asks. “My little one, these tears cannot wash away my pain. Once upon a time, I was a red rose, blooming and beautiful, and so were my friends. We were called the Flowers of Joy. We used to bring a smile on every face that saw us. Our fragrance touched every heart and filled it with Hope. But that beast of Despair snatched our smell from us. That monster, who called himself Greed, stole our colour. Envy, the evil beast, robbed us of our Beauty and Joy.” “I was once a Lake.”, the swamp a little distance away spoke. “My waters shimmered in the brilliant sunshine and glowed with all the colours of the dawn and the dusk. But Time, the ruthless Giant, stole away my Youth and kept it caged in its darkest maze, called the Past, from where one can never return. Time wanted all my Youth for itself.” The Oak Tree says, “This Giant sucked the sunshine out of our Garden and left it barren and dying. We use to love the Monster, care for him. We nurtured him with all that we had. We tried to heal its Darkness, its Fear, its Anger with our Love. But he couldn’t let us in. He fought us and ran away from our Light, when all he should’ve fought was his own Darkness. So, he snatched away from us, all our Love and Beauty and Happiness, in the hope of healing himself, for he never found these within him. But little did he know, that he was going to lose forever, what he had never even looked for. That was the curse on the Giant, for he was never happy again. And our beloved Garden of Mind grew barren and empty, never to be blessed with new Life again. Our beautiful Garden of Hope lost its sunshine forever. Our Garden of Life withered.” “But where is the Monster now? Can he hear us? Will he eat us alive?”, the child asks with unspoken fear in his eyes. “He is right here, in my Garden.”, I say. The child looks questioningly at me, as though my answer is a little unfinished. After a long pause, I say, “Maybe, I am the Monster.” I look into his eyes in the dark. “Are you not scared of me kid?”, I ask. We stare at each other in silence. Time seems to have frozen. After an eternity, it feels, the child slowly walks closer and extends a tiny arm towards me. His little fingers touch me softly, somewhere close to my chest, where a tiny ray of Hope is still throbbing, where a tiny bit of me is still alive. Something strange happens next. I see Sunshine for the first time in years. I look at the child in front of me. He looks around, awestruck. His eyes are brighter than the Sunshine. He gapes in amazement as he looks at the Oak Tree and the Rose Bush and the Lake. But all I see is the child in front of me, for now I know who he is. “How did the Garden grow young and beautiful again?”, the child asks in wonder. I smile and take one long look at my Garden of Innocence, before looking into the bright eyes of my Childhood. Then I whisper, “It’s all because of you.”                                                            -----------------------


I Can’t Betray Anyone Life just seems too difficult sometimes. I really don’t know what to do. There’s no one that I trust enough to talk to and then again I would feel guilty telling anyone else what I know. Right now I want the world to swallow me up, a big hollow black hole to appear and just as I go to cross the road when the little green man appears overhead, I’m gone. I want to have a stroke and lose my power of speech (Of course I will get well and then be able to talk again) I don’t want to have my faculties and be able to reason and think and decide. It’s a burden to know things and to want to share them but to feel that it is wrong to tell someone else. I’m now starting to feel angry that I’ve been put into this terrible situation. I wish last week never happened. ‘Be careful what you wish for’ my Gran used to say. I never understood that as I child when the only things wished for were that all the teachers at school to be ill on the same day or that it rained chocolate instead of water. But if by chance this wish today came true, and last week could be wiped out from life, then everything would go back to normal – my thoughts would be of getting my hair done after work and what’s on for the weekend?  Not this. At work they can tell something is bothering me. “Why the long face?” my work colleague asked, (I thought he would then tell me, for the umpteenth time, the joke about the horse at the bar) “You look right down in the dumps”. He was always cheerful – the guy who would leave funny messages on your desk or ring your phone and then speak to you in one of the many accents he had perfected – so in the end you always seemed to shout really loud into the mouthpiece to try and make yourself understood. Meanwhile the rest of the office was stifling their laughter, listening, and watching sneakily from their desk. “No there’s nothing wrong Richard. I’m having car problems – the clutch or the timing chain and it’s so annoying” I lied, hoping that what I said made a tiny bit of sense! (I remembered when my brother had his mates over and they would have the bonnet of his car open and would be trying to fix something…and the words timing chain and clutch would be bandied around). But this lie just popped out of my mouth as if I did it all the time. I didn’t lie all the time – not much at all really. I used to lie to my mum when I said I was going around to my friend Gloria’s house to do homework and then we would sneak out of her front door and meet the boys from Lynforth High School, chatting and smoking – us girls giggling and acting coy while the boys told their highly exaggerated stories and swore a lot to impress us. But that was a long time ago. Lying then was a necessity. The idea of confronting anyone leaves me in a cold sweat. I’ve never been any good at it.  My last attempt at ‘having it out, clearing the air and getting to the bottom of things’ didn’t end well. I’d been seriously thinking about what I was actually going to do – how I would be confronting and intimidating but in the end I thought ‘I will just just open the door, confidently stride in and say my piece’. Well, alright in theory but….I went to open the door and it was locked. Knocking on the door and all the while looking around, nervously expecting to hear a booming voice say “What do you want?” I waited. The door opened and a white haired, little old lady stood next to it. “Hello dear” she said in a soft voice. Well this wasn’t a good start – I expected my ex-fiancée to be standing there. I was wondering who she was? “Umm hello. I’ve come to see Johnathon” I replied, hoping that when she called him, and the big money owing brute came to the door, she would leave. I really didn’t want her delicate little ears hearing what I was going to say to him! “Oh I’m sorry my dear but Johnathon is in hospital. I’m just here to feed the cat for him. Can I help you at all?” “Hospital” I asked quite shocked. “What’s wrong with him?” Not that I actually cared what was wrong with him – the worse he felt, the better as far as I was concerned. I wondered why he had a cat – he hated them! “Would you like to come inside – it’s rather cold standing out here” her sweet little face crinkled at the corners of her light blue eyes and soft cream coloured skin fell into little folds. I could see as the sunlight shone on her face the tiny hairs on her chin. “I’m actually running late for an appointment and just thought I would catch Johnathon at home on the way” (I wanted to add ‘as I heard he wasn’t working AGAIN’). “No dear he won’t be home for a long time. He came off his motor bike. I do believe he has broken lots of bones”. And with that last piece of information the shivering little lady closed the door. I wanted to not care but it just wasn’t in me. I tried to think ‘serves him right the self-centred, cheating…….. But what was actually going through my mind was ‘I’ll find out if he is allowed visitors and what he can actually eat before I go and see him’. I rang my brother Ron to tell him the news about David and the motor bike accident. They used to be good mates before David and I split up and I thought he would like to know. We had met through my brother. “How bad is it?” Ron asked. I knew he would go in and visit him. My brother was just that sort of guy. No matter what had happened in the past, he wouldn’t let anything stop his kind nature from emerging and taking action. “I don’t know. The old lady at his house just said he had broken a few bones. And did you know he has a cat?” Did you say a cat? He hates cats”. Then after a long pause, added. “I guess people can change”. It was Wednesday night and I always went over to my brother’s house for dinner on a Wednesday. I had thought about not going tonight until Ron said at the end of our phone conversation, “The girls have a performance to show you tonight when you come over. They’ve made up a show – all singing and dancing and stuff. I was tortured last night with it – you’ll probably love it but for goodness sake don’t let it go on for too long – no encores!” “Will Pauline be there tonight? “I asked, hoping that the answer would be ‘no’.  It wasn’t ‘no’- it was “Not sure, she said she would let me know if she has to work back” from my brother.

It’s not that I don’t like Pauline. I do. I love her like a sister. I was drawn to her sunny personality from the first time I met her. She is so funny, and has a positive outlook on everything. We can go out for a coffee together and have the best time – talking and laughing.  For someone who works in the emergency department of a big hospital and has two kids, she really is a bundle of energy.  But I’m just not sure that I can keep my emotions in check if Pauline is near me at the moment. I need more time to think about what I’m going to do. It’s all about loyalty – but how can you be loyal to both parties? You can’t. A choice has to be made. I stood on the terracotta door step and listened while ‘we wish you a merry Christmas’ played after I had pressed the buzzer. Ron was meant to change the doorbell tune back to the original but told me he couldn’t see the point when Christmas would be back soon enough, and apart from Jehovah Witnesses and the man delivering parcels, no one else really rang the bell. The door opened but not before I heard chatter and laughter coming from the other side. “Hello Aunty Von” my nieces chorused. They both ran up to me at the same time, their soft skinned arms hugging me as I bent down. I ended up lying on the hall runner, all three of us giggling as we fell over, tangled up in each other. “Girls, be careful with Aunty Von. You know she’s old!” my brother joked as he closed the front door. He took my bag from me and hung it on a brass hook - one of five perfectly spaced in a row on a solid length of oak , taking pride of place on the cream coloured brick wall. Ron had made this at high school – the start of his love of wood and producing many beautiful handmade pieces of furniture for himself and others. I checked myself out in the ornate oval mirror overhead. It was carved from Bassswood – apparently one of the best for carving – that’s what Richard told me! He made it for his and Pauline’s fifth wedding anniversary and thus the reason for all the ornate heart shapes around the edge of it.

I remembered that I needed to get something out of my bag. I could sense two little people hovering around my legs – waiting for the usual treat - I felt in the side pocket and found the two packets of jelly beans I had brought, “these are for after dinner you two”. I told them as warm little hands reached up to grab them. We walked along the wide wooden hallway. Family photos adorned both sides of the walls and in the centre of the high ceiling hung a chandelier – a brass branched ornamental light fitting, suspended on a linked chain, and at the end of each ‘branch’ sat a small globe. Underneath hung rainbow crystals that sparkled and threw off coloured light, bouncing delicately on the plain walls when the light was switched on. Ron, who had an eye for a bargain, had picked up this Victorian ornamental light very cheaply at a ‘bring and buy’ sale a few years ago. “Something smells rather nice” I mentioned as the mouth-watering smell of a roast travelled around the kitchen and onto my taste buds and set them off dancing in anticipation of salty soft beef and crispy roast potatoes. “You really are a good husband and Dad you know Richard” I commented, looking around at the tidy room, two bathed little girls in their PJ’s and tantalizing smells wafting from the oven. Pauline is a very lucky lady. I hope she appreciates you”. I wanted to say more but couldn’t. “It works both ways. I’m lucky too. I have a very hard working wife, who’s a great mother. She often works double shifts and that’s no mean feat in that environment – especially on weekend nights. The ED is awful. Some of the stories she tells me…..but she has always been passionate about nursing – you know that Von. Anyway she’ll get a much need break soon. We’re all off to Scotland to visit her family in a few weeks. My head was thumping. It was getting too much now. Here I was sitting at the dinner table with my brother and two nieces knowing that my sister-in-law was having an affair or flings or whatever the heck they are called because I saw her a few weekends ago passionately kissing some man outside a house, and then walking in through the front door with him, arms around each other, her happy infectious laugh echoing out into the street but it’s still ‘happy families’? I do believe in fate. Was I meant to see Pauline that night? I had never been to that street before but after an evening out with friends I was giving one of them a lift home. Philip, who was in my car, had probably wondered why I couldn’t take my eyes off the couple smooching. He had asked me if I knew them and then suddenly yelled “Hey Von, watch the parked car”. I had swerved out, narrowly missing it. I felt sick then and I was starting to feel sick now. “Aren’t you hungry Von? Or is it the cooking?” Ron laughed. “I actually had such a big lunch – Chinese banquet with the gang from work”…’Why did you say that? I asked myself. You could have just said ‘No I’m not very hungry tonight’. I just told another lie. I felt as if I was losing my grip on everything. “I might just watch the amazing song and dance show that I have been waiting for all day, and then call it a night”. Two little faces, bright as sunbeams, sang nursery rhymes and danced, arms flailing with gusto, tutus with stiff nylon skirts that were put on over pyjamas bouncing up and down and the twirling and jumping seemed to go on for ever with such enthusiasm! “Ok girls, time for teeth cleaning and bed”. I told the girls how happy their ‘show’ had made me feel, and that was true. The simplicity and innocence of children shone through with their giggling and excitement. There is no pretence with children at this age, no embarrassment. You can fall over, get your words all wrong, dance like you have work boots on, and it doesn’t matter. It is just fun.  I needed it. I sat up in my bed. I could think here, reason and make decisions. I loved coming home to my bed. It was the most relaxing place for me – I could see out of my window without craning my neck at all. The moon was high, an almost perfect yellow circle in a black sky. ‘Not good for fishing’ I thought and it took me back momentarily to thoughts of my childhood and being in the dinghy with dad. As I looked to the right of the moon but much lower down, and I could see the solar lights still flashing on next doors Chinese Maple tree – the thought went through my mind that there must be lots of people who don’t ‘take things down’ after Christmas. I grabbed my cup of tea from next to me on the table and sat, mesmerised, watching the alternating green, blue, red flashing of the lights – and thinking. I had made up my mind. I couldn’t and wouldn’t do anything about it. If it had of been my brother Ron who had told me about Richard cheating, then I think I would have resented him, always. I would have asked myself why a brother would want to tell his sister something that would change her life for ever. (As it was, my fiancée was such a self-centred, self-absorbed narcissist that he flaunted it and no one had to tell me). I couldn’t stand it if my only brother disliked me for the rest of my life because I told him about his wife cheating. On the other hand, if I confronted Pauline, then that could go one of two ways….she could be honest with me, (and not too honest as I really wouldn’t want to know the intricacies) and tell me it is over, or she could vehemently deny it, and then I would know for the rest of my life that she was a liar. I have never been known for interfering in other people’s business and I don’t want to start now. I just can’t tell either of them. I wouldn’t want to hurt Pauline or Ron. There could be many reasons why someone strays from a marriage. I really hope that with Pauline it is a ‘one off’, a stressful time that led her to do something completely out of character, a brain fade, or whatever you want to call it. I don’t know what the future holds but I don’t want to be the one to split up a family. I thought of the concert my nieces put on for me and the joy that surrounded them – I want that to continue. I have to face the truth, sometimes I can lie, but I could never betray anyone.