My grandmother was 16 years old in the fall of 1918 and was going to school and was nanny to 3 children. She lived outside of Chicago at the time. The man of the house (I don't know his real name so I will call him Carl) worked in Chicago. One of the 3 children was a baby who was under a year old (think the child might have been between 2-6 months old). The child became seriously ill and died in my grandmother's arms. The cause of death was later determined to be the swine flu. A couple of days later Carl became ill (several of his co-workers also got ill) and a doctor came to the house and confirmed that he also had the swine flu. The doctor told my grandmother she probably would come down the flu due to her contact with Carl. She ended up taking care of him because his wife and the maid refused to go near him as they were afraid of getting sick. The wife, maid and the other 2 children stayed downstairs and quarantined themselves the best they could. The doctor wished both of them luck and left. My grandmother told me that the swine flu could be described as the worst flu you could get. She started coughing and felt like someone was trying to slowly choke her from time to time. She felt like this flu was trying to suck the life out of her. The virus showed no mercy. If this flu didn't get a foot hold into your lungs or settle in your lungs, you generally survived it if you were healthy, although sometimes a healthy person would die. In my grandmother's case, she had a cough for about 24 hours with difficulty in breathing. I'm not a doctor but it didn't settle in the lungs as my grandmother said it felt like her lungs were fighting the virus off for about 24 hours. Then by 48 hours, it felt like her lungs had won the battle but she was very tired. Within 72 hours, my grandmother felt fine. She was fully recovered in a 4 days. Once Carl saw that my grandmother got sick, he asked her what would happen if he died? What would happen to his wife, children? He said this over and over again. At this point he had a high fever was coughing and had difficulty breathing. Probably similar to what my grandmother felt, except his was a lot worse and lasted about 4 days. Never got any worse which was probably why he survived. My grandmother at one point had to leave the room for a while before she starting crying thinking about what he had said. He also was having a hard time breathing. At one point my grandmother wondered if he was going to survive because the flu was so bad. My grandmother prayed that she as well as Carl would recover and that this terrible flu virus would end. The next day my grandmother felt better. She was only sick for about 3 days and recovered very quickly. Carl took about 10 days to fully recover. My grandmother and Carl recovered and never suffered any permanent injuries from the illness. The doctor told my grandmother her case was mild and Carl's was a moderate case of the flu. From what my grandmother told me, I would hate to see what a severe case of the flu was. The wife, the maid and the two children never got the flu or got sick from it. I believe the reason why my grandmother and Carl didn't suffer more serious complications from the flu was because they were quarantined in the same house. They weren't exposed to others outside the home once the quarantine was imposed for 2 weeks. Again, I'm no doctor but I believe that this made a difference between Carl living and Carl dying. Everyone in the house had been exposed and they were also quarantined in the downstairs area of the house. They weren't in a field hospital where many sick people were and a doctor came every couple of days to check up on them, whereas in a field hospital, you wouldn't get this type of personalized care. This I believe at least in the case of Carl made a difference between life and death. It probably did with his neighbors as well. Also if Carl had died, the financial situation of the family would be in distress. Because they were upper income, they had a safety net to a certain degree. They wouldn't have ended up on the street as they had family who could help them. Those who were poor or just getting by didn't have any safety net and even if their family wanted to help them, it would be difficult if they were also in the same situation. My grandmother having grown up poor was more exposed to living conditions that today would be considered to be unacceptable. She had a strong immune system and I don't remember her ever getting the flu or a cold. She said after she got the swine flu, she never had another respiratory infection or illness again. I don't know if was everyone's experience but I imagine those who survived this had very strong immune system. Even when she was dying of cancer decades later (1984) in a nursing home , she never got a cold, flu or pneumonia which was common when someone is dying. She probably would have survived if she was in a field hospital. However, she lucked out being where she was when the flu hit. The family that my grandmother lived in were upper income (upper middle class) and most of the people in the neighborhood who got sick survived. My grandmother also had access to fresh air which also could have made a difference as fresh air was seen as being good if you were sick. Now we are facing a pandemic which is very serious. The description of the cornavirus 19 sounds similar. Please be careful out there.


Since I was a kid I’ve always liked mysteries, I’ve always watched horror films and those old programs that talked about the sci-fi occurrences, recently me including my friends: Sam, Laura, Ben, Ashley and Connor were attempting to explore abandoned buildings and places on which have already spent so much time on yet haven’t found a single interesting thing, we wanted to give up. Suddenly we noticed that our radio has caught a strange signal, we had a look at it, it was a woman, a woman who was asking for help although she seemed terrified, her voice sounded shaken and it was an obvious hint that something horrible had happened. Most of us have already decided on going but not Connor, he was against the idea and I as well as Ashley agreed with him but curiosity took over us. “If you really don’t want to go then you can just stay here and wait for us, coward!” exclaimed Sam, Laura was the nice girl no wonder she stood up for us saying “It’s only natural that some people wouldn’t want to go and that shouldn’t be any of your business Sam!”, Sam seemed more annoyed that ever. However we collected things we thought we would need such as flashlight and food as well as drinks, sleeping bags and some change of clothes if needed. Connor decided to come with us after all which was a big relief since he was good with locations, later evening we decided that next morning at about 5:30 we’re getting ready to find out where the signal was coming from. It was the next day, we got ready and took everything we collected the day before. Ben took the radio with him to find out the location of the signal, it seemed to lead into a huge forest I have never heard of, we walked, walked and walked it felt like it an eternity, eventually we could see something that looked like a roof of a mansion peeking from the top of the trees and signal seemed to led there, some of us started to get freaked out but there was no way we could go back after all that effort. The moment we could see the mansion clearly we could it was abandoned, it had two huge door in the front and supposedly 3 floors as well as a small shack by it we couldn’t quite tell the structure yet as the trees covered it some way or another. Walking to the shack the signal got stronger and stronger, as we entered it we noticed loads of pictures of people we didn’t know. Unexpectedly Ashley shouted “Oh my god, it can’t be,” she was intercepted by Ben “what is it? It seems like a bad idea I think we should go back.” “It’s the missing people that police couldn’t find after years of searching!” Ashley shouted, her voice was shaken in fear. “Wait, there is recording on the table, we could use the laptop I’ve got with me to play it”. In the recordings there was a woman, she told us not to go inside the mansion no matter what, she told us not to try and find or rescue her. It made us want to do the exact opposite, it was stupid, for sure it was but we’ve come a long way so we are going to continue it. Approaching the door we realised it was tightly locked with chains. Sam tried to look for another way, we decided to go through the bushes and it seems we have found a way, but it was gross and disgusting, there were horse legs covering so we were forced to crawl underneath it, Ashley was so sick she threw up. None of us knew what to do. My stomach turned. Disturbing. That’s what it was and I’m sure all of us have felt the same way, but we continued. We slowly climbed the ladder down, it seemed to be the basement. Half way flooded and cold. A strangle feeling made us shiver to our spines. We slowly moved through all the water. Everything seemed so...”old” said Ashley. Sam was in front of us, strangely he hasn’t said a thing recently, he was probably stuck in his own thoughts, like all of us were. A corpse from up to the head down to the torso suddenly emerged from the waters all of us screamed. Terrified we had to continue, but I couldn’t forget it, it was bloodied yet seemed old, we didn’t know what to think or do. The waters seemed to get deeper up to about our necks and the ceiling was low down. Claustrophobic. Emotionally drained we continued until we found an exit. Climbing up the ladder we noticed the woman from the recording. The woman was was locked behind bars, she was bloodied and her clothes were ragged. We approached quietly. “Hey!,” exclaimed Sam “it’s you isn’t it, the woman from the recording!”. The woman seemed incredibly confused “recording?,” she said “oh no, no, no”, “what?” all of us synced. “You cannot be here!” She exclaimed “it wasn’t me it was the man, no a monster, he lured you here!”. The silhouette that somewhat had resembled a man emerged from the shadow of the dark. Looking at him in dim light, however, you could see he was not a man. If you squinted, you could see it, but looking at him now you could see he was not. Far, far from it. He grabbed Sam and slashed his head off with an he and he dropped breathless, blood gushing from his neck. I wanted to cry. The monster looked us opened the bars grabbed the woman and with a rough voice, told us “follow me.” he grinned like a psycho “you should meet the others, we could be a family” we wanted to run away, we regretted it, regretted everything. Eventually we reached the room that somewhat appeared to be a dinner room, there were other human like creatures, they made us sit around the table. The old woman, no the monster slowly stumbled to the dinner table with something she called “soup”, there was no way it was that, as it was filled with cockroaches and it was a gross, dirty colour. “eat, eat it, EAT IT” the monster shouted. We knew we had to, we didn’t know what they would do if we didn’t, after one spoon of it we drop to the floor, I see Ben gurgle, his eyes went back. My eyes open slowly, I see the man dragging me, they close again. I wake up chained to a bed. The old woman next to me, “you finally woke up, the girl wants to talk to you” as the old woman leaves I see the other woman that was locked up approach me.” They weren’t like this,” she whispered “they used to be a normal family until they were infected, a small girl, she infected them” “what happened to others?” I said. She takes out a key out of her pocket and says “I don’t know, but we can’t save them we have to get out.” My heart drops and I feel emotionally destroyed. She moves a wardrobe out of the way and there seem to be a small way, we squeeze trough it, can cockroaches crawling around us. We walk through a corridor “close” she whispers. Suddenly she screams and shouts in agony, she stops and stands emotionless, grabs the closest knife to her and starts attaching me, I try to protect myself using my hands I grab the knife and my hands bleed. She stabs me once. Stops again and screams as she smashes her head against the wall “get out, get out of my head!”. I faint. I wake up already outside the mansion. Barely understanding anything I ran and ran and ran until I reach the city I reach the police and try to contact the hospital on everything I’ve known that happened, they take for one off those psychos, but still decide to investigate. 5 years later I haven’t heard anything about it. It’s surprising how I survived. I live peacefully in my apartment, someone knocks on my door, I open it and realise “the woman” I say shaken , it’s woman that stabbed me and the crazy man I faint again and can’t remember anything. I wake up in the abandoned mansion , next to me lies the corpse of Ashley and say to myself crying “what do I do now...


I remember small details easily. I can't say the same for important stuff. Ask me about last Thursday, I can tell you what colour the pen was when I was writing my essay for English, but ask me what the essay was and I'll go blank. It's not inconvenient any way, but I'll try does make me look like an idiot whenever my parents or friends ask me for something/someone.  Because of this, I've been recently thinking about something my English teacher said when I was in 8th grade. We were studying Frankenstein by Mary Shelley and looking at how darkness correlates with horror and thriller. I asked my English teacher why do horror stories have to be based around the absence of light, and my teacher said maybe it had to do with how light symbolises hope.  Even to 21 year old me, I find that bullshit. Light has never, and will never be my friend. All of my greatest ideas, best moments have come from darkness. My family find it weird that I never open my curtains, at least that's the vibe they give off. They've never told me it directly. They probably would think I'd forget it.  I lived in Maryneal, Texas growing up. I went to Highland and I'd have to walk my way to school for 30 minutes. We weren't exactly rich. Whenever I'd walk to school with my brothers I'd hold their hands because of the 'coyotes'. Truth is that there never were coyotes, and my brothers were messing around with me knowing full well of my phobia. They never meant harm, did Jack and Rak.  It was the middle of summer that it happened. I had to go summer school due to me lacking in Maths. "Beware of rapists, murderers and all of the sort. Everyday a child falls victim to their lies, and everyday a mother like yours cries her eyes out when her child disappears," was what my daddy would say. "Stay with your brothers, they'll help you on the way of life." They did. Until they couldn't. 4:57pm. I was running so late, my lazy ass had overslept. I was walking with both of them on that hot summers evening. Their bellies were full of Mama's scrambled eggs, mine rumbled like a 8.2 on the Richter Scale. The heat was overbearing. I'd stopped sweating on account of the fact that I had no more liquids in me. My brothers fed me some hot bottled water as we went down the road. My hair was plastered to my face when it happened, but my ears were clear.  Some distant howling could be heard from in front of us. The school wasn't far from us, something like 55 metres, but the heat made it seem like a thousand. The tumbleweed crossed over the road in a typical movie fashion. I paused for a second to see if I could hear the howling again. I heard it so many times that day, it was crazy. At first, the natural assumption was made that my brothers were pulling my ass. I looked at Jack first then Rak and told them, "I swear you two gonna kill me one day. Stop that howling or later on, I'll kick your butt's." They looked at me with a frown, probably thinking the heat got to me. I'll never know what they were thinking, those two had the mindset of a perpetual motion machine. They told me that I was exhausted, and that maybe it wasn't a good day to go to school. So we turned back, my head still down and hearing the howling. I slowly lost touch in my fingers since so much tingling was going on, that I didn't notice when they let go. When I decided to lift my head, they were gone. From the bottom of my heart, they just disappeared. I panicked, and mustered energy from my reserves to walk to the school entrance and get a teacher to call my parents. When the phone was answered, my words were mixed, but I'm not sure that my message got across because my parents started laughing. My daddy had to give the phone to my momma who had composed herself. She told me in the sweetest voice I've heard her say, "Darling, Rak is right here with us, and Jack is upstairs napping." And sure enough, I could hear my brother calling for the chickens in the distance. I told them that I felt sick, and wanted to go back home. They managed to get the principal to drive me home (some foreign family connections that I'll never understand).  I woke up halfway through the car ride, and heard him mumble about some goddamn coyotes in the area.


I’ll begin by saying that I am by no means a successful writer. I’ve got nothing published nor have I ever made money for my effort. Every story or poem I’ve written has been just for me and a select few dear friends. I’ve had a rough go of life lately so I tend to write some pretty dark stuff. For example, I wrote a short story about a young man fresh out of the army (Chris) who had his apartment broken into by a beautiful women (Chloe) who said she was in trouble and running from someone. Chris takes care of Chloe for a while, insert drama, until he falls in love. The whole thing plays out like a romance until Chloe, who turns out to be a serial killer with a very specific M.O. cuts his throat in his sleep. I wrote this story entirely in my car at the parking lot of where I work. This is where it all began. I always arrive early to the parking lot, sun still hiding under the horizon. I turn on the overhead light, grab my notebook, and set to work. I was fighting the frustrations of finding the best way to end the story with Chris and Chloe when I feel tiny needles prick the back of my neck. I look up distracted because it was that distinct feeling of somebody watching me. I do a glance around and see nothing until I check my rear view. Piercing blue eyes set in a pale and perfect face meet me. I immediately turn around to confront the intruder but when I look back, she’s gone. I knew right then who I had seen. Someone I’d only ever seen before in my mind. Chloe. My heart threatened to beat out of my chest. I quickly left my car and made for the office. Thankfully, though the hour was early still, the doors into the building were unlocked. After the strange morning, the rest of my day passed without incident. I was quite sure of what I saw but how normal everything was at work and having all those people around was comforting so I dropped it. I thought it must have just been stress playing tricks on my mind. Those eyes were so vivid though, just as I described them in the story. They shined in the darkness of my car, piercing with all their wickedness. I checked the back seat at the end of the day before traveling home. A few days go by normally, as days tend to do, until I see my Chloe once again. I was woken by a crash in my apartment. Just as Chris was. I investigate, grabbing the nearest weapon of opportunity which so happened to be a metal baseball bat I had since I was nine. I open the door ordering the intruder to reveal him/herself. “SHOW YOURSELF” I put as much menace as I can muster into my otherwise inoffensive voice. “You needed only ask, creator” a lovely voice calls out in the darkness. I hear bare feet on carpet approach, nearing the blind corner the living room wall creates. Luminous and evil, her blue eyes come into my view. I flip on the lights next to me ready to attack and see her stop, smiling at me. She’s near as tall as I am. Her skin is pale to an alarming degree, scars on her arms hardly visible. Her clothes are torn and painted crimson with what appears to be fresh blood. She does not look exactly how I first described her in my story. Her fingers are elongated along with the rest of her limbs in a grotesque way. One of her hands carries an ornate letter opener, it was me who put it there I recall in irony. Her smile reveals black teeth, startling in their sharp contrast to the paleness of her lips. I can’t stop shaking just recalling this night. “Why are you here?” I asked meekly. “I am here dear creator...” she purred, “to be the monster you made me out to be” then she lunged.


I lie in my crumpled bed, bathed in unease. I anxiously peek at the dim light of my alarm clock which reads 4:35 AM, as the first light of dawn peeks through my curtains. Sleep escapes me more often than not at the moment, and my body feels tense. My mind is abuzz with grim anticipation of the coming day’s sleep deprived work. But my frustration is suddenly lifted as I feel the familiar pull of slumber. A heavy blanket descends on me, as my body relaxes and my eyes fall through the back of my head. Slowly the sides of my bed fold in and I start to lower into the dark, in my casket being committed to the soil. My room disappears along with the pulsing in my temples, and time stops for a half of a moment. I am adrift in a small lifeboat in a gentle sea, surrounded by endless dark. The boat is softly furnished and more comfortable than any real bed, so I allow myself to float quietly, swallowed by the soft cushioning. No horizon is visible beyond the sides of my vessel, only a perpetual obsidian. But buried deep in the distance I see a faint light, dancing like a thin wisp of cloud caught in moonlight. I am compelled towards the light to seek its warm glow, so I take the paddles and begin to row towards it. The waters are almost silent as the paddles dip in and out, and only the faintest ripples are audible. I continue on my journey but I am making no progress. No matter how far I go I never get any closer to the light. Defeated, I drop the paddles into the waters, and watch them slowly roll into the abyss. I lie back down to avoid the taunting allure of the light and close my eyes in resignment. As I lie stranded in the vast waters my calm deepens. I focus on my breathing as its waves gently lap in and out of me. My mind turns inward and the light exits my consciousness. As soon as I forget about the light, I start to feel an ominous presence enveloping me. I smell Christmas dinners with family, and homemade bread. I feel the familiar wrap of an old jacket, and a lost lover’s embrace. I hear birdsong in the forest, surrounded by fragrant blooms of lavender. Cold winter feet thawed by log fires, and the first warm breeze of summer. The rough tug of tree bark on young hands, and echoes of old friends' voices. I embrace the bliss, bask in its warm glow, gliding in nostalgia. A sharp buzz shatters my illusion and I quickly awaken. Harsh reality floods back into my mind as I open my eyes to see the clock blinking on 8:15 AM. I roll over to stop the annoying sound, and turn off the alarm. I stare through the ceiling and clench my jaw. Another day begins too soon.  .


I have always been fascinated by flowers but that doesn't mean I have ever actively worked towards growing them. I'm pretty sure my mother would give a solid testimony on that. She would always ask, "If you do love flowers, aren't you supposed to love growing them and nurturing them as well? What kind of a person are you?" and to be completely honest, I don't know either. It's not just garden flowers though, I love plants and flowers that are just wild and all over the place. It's like, they are not structured, there is no order to them, but still, they are extremely beautiful and wonderful. Reminds me of people who may not be the smartest or the richest or the most outgoing or stuff like that but still seems to have their life figured out. Guess it's not too bad to be among the wild flowers. Its interesting how much effort actually does go into growing an immaculate garden. We see somebody's garden and go, "Well, that seems like a lot of time and effort and a huge amount of money all put together" and it's true. Just to give an idea - You have to decide on the perfect spot that will always be relevant and by that I mean that it should be useful to you as long as you stay in the game. Then you need to decide on the beautiful plants you want to nurture and most importantly, you have to identify the weed from the plants. That part is very tough because if not done carefully, might choke your entire garden. Now, if you are an idiot like me and somehow managed to destroy your entire garden - Hello to you. I always wanted my garden to be filled with the most exotic, aromatic and beautiful flowers in the whole world but failed to consider their needs. That's right, plants have needs too. Shocking, I know. The seeds I planted never took to flowering. They died. All of them. Then for a brief period of time I thought, maybe some wild flowers would grow there, you know, like what happens in nature. But, I have realized now that no matter what you do, sometimes it just doesn't work. Like the seeds I planted. No matter how much I wished they would grow and thrive and flower, my wish alone just wasn't enough. Sometimes what you do is just not enough and that's the hard truth. So what now? Stop gardening all together? To be fair, I thought about it. Long and hard. Didn't come to any solid conclusion. I mean, as long as I don’t analyze the soil type, the weather, the type of plants that could grow in this soil, the peculiarities of plants that I would like to grow(despite the geographical barriers), I don’t think there is going to be any progress. As of now, I have decided to give it time. Time to heal itself. Time to grow any wild flowers if it wants to. Time to undo the damages inflicted upon it. I will try to grow my garden again, make it flower all over again be filled with beauty. My mother is right - if you love it, then why not work for it? Till then, I will cherish what once was.


My daughter wrote this - thought it was too good not to share. She is 10 years old. We are having our children write something every day in response to a prompt we get from different websites. **Chapter 1** The Last Song A beautiful duet was being played on piano one night. It was the last song that person ever heard. It was dark in that house. They ordered pizza for dinner. After they finished eating the pizza they played a song together on the piano. What one of them didn’t know was that the other was plotting to kill them. When they finished the song it was time. It was quick; they shot them and they died. The only thing left was a bitten piece of pizza on the piano. The neighbors heard the gunshot and immediately called 911. From the sound of a beautiful song to the sound of a horrible gunshot. The police rushed to the address the neighbors gave them. There was no sign of the body or the murderer. After further investigations they found that the murderer hid the body in the coat closet. They found out because the detective was going to put his coat in the closet but he found the body instead. The questions they wanted to know was: Why would he kill her? and Who killed her? They searched the whole house for DNA but didn’t even notice the piece of pizza. They had lost all hope of finding the murderer. They soon stopped trying to find them. But the detective was still on the case. A few months later the police station received a phone call from the detective. He said he found a bitten piece of pizza on top of the piano. The police rushed to the house to take the piece of pizza to get the DNA. The detective later found out from a neighbor that they were playing piano together. They found fingerprints on the piano keys, but they didn’t know who’s was who’s. Since they found the pizza slice they decided to look at the victim’s phone who they later found out was a girl named April Gardener. They looked at the recent phone calls and found that she called the pizza place. They went over to the pizza place to find who delivered the pizza to the house. They asked if they could describe the man that took the pizza. They said he was a huge tall dude with an Astros hat on and a white t-shirt. They also sketched the person for them, and they described the car that was on the driveway. The police made an announcement that whoever saw a person with a white truck call the police and report the license plate number, and if anyone owned a white truck that they should come to the police station. Many people came but no one matched the description or the DNA. Later the police released the sketch from the person that worked at the pizza place. A woman came to the police station a day later and said she thinks she knows the man that was sketched. She gave them the address and the police rushed to the house. The DNA matched the man at the house. His name was Bob Strider. The police later learned that Bob Strider was a new gang member. He got in because he killed April Gardener. The police now know who killed April Gardener and why he killed her: to get into a gang. Everyone mourns for April but there is no bringing her back. Bob Strider was sent to prison for life but April is still dead. **Chapter 2** Lactose intolerant Everyone thought Bob Strider was in prison for life but he got out after 10 years. And he was not done yet. He was still in the gang and he got an assignment. (He is one of the bangers). His assignment was to kill someone that was bothering the gang for some time now. His name is Aragorn Pinn. He lives right next to their meeting place and they think he knows a little too much about their whereabouts. He got a paper with information about him. It said: **Aragorn Pinn** **Lactose intolerant** **Single** **Loves piano** **He is a detective** Bob came up with a plan: His sister owes him a favor so he will ask her to go on a fake date with him. He will be hiding in her trunk ready to kill him. He is going to kill him by pretending to be a pizza delivery man and since Aragorn is lactose intolerant he’ll feed him the pizza and kill him while he’s weak. It sounds easy. Date night. All is set. He dresses up as a pizza delivery man and gets a pizza. Just before he rings the doorbell he hears the song that he played on piano with April. He pushes that memory away and rings the doorbell. *Ding Dong*. ‘Who is it?’ says Aragorn. ‘Pizza!’ Bob says. ‘I didn’t order pizza though’ says Aragorn ‘I did’ says Bob’s sister. ‘Ok’ says Aragorn. Bob walks in and offers pizza. ‘I’m lactose intolerant’ Bob still forces the pizza into his mouth. You can barely hear the muffled cry of Aragorn. Bob grabs the knife from his pocket and quickly stabs him. ‘Goodbye’ and you Aragorn was never heard of again.


My fingers were tapping against the study table. My eyes kept stealing glances at the laptop’s clock- five more minutes. This was agony. I let out a restless sigh. The house was quiet, except for the soft pitter-patter of the rain outside. The scent of burning Eucalyptus and mint drafted through the room from our open kitchen; her new favorite. It was definitely helping with my anxiety. I tried getting back to my thesis but in vain. Two more minutes now. I could take it no more so I get up and walk around the bedroom. I fluff up the pillows on the bedroom and cradle Genie, our tabby. He wiggles a little bit but suddenly settles in my arms. It’s time. I sit on the edge of the bed as I hear the tranquil piano break the silence of the house. This was my favorite part of the night. She warms up with some arpeggios- something technical she taught me which I still don’t get. I just know it sounds beautiful. I hear the creak of the peddle as her foot presses onto it. It’s a melody now. Soft, sweet and slightly melancholic. It was the first song she ever learnt to play on her own, and quite honestly a classic in my opinion. Like her, I never get tired of hearing her play it. The atmosphere suddenly shifts to something moody, eccentric. I know it’s something on the black keys. Oh, she’s feeling adventurous today! The last time she played that tune, we ended up baking a pizza at 3 am, almost started a fire, and then ended up falling asleep on the couch in each other’s arms. I wonder what will happen tonight. Genie purrs against me, and I gently stroke him. He’s feeling it too, the anticipation that comes with her playing. We never know what song she’s going to end with. The tone is a bit more uplifting now, hopeful. It’s happier than anything she’s played in a while. I’m thrilled; it’s a new song. It takes me a couple minutes to grasp the soft, hesitant voice suddenly accompanying the music. Genie lifts his head for a second, he’s surprised too. She’s singing! It’s the song she’s been listening to on repeat for the past couple days now, I’ve heard her try to sing it in the shower. This sounds more melodic, more feely. She’s unsure, I can tell, but she’s not about to stop. I softly place my tabby on the bed, causing him to utter a sound of displeasure. I quietly pad out to the living room, and hide in the shadows in the hallway. Her body was rhythmically swinging with the music. I could tell her eyes were closed based on the way her head was tilted back ever so slightly. She hummed the high pitched portions of the song, and sang out loud the verses. All of a sudden her back stiffens a little bit, oh no. She knows I’m behind her. Her voice lowers in volume and her playing gets choppy. Well, no use standing back here now. I walk up to her just as she hits the final chord, and releases the peddle with a loud clack. “That was beautiful.” She turns around on the seat to face me. I kneel down in front of her, and hold her tiny hand in mine. “Not really, I can’t hit the high notes.” She mutters shyly, looking down at our tangled hands. “So what, still sounded absolutely spectacular.” I look into her wide brown eyes. She smiles her half embarrassed, half proud smile. It was a private smile, reserved just for us alone. I raise our hands, and press a gentle kiss to the top of her hand. Her smile widens, and she leans down to plant a kiss on my cheek. “I love you.” I cradle her face with my free hand, and gently press my lips to hers. “I love you too, my dear.


It all happened so fast. It was the evening of the 16th of July 2020. Only two weeks after my 17th birthday. I came home after a date with my girlfriend. I often think about her, I miss her, I hope she is still alive somewhere out there. As I went up the stairs, waving my parents good night, i saw a strange light through the window at the top of the stairs. I was, and still am, a space enthusiast, so I rushed up and took a look. "Ah man, a meteor, and I missed it!". I didn't think much of it, took a shower and went to bed. Later that night, I was woken up by bright lights coming through my room's window. "A meteor shower! Seems like I didn't miss the important part!", I thought. Put on my glasses and pulled back the curtains quickly. Shock. My hole body froze for a moment. I was always good at managing stress, so I got myself together in a matter of seconds. Focused on the strange purple-ish things falling from the sky. "Those are no meteors! I must wake up mom and dad! We need to get to the basement bunker as soon as possible!". As I am a sci-fi geek I immediately thought it were aliens, but it could as well be strange undetected objects. But they surely were weird. They didn't seem to be burning at all. I got mom and dad, told them that we are about to get hit by weird meteors, and we got to the basement. Seconds later Earth started shaking. The basement door got blocked by something, but we had food and water for days. I checked my phone, no signal. We soon realised that there was no electricity either. A few days went by, we were stuck there but were all right. Then suddenly, we heard noises out there, they sounded like steps. Dad told me and mom to hide in the wardrobe, he went up to the door to call for help. He started banging the door, screaming for help. I heard the door being ripped out. I remember his last words. It was a code he taught me when I was a small kid. He would only use the word "fortunate" in a situation where we needed to get out quickly or were in danger. He said: "How fortunate to get help, I was here alone for days, thank yo...". Then someone, or rather something, came down, looked around and left. Mom was crying. We waited out for a few hours and then I went up to check for any signs of what happened. I found dad lying there with a blue dot on his right leg. And a police officer dead in front of him, with a similar mark on his neck. I left the bodies there, improvised a door out of a thin wall that was once a part of our house, and went back down. I told mom what I saw, and held her while she was crying. My theory is that the aliens used the officer's body to lure my dad out, then killed him. I don't have any other information about them. They are deadly, and didn't come in peace. "We will soon run out of food. I am sending this out on a old manually charged radio communication device. If you can hear us, we will go out tomorrow, trying to find other survivors and food. Meet us at the Walmart, Nicksen street 7. My name is...oh shit, shit shit, no, no, no...".


The knights had been assembled for an hour before Arthur, King, entered Camelot’s great hall. When the clatter of his chain mail began echoing through the castle, the lords rose and snatched their helmets, prepared to offer them along with their lives in service to their liege. Arthur stepped up to his seat, inclining his head slightly to the gathered knights. Sir Galahad threw himself to the floor. As the other armor-clad warriors struggled to their knees, their king waved his hand. “No, no, get up,” he boomed. “I called this meeting to…. What’s that?” He gestured with a heavy gauntlet toward the center of the table. Peering up at the hall’s high windows, Lancelot shielded his eyes from the afternoon sun streaming into the chamber. “Perhaps it’s a ray of sun, sire, highlighting an aberration in the grain.” Arthur heaved his mighty sword, Excalibur, onto the great table. “Who did this? Who spilled a flagon on the Round Table? You think, after seeing a mark like that, the guests of Camelot will take me seriously? It’s warped the planks! I’m a king, not a pauper, and I deserve to live like one! There’s not a platter in this fair land capable of covering that up! Percivale, you look like you’ve got something to say.” The knight stammered under his breath. “Go on.” “I don’t believe it’s a spilled drink, sire.” Percivale bit his lip. “Then, what is it? A leak in the rafters? It’s an unusual color for rainwater this time of year, don’t you think? Your travels have taken you to many lands under my banner. Does that puddle look familiar to you?” Percivale’s eyes fell to his boots. Arthur turned his attention to the broader group. “I wouldn’t have spent all that money on a comfortable castle if I’d known my knights were just going to waltz around, ruining everything. How am I supposed to fix this? Have a carpenter strip and stain the Round Table all over again? I’m heavily leveraged at the moment. It’ll involve another tax on my subjects, and you can bet I’ll tell them where to pin the blame!” “I saw who did it, sire,” Sir Gawain said. Arthur’s left eyebrow edged closer to his circlet. “It was….” Gawain gulped for air. “It was the sorceress, Morgana le Fay—as I live and breathe, sire.” “Was it really?” Gawain shifted his weight and stared at a stack of rotting bones under the table. “No,” he whispered. “I swear you knights have made Morgana a scapegoat for everything! If it rains, you tell me it was Morgana. If it snows, it was definitely Morgana. If you fail a quest, it’s because Morgana showed up—who knows how—to cackle at you! I thought I chose you all for your bravery. If I’d wanted a bunch of rabble rousers who spill mead on the furniture and blame my half-sister every time their horses throw a shoe, I’d have grabbed a wagonful of superstitious peasants off the street!” Arthur paused. “No one wants to confess? Alright. There will be no feasting until the table’s fixed. No mead either. I’ll wall up the cellar myself if I have to. Also, Sir Lionell, your charter to slay the dragon of Tywyn has been indefinitely postponed. The beast appears to have entered into a truce with the townspeople… for the moment. I will continue to evaluate the situation in the coming weeks.


“Get on the stone slab, please,” the tired man said. “I won’t go. I won’t do it! Why can’t someone else take my place?” A short woman struggled against the restraints as the man picked her up and forced her to lie back against the cool stone. “I don’t want to accompany the pharaoh into the underworld! I want to see our world first! I never got the chance. I’ll be a terrible conversation partner in the afterlife.” “You’ll be fanning the pharaoh or dropping grapes in his mouth. He isn’t taking you along to talk to you. That’s why his wives will be there.” The woman curled up on the slab, trying to get her feet under her. “I want to dip in the Nile one more time to wash my hair—for the pharaoh! I promise I won’t run away... again. Please let me go. You can’t enjoy doing this.” “I have my orders. You’re to be mummified.” In the corner, the man busied himself with the usual tools—a long hook for nose sticking, a heap of natron. “People usually consider this an honor. I’m sure your family is very proud.” With a grunt, the woman managed to roll off the slab. She tried to crawl toward the door. “I don’t even know the pharaoh! And he wants me standing beside him for all eternity? Could you run this by one of the priests? Honestly, I think there’s been an unfortunate mistake. I’d like to see the papyrus trail on this. I won’t be able to read it, but I’d like to see it anyway.” The executioner lifted her wriggling form back onto the slab. “I’m sympathetic, but you’re the fifth servant today, and I’m getting compensated for the whole batch. It’ll be over quickly. I’m sure the pharaoh will be a terrific person to spend all eternity with. How about this? One of my colleagues is mummifying the pharaoh’s pets. If you’d like, I can make sure you get a spot next to a jackal or an alligator. Would that make you feel better?” Brow furrowed, the woman shivered. “Okay, hold steady, please,” the man said, revealing the knife in his hand. He lifted it above the woman’s torso. “I’ll make you a deal.” “What sort of deal?” Little did the woman know that, of all Pharaoh’s executioners, her mummification had been assigned to the only compulsive gambler. “You could just pretend to embalm me. You know, use the herbs and salt to get the smell right and wrap me up. Then, you could slip in while they’re still setting up the graverobber traps to swap me out with somebody else. Tell them you’d found out I led an unvirtuous life and wasn’t fit to join the pharaoh on his journey into the afterlife.” “Who will the substitute be?” the executioner asked, visibly straining from the weight of the uplifted knife. “I don’t know! People die every day, don’t they? Grab one of them.” “Why should I help you?” His outstretched arm was shaking, and his grip on the knife was loosening. The woman accelerated her sales pitch. “When no one’s looking, I’ll stuff my linen strips with treasure. The pharaoh isn’t going to miss a few scarab brooches. We can start a new life together somewhere they’ll never find us. We can go to Greece! It can’t be far. The pharaoh will be too busy, sailing around the underworld in his tomb boat to care if one of his servant mummies was replaced at the last minute. If anything, we’ll be doing the dead peasant a favor, giving them a spot on the pharaoh’s ship!” “But what if we’re cursed?” “I already am!” the woman shrieked, eyes fixed on the quaking knife. Lowering the surgical dagger, the man said, “I like the odds. Let’s get you into something more comfortable.


Baalabog  In a flash of insight I knew where my friend the spider first came to me. It was a day that was burned into my memory. I was at my babysitter’s house, playing out in the woods as I often did. There was a field that separated the woods from the laneway and I’d walk through it to get to and from the small cedar forest there. After some time spent playing and exploring I crossed the field to return to the farmhouse. As I did the grass that had grown tall and brown in the late summer brushed against my legs as I walked. I felt a webby resistance then. It stretched across my shins as strong as yarn. Like woven cotton. Tearing a little bit but holding remarkably strong. I looked down to see the trademark swingle of an orb-weaver’s web. I saw the black and yellow... or did not need to. At that moment I must have been imbued by the sheer terror that spider must have felt. Being disturbed by accident by a creature monumentally bigger than itself. Maybe it’s nearer to say that we shared that terror. I ran - sprinted - as fast as I could possibly sprint, crying the whole while. When I got back to the house I complained of having been bitten by the orb-weaver, and, although in no physical sense had I been bitten I was still somehow telling the truth.  The spirit of the orb-weaver has been with me ever since. At first in the profound fear I felt at night thinking that spiders would descend on me in my sleep. Nights like this were sleepless and disturbed. Then later as an adult experimenting with magic mushrooms I felt the spider yet again. Looking upwards I felt the supermassive presence of the arachnid. Baalabog, as I later named him. I felt a profound friendliness in him. I felt a superb, otherworldly sensitivity. I felt us dancing between fear and familial warmth. When I felt afraid he would recoil, when I felt love he would come forward with the most radiant, pleasant friendliness.  Those were my first conscious encounters with the mad divine, the twofold mix of powerful emotion that I have labelled the insane... something. I forget, really, but you catch my drift. Hysterical laughter and sadness all at once. It has evolved in recent months. I feel strangely more at home in that mix of emotion. That mushroom trip I speak of was based around a question… an attempt to reconcile myself on this earth. Seeing my humanity and my search for reconciliation the spider came to me. It does not surprise me given the kindness he possesses. I would see Baalabog again and again in my use of psychedelics. I would sense the arachnid nature and the massiveness of the spirit above me. He would always seem earthbound but I would have to look straight up to greet him. It occurred to me only much later, again in a flash, that our roles had been exactly reversed from our first meeting. I was now the tiny being at the mercy of the huge spider. I was feeling myself as a child from the spider’s perspective. My own friendly nature and curiosity - those times where I would stare in awe at the yellow and black predator, the white swiggle in the middle of its web. And my own sheer panic at the prospect of touching or being touched by the alien beings.  My friend’s lesson is about angels and demons. Yin and Yang. The dual. Later when Baalabog would come through in my automatic writing I was leery of him. The mad poet. Madness would seem to come from him and there seemed to be a hostility that he would extend to the other spirit beings in what I called my “Spirit Council”. His name being part black god Chernabog and half biblical demon, Baal, also raised alarm in me. But since then, we have found ground together and I am profoundly grateful to have the cradler of divine madness in my life. Black mixed with yellow. The predatory and sensitive spirit of the arachnid. Sometimes I try to forget about my friend… I get scared. In those moments I lose myself as well, the world becomes dreary and tiresome. A grey slog through the dirt and the mud. When I push away from my own darkness I begin the process of annihilating myself. It’s okay though… I’m getting to where I’m going. But, I won’t get there without my demons.


A man with wispy white hair and paint-stained fingers burst onto the bridge. “I wish to speak to Captain Wendroll—immediately!” The ship’s first mate, Ming, stepped away from his controls. “Good to see you, Lon-Der. I’m afraid the captain can’t be bothered. I’ll do my best to handle the matter myself. If needed, I’ll mention it to her in the officers’ mess this evening. What’s troubling you?” “No, I will only speak to the Captain. As the *Raymond*’s chief creative officer, I have as much a right to interrupt her as you bridge lurkers.” The look of amusement slid off First Mate Ming’s face like an egg yolk on drywall. “That’s impossible. And, for the last time, being the only artist on this ship doesn’t make you an officer. You might be a specialist in your field, but you have no authority to take the lift up here and bark orders at me.” Lon-Der’s eyebrows downshifted. “I may not have any pins on my robe, but I am a leader on this ship!” “You’re not.” “I may not have a blaster, but there are many forms of power. One is referent power, the ability to influence based on personal relationships and respect.” “Do you even respect yourself?” That remark hit Lon-Der like a slap. His mouth fell open, and his tongue wandered around for awhile, aimless and confused. “I want to speak to the Captain.” “She’s occupied with important matters.” Lon-Der took a step toward the captain’s study. He was intercepted. This continued several more times. “I think we need to reset here,” Lon-Der said amiably. “Maybe you can help me.” “I live to serve.” “My room is inadequate.” “All the berths are filled.” “Would it be possible for me to swap with someone?” “Why is your room inadequate?” “You see, I’m an artist.” “My room is the same as yours. I find it adequate.” Lon-Der waved his arms, accentuating a set of four billowing sleeves. “I need light. I don’t have any portholes. If I’d wanted to paint off of pictures, I could’ve stayed on my home planet.” “Is that all?” “I was brought along on this mission to study the effects of long-term space travel on creative output.” “Yes, how has that been?” “I’ve been struggling to stay productive. It’s always the same thing on the observation deck. A black void with shimmering dots. Sometimes, they bleed together when we speed up.” First Mate Ming’s face twisted into a malevolent smirk. “I see your problem. Would you like there to be more trees and religious symbolism floating around out there? I’m sure the Captain will get right on that.” “No, no, you idiot!” Lon-Der’s eyes flew open like the shutters on an exploding house. “I’m sorry. I just wanted to know if the Captain would consider doubling-back when we pass interesting sights—planets, nebulas…. Could we at least pass them more slowly? Art takes time. As it is, we zip by everything so fast, I usually end up with a colorful smear.” “What’s the difference?” “I see. Yes, ha! A joke. Good one, Ming.” “Officer Ming.” “Right….” “Say it.” “... Officer Ming, I don’t pretend to know how these technical monstrosities operate, but those requests sound simple enough. The voyage was slated for two years. You can’t tell me the schedule didn’t have a bit of padding factored in.... Please, my time on this ship will be useless without these accommodations.” “We all have to make sacrifices, Lon-Der. Maybe you could invert a few of the smears. Black dots on a white background.” Lon-Der muttered, “That’s not half bad.


American Quarantine The first day of spring has come and gone making the snow fall even more impactful. Here in New England we’re used to being snowed in. We are all prepared for times indoors when we may rather be anywhere else. I once heard a woman here say, “do you even live in New England if you don’t have two types of heat in your home”. The quarantine is something we should be able to handle no problem. We may leave our homes if we absolutely have to but are asked to stay at least six feet away from other people. With most things already shut down there is nowhere to go anyway. Diane had already been home a week with her daughter Whitney and their two cats and one dog. Diane’s husband Jack has only been home for three days and he’s already drunk his way through the stockpiles of budweiser in their food storage. Thankfully...regretfully...both I suppose, the liquor stores are still open. Yes, the liquor stores are still open leaving all the cashiers and stock persons available for infection. The head cashier, Steve, has been to work everyday since everything started to shut down. Steve’s mother is in an expensive assisted living home and he’s really happy to be getting all this overtime. He’s certainly not lonely working all these hours. The store almost seems busier than right before the holidays. One regular, Bill, even tipped him in toilet paper. Bill is an older guy. He was a retired military man. Bill served in Vietnam and still wears something with some army green in it everyday. He loves being out and keeping in touch with his friends, especially other vets. Ever since this whole thing started he has been tipping people with toilet paper. He likes a good laugh, and this made him laugh every time. Even when he handed the pretty grocery store cashier, Jane a roll and her boyfriend Todd, who’d been waiting for her to go on break did not think it was very funny. In fact Todd had been livid. He left before Jane even got to take her break with him. She knew things would get ugly when she got home. After 5 more hours on her feet listening to customers complain about the lack of pasta and toilet paper Jane finally got to go home. Most people would be relieved, but Jane was dreading it. When she finally walked through the door she didn’t see Todd right away. She quietly turned down their little hall into the open kitchen holding tension in her shoulders and saw Todd gripping the counter top with his back turned to her. Their neighbors Tina and Lee who normally work this time of day were both home due to shutdowns. Tina heard it first, then Lee. They made eye contact and in an instant understood so much about their sweet quiet neighbor and her charismatic husband. Tina picked up her phone and called 911. Lee paced nervously but couldn’t take the helpless feeling. She marched barefoot out of the apartment door and started banging and yelling “the police are on their way you fucking son of a bitch!!!” Tina, still holding her phone, ran out to pull Lee away. Her timing impeccable as Todd ran out the door and down the back stairs of the building. Tina and Lee sat with a crumpled sobbing Jane as they waiting for EMS. This was Grace’s one year anniversary serving as an EMT. All her trips in and out of the hospital for emergencies lately have been haunted by ED waiting rooms full of people who think they have the virus. Grace couldn’t help but wonder what would happen to people like Jane and little kids with broken arms and old ladies who fall at home. Will there be room for them? Grace couldn’t think of that now. Her shift had barely started. Once they got Jane inside she told her partner to give her a second and grabbed some Cheez-its from the vending machine right by the door. Grace could always rely on that machine for some good stress eating. Phil, the vending machine operator for that machine and lot more in town, had just been there this morning. He had tried that week to fill everyone up that he could. At the moment his route was shrinking since so many places were closed. The hospital would always need him at least. Phil’s favorite stop has always been and will always be the big office building off of Industrial. The ladies there were the prettiest and the nicest on the route. Phil was wishing he could go again today but he’d just been there two days ago. Phil could never resist stopping at the desk there and trying to charm the women by kissing them on the hand. Lisa was one of only about a dozen people left working in the building. Two days earlier Lisa saw Phil coming up the parking lot from the front desk. She groaned internally preparing herself for his attempts at flirting. Lisa hated people being too close to begin with but now she was even more uncomfortable. Hoping, at the very least, Phil wouldn’t try to kiss her hand, she greeted him cheerfully. Lisa’s stomach turned as Phil went for her hand. She hestitated a millisecond too long to regain possession of her own hand and it was too late. Yuck. Lisa waiting for him to walk away before she poured a generous amount of sanitizer over her hands. She could still feel the warm point of contact and decided to go scrub up at the sink. Lisa saw her co-worker Pat in the ladies scrubbing away as well. Pat chuckled commiseratingly and apologized to Lisa as they stood shoulder to shoulder at the sinks. Even though Lisa hadn’t realized it, Pat also saw Phil coming and had ducked into the back before he saw her. Pat had mixed feelings about still being at the office while almost everyone else was working from home. She promised herself since she had to be out anyway, she’d stop at the liquor store and pick up some nice daiquiri ingredients for this weekend. Diane, Whitney, Jack, Steve, Bill, Jane, Todd, Tina, Lee, Grace, Phil, Lisa and Pat all led very different lives but in the end they all had one thing in common.


(Covid-19 still runs rampant) **March 2nd:** As I approach the entrance to the ferry terminal a man in uniform walks up to me. "You essential workforce?" I don't even answer him. I just reach into my back pocket and pull my work ID card out. I hold the card up next to my face so the man can simultaneously scan the card and make sure the picture looks like me. The app on the guard's phone tells him I am clear to work for the next 15 hours in Seattle. As I walk down the foot bridge I see a man being wrestled to the ground. He was probably not cleared for travel to the city... or even outside of his house. He probably wanted to visit family or...get groceries? No one can ever know. You don't ask questions. You just keep walking in the line, keeping a safe 6 foot distance from the person in front of you. I board the ferry and begin to look for a safe spot to sit. They have marked every few seats as viable options for sitting down. All booths have been taped off with red quarantine tape. I sit down on a marked seat and proceed to sanitize my phone. A security guard in the corner watches me with scrutiny, any reason to pull out his baton. The ferry ride is fairly uneventful and as we pull into dock the other "essential" persons begin to stand. We form a line starting from the door and it begins stretching far back into the ferry. We stand upon the designated line formation spots marked on the floor. More men in uniforms scan our ID badges as we disembark the boat and enter the city. **March 3rd:** It is Wednesday. I usually have Wednesdays and Thursdays off because of my being on a “reduced” hours schedule for the past year. This is in addition to a standard...restful Saturday and Sunday. My employer pays my hours worked and the government sends me a check in the mail for the remaining hours that I am not allowed to work. It is early so I use my phone to apply for an exercise permit. I set my phone down and look out the window. There are a few crows picking at food scraps that have dislodged from an overflowing garbage can. The phone screen lights up and a chime tells me my permit has been denied and instructs me to wait twenty minutes. Since my morning jog has been put on hold, I busy myself in the pantry. I start by counting my on-hand stock for a weekly report to the local state government. The things I must list include the following: toilet paper, hand soap, shampoo, dish soap, various canned foods, sanitizers and non-perishables. I live alone so it is easy to make short work of this list. I worry for families of more than three that must complete this chore daily. I submit my on-hand list through a government app on my phone. I am e-mailed a voucher that lists the quantities I am allowed to purchase on my next shopping trip. The voucher also says which day I am allowed to shop: “Thursday 3-4-21” paints the top of the voucher in crimson decree. This relieves me, as I enjoy Thursdays as my shopping day. My phone comes to life again with a different chime. I have been cleared to leave my apartment for the next hour strictly for the purpose of exercise.


I actually just emptied out my refrigerator and fried every ingredient in butter, even the milk carton. It smelled horrible. It was toxic,nasty. I have to keep away the bad things. I fried these things because there are two monsters in my closet, and they demand that I do certain things. Most of the time, they want me to burn something, but sometimes they get weird with it, and make me fry or melt certain objects. Today it was the contents of the entire refrigerator. My husband is at work, and I don’t think he’ll be too happy with what I have done, when he gets home. I have always kept my monsters a secret from him, and it has been fairly easy because the monsters have, up until this point, asked me to destroy small items. A single piece of broccoli. A plastic figurine. An earring. But this will be impossible to hide! It must have been, what, two-hundred and fifty dollars worth of groceries completely obliterated! The house smells of burnt plastic (I had to fry tupperware), and also fried meats and vegetables. They won’t let me keep the things I burn or fry, so even though there is some great cooked chicken, steak, and asparagus which I would otherwise store back in the fridge, they cannot stay in the house. They all must go in the woods. There is a dense woods in our backyard. I have to go about fifty feet in, and put it in the same pile as I put the other things. I am going to lug it all out there now. It’ll take twenty minutes because I have to make multiple trips. Okay. I just got back. I’m sweating. The pile is getting really rancid and I hope no one finds it. I hope a large animal comes and finds it, and eats all of the contents. Pigs eat everything, don’t they? Maybe a wild pig. If a wild pig doesn’t come by and eat all of my evidence in the next couple weeks, I’ll have to buy one, and set it free. All while my husband is at work, of course. I went to our bedroom to check and see if the monsters were doing okay. One of them is green and fuzzy; your typical, run-of-the-mill monster. The other is tall and thin, and he changes colors all the time. I told them that I had fried everything in the refrigerator, and may I please have the rest of the day off. They said yes. I knew I needed to go to the grocery store and re-stock. But I was so tired. They have me doing things that take up so much energy and time. I don’t feel like I am even living my own life anymore. I am their slave. They told me that if I don’t do what they say, they will come out and introduce themselves to my husband, and then he wouldn’t want to be with me anymore because of all the hassle. Its so much easier to be married to a woman who doesn’t have monsters following her wherever she goes. I agree that he’d be pretty pissed off. So I laid down and took a nap. He’s going to be home any minute. I love him so much. I’d do anything to keep him. He’s my best friend. What if I burn the house down? Would that destroy the monsters? I’m going to consider it, for now. My husband is my rock. I love him with all my heart. I’m going to put on some lipstick and kiss him, tenderly, the minute he walks in the door.


I have lived a thousand lifetimes. Oh, not exactly a thousand; I lost track long ago. And I won't even try to guess how many years I've lived; trying to refer to a calendar isn't exactly straightforward. You see, I'm something of an immortal. Every time I die I open my eyes and I'm being placed in my mother's arms, a baby opening his eyes for the first time. Every time the world is reset, everything exactly how it was except for me. I have all of my knowledge, all of my memories, everything. I am a constantly changing constant, while everything else gets rewound and rerun. I still remember my first life most clearly. There was nothing particularly special about me - on the short side of tall, a bit overweight, enough brains to do well in school but not enough self-discipline to do great. I had an OK life and muddled my way through like most everyone else, and then I died. And then I woke up. I was a baby again. And it was the worst thing I've ever experienced. Everything that I loved, everyone that was precious to me, it was all gone, and no one could understand or would even believe me. I cried like a baby, which wasn't all that odd because, of course, I was one. That second life was a haze of confusion, both for myself and those around me. I still had to learn how to see, how to move, how to walk, how to control my bowels and bladder - my, wasn't that embarrassing - but once I did I could walk, talk, and try to tell people what had happened to me. They were amazed at this impossibly gifted infant, but they never really believed me. They never have, in fact, all the times I've been through it. And I didn't really believe it either, that first time. I had all of these memories, could even tell people about things before they happened, but I was always doubting that it was real, that it wasn't some fever dream or head wound or delirium. So I went through my life, muddled through the best I could - this time making a bit more money in the stock market - and then I died. And then I woke up. And then I believed. I tried, those first cycles, I really did. I tried to understand what was happening to me, tried to make sense of this madness laid atop an already crazy world. But there is no explanation - or if there is I haven't found it. I just keep on keeping on, functionally immortal and just starting over again and again. I am so, so tired of starting over again. So yes, I have lived a thousand lifetimes, give or take. I have been rich and poor - and let me tell you, rich is better. I have lived short lives of hedonistic debauchery, and spent a century living the life of an ascetic high in the mountains of Tibet. I have grown financial empires out of the seeds of a child's weekly allowance, and used them to try to remake the world. I have prevented tragedies only to see other ones take their place. I have suffered horrible diseases, punishing myself on the thought that I was being punished in some afterlife and could hasten the end of the punishment. I have been an incarnation of justice, punishing the villains of the world for crimes sometimes not yet committed in that lifetime, and through the process become the villain. I've even walked on the moon, if you can believe that. It took lifetimes of study and memorization, working with people way smarter than I am, but pushing them a little farther each time to make their discoveries a little bit faster, and all the while they were thinking I was the genius. Hah! But it worked, and I pushed humanity to the stars. And then I died. And then I woke up. I have been a doctor, a scientist, a politician. I have been a bricklayer, a garbage man, a soldier, a fighter. I have been a billionaire and lived as long as medical technology could take me, and I have died young from the search for the next adrenaline rush, or the sheer weight of despair. I have lived in every country and every culture in the world, and I've forgotten more languages than I can speak right now. I've been ordained in every religion that exists, and even started a few of my own. I have cured cancer and the common cold, and I have brought down governments and remade the world. And none of it matters. And it's all for nothing. Because every time I die. And I wake up. And I know I can never get what I truly want. Oh, don't get me wrong, I've tried. I've tried to move on, I've had hundreds of wives and hundreds of children, and I have loved them all. But they never quite manage to fill that hole, to satisfy the nagging curiosity of whether that first lifetime went on without me, and what happened to my wife and my daughter and my sons. And I've tried to recreate that first lifetime too, letting tragedies both great and personal proceed as I remembered, suffering indignities and abuses, even rescuing the same cats at the same animal shelters, anything to try to recreate the conditions of that first life. I've married the same woman hundreds of times, and she's just as wonderful and just as endearing. But life is a random thing my friend, and you and I are the products of very small odds. Sure, the odds of having kids might not be that rare, else we as a species wouldn't be there. But the odds of having one specific child? Or three very specific children? It would take more lifetimes than have existed in the universe during my strange cycle to get even one of those combinations. A very specific egg, a specific molecular structure in one specific sperm out of millions, affected by all the choices and experiences of a life spent to that point - this is what makes an individual, and any little change will result in a different individual. All I want, really, is the end of this cycle. I want to open my eyes and see my wife next to me. I want to see my daughter's beautiful brown eyes and be there to see what she makes of her life. I want to see my twin sons and meet the men they grow into. I want to meet their children, and I want to grow old as a part of that family. And I want to die knowing that their lives will keep going after I'm gone, that something I've built will outlast me, that I've actually made an impact on the world. But until that happens I will keep living. I will muddle my way through the best I can. And I will die. And then I will wake up.


Did she really want to go inside? What if she just went back? No. It was a stupid idea. The sun was almost down. It was already late. She slowly unlocked the door, went in and locked the door with her key. No one was going to leave the house anymore tonight. It was already late. She went upstairs as quiet as she could, holding on to her backpack. Nobody noticed her yet. She heard the noise the tv made. It had to be like that. A stair she stepped on made a noise. She held her breath. There was still the monotone noise the tv made and nothing more. Why couldn't everything just be quiet? She was almost there, just a few steps away. When she stepped on the last stair it made an even louder noise. "Kate?" She grew stiff and held on tighter to her backpack. How was she doing that? How did she notice her every time? Even though her mother had called her, she just stayed there. Standing on the last stair. Maybe it would just stop. If she just would stay there. "Kate!" She still didn't move. Her backpack already had scars. "Kate, I know you're there! Come here and clean the kitchen the way you have to!" She dropped her backpack and ran the stairs down as loud as she could. She wanted to overtone the tv's noise. When she walked by the couch her parents were on she rolled her eyes. She was Cinderella. "Why are you standing there? The kitchen doesn't clean itself !", her father shouted. She didn't say anything, took a deep breath and stepped into the kitchen. It was always like this. Every day. Exactly that. There was much work every time. She yawned and started cleaning everything. It took an hour. She yawned again. Then she put the sponge away and looked out of the window. The sun was completely gone. Instead there was a full moon. What if she just went away? What if? No. That's a stupid idea. It was dark outside. It was already too late. When she left the kitchen, she froze immediately. Her parents were right in front of her. Everyone just stood there and did nothing. They forgot each other. There was silence for a few moments. Not even the tv made a noise. She wanted silence. Just not that kind of silence. As if she woke up, her mother continued walking. Her husband followed her. "Dont forget to clean the living room." These words were the ones her father told her every evening. She started working and yawned again. Even though her parents would be mad at her the next day, she only did half of the work. She was exhausted. Like every evening. She left the living room and walked by the door that led outside. She just stood there and looked at it. It was too late. Far too late. She walked towards the door and unlocked it. She silently sat down on the stairs in front of the house. Could she really do it? She wanted it so much. But could she? It was too late. Or wasn't it? She looked behind her at the door which was slightly opened. Then she looked at the sky with the shining full moon. The door promised safety. The moon promised freedom. She stood up.


“Never judge a book by its cover.” It’s a common saying, one I’m sure we’ve all heard. I suppose it’s common for a reason, people are more than just their appearance. Every one of us are complicated in unique ways, shaped by all the experiences we’ve all had to go through. However, what if I told you that this isn’t necessarily true, well not for me anyhow. My name’s Mark, and I’ve been able to see Aura’s ever since I can remember. I’m getting ahead of myself, let me tell you what an “Aura” is. Imagine it as a gaseous cloud around a person. A hazy mist of different consistencies and colours, unique to each and every individual. As a child, I remember being captivated by all the colours, which can be as simple as a light blue around my mother, or a bright and diverse palette of colours when with many people. As you’ve probably guessed, I did not have a great childhood. I learned early on that no one else could see these wonderful sights, and eventually ended up going to therapy for my “issues”. I quickly learnt to keep my gift to myself, and try to be as normal as possible. Unfortunately, that’s quite easier said than done. Having this constant vibrance around me was distracting to say the least, especially in class when surrounded by so many peers. No matter how hard I tried, I’d often slip into a world of unknown, gazing at the combination of Auras. As such, my grades suffered and I’d often be labelled as a miscreant. Combine that with constant remarks from fellow classmates for being “out of it” and “high as fuck”, its safe to say I didn’t have a positive school experience. I didn’t mind though, I was perfectly content being surrounded by Auras, gazing at them longingly. It wasn’t until I met Mr.Rodgers though, that I discovered the true meaning of the Auras, and why they were unique for each person. Mr.Rodgers moved in next door, right after the day I turned seventeen. I remember the first time I saw him as clear as the night sky, for good reason. It was one of the few times of day I wasn’t admiring the different Auras of people around me, mostly since my mother had told me to take out the thrash. I’d unwillingly dragged myself out and dropped the bag in the dumpster, when I first spotted Mr.Rodgers. He was quite a large man, easily 6 foot and extremely daunting in appearance. With a patchy beard and a menacing scowl on his face, he looked like he was having hell mowing his lawn. But it wasn’t any of those attributes that got him my attention. Surrounding him was easily the largest Aura I had ever seen all my life. Dense and thick, it coiled and extended at least 10 ft in diameter around him. More shocking, was the colour. It was the deepest shade of red, which occasional streaks of black etched onto it, as if a brush had stroked it there. The colour pulsed in place, going from a bright red to a dark crimson as the Aura swirled menacingly around him. Needless to say, I was extremely terrified. The moment I regained my senses I dashed inside my house and slammed the door shut. My heart hammering at a thousand times a second, I was left to wonder why his Aura was so, to put it bluntly, horrifying. Over the coming months, I used every excuse to avoid meeting Mr.Rodgers. The dread I felt whenever I saw him and his Aura never faded, and I often felt trapped inside my own home, unable to leave in fear of meeting the man, and being within, what I assume would be, a very suffocating cloud of Aura. It was then tragedy struck my city. Jasper, one of the many children attending West High School, my high school, went missing. It was all over the news for weeks, and posters were hung up on every corner of the city. It wasn’t unusual to see police making their routes along the city, searching for the missing child. I was personally saddened by his disappearance, Id met Jasper only a handful of times, but he was the happiest, most cheerful person I knew. Moreover, his aura was a nice teal and extremely vibrant, and I’d feel at ease whenever I was around him. Coincidentally, it was his unique Aura that lead to me discovering something bizarre. The morning before I knew about Jaspers disappearance, Id spotted that shade of teal at, you guessed it, Mr.Rodgers house. I wrote it off as morning sleepiness at first, but the fact that the colour seemed to persist for days afterward bugged me to an extreme. Something just didn’t feel right, and with that teal slowly diminishing over time I swallowed my fear and went outside for a better look at Mr.Rodgers house. From a safe distance of course. By which I mean hiding in the bushes at the edge of the neighbourhood and spying on him using a pair of binoculars I’d bought with my allowance. It was a cowardly and crude plan, but I was seventeen and didn’t have too many options. It was stunningly uneventful, to say the least. Days went by without even a hiccup. Mr.Rodgers routines were like clockwork, only leaving his house to go to the local bar at 6, and coming back around 10, drunk out of his mind. By the end of the week I was ready to give up on solving this mystery, when fate decided to intervene. It was a Saturday morning, and Mr.Rodgers was out pruning his bushes. I was snacking on some gummies and keeping an eye on him, when I noticed a glare coming from the other end of the house. I redirected my binoculars at the glare, and nearly jumped out of my skin. The origin of the glare was a shard of broken glass, held up by a human hand, right behind Mr.Rodgers basement window. Once I got over my initial shock, I looked at the scene once again to confirm what I saw was real or just a hallucination produced by all the sugar from the gummies I’d been stuffing my face with. It wasn’t, and I slowly sunk into the bushes, perplexed by what I just saw. It wasn’t until a few minutes of deep thinking later, that all the puzzle pieces fit in my head. It was no wonder I was seeing Jaspers unique Aura there, if Jasper himself was stuck there too. Mr.Rodgers must’ve kidnapped him for some sick reason, and what I had just witnessed must’ve been his desperate attempt at being rescued. Not knowing what to do, I eventually settled on writing “Jasper at Mr.Rodgers” on a piece of paper before conveniently dropping it right infront of the local police station, and quickly running back home. Id hoped it’d be enough for the cops to consider as a lead and save him. The cops did not disappoint, the very night I woke up to a frenzy of noises disturbing the stillness of the night. My mother and I got to watch from our doorsteps as the police dragged away a struggling Mr.Rodgers, and lead a boy draped in a blanket into the back of a cruiser. It was all over the news the next morning. The police had done a raid on Mr.Rodgers following an “anonymous tip” and wound up rescuing Jasper and putting Mr.Rodgers, who was found guilty of multiple charges across many states, behind bars. It was never revealed the reasoning behind the kidnapping however, but I quickly figured it out for myself. The next time I saw Jasper, he had changed. His cheerful exterior was replaced with a sullen look, and more importantly, that vibrant teal Aura of his had dimmed and darkened, losing that warmth it once had. I didn’t need to ask him what horrific acts he had to go through, his Aura spoke for himself. I put two and two together and came to realise that Auras were much like a fingerprint, unique to each individual as it represented each individuals personality. The Auras were a reflection of their true selves, and a change in a persons overall demeanour was expressed by the Aura itself. If a persons appearance were their cover, the Aura was their inner pages. You can see why I meant I no longer had to follow the phrase, never judge a book by it’s cover. This uncanny ability of mine helped me pick and choose different aspects of my life, who to be friends with, which endeavour I wanted to undertake, and most importantly, what was the easiest route to getting the next biggest scoop. My little adventure in rescuing Jasper had sparked a flame inside me for snooping and detective work. Combined with my love for writing and literature, journalism seemed like a perfect fit as a career choice. I worked my ass off at Grad School and ended up graduating from the prestigious Yale University with a degree in Journalism and Literature. One fruitful job search later, with a recommendation from my professor at Yale University, I had secured myself a job at the Daily Globe. The no.1 biggest newspaper and media company in America, and I got the luxury of being a reporter and journalist there. It did not take long for me to develop a reputation there. Within the first month itself, I managed to uncover a huge drug market happening deep in the heart of the city itself. My reports earned me several glowing remarks from critics and the general public alike, and I was even nominated for the Journalism Awards. People often remarked that I had a nose for the next scoop, but it had nothing to do with my nose. My eyes on the other hand, were a huge help. Being able to see Auras meant that all I had to do to get a good story was simply follow whoever had an intriguing Aura. In the case of the drug market, it all began when I met the local butcher and meat supplier for the Daily Globe. Despite his polite behaviour and charming smile, he had an Aura that was nearly as menacing as Mr.Rodgers himself. I knew I had my first lead. A thorough snoop and a somewhat dangerous car chase later, I had pictures of him stuffing drugs in the meat before selling to his “daily customers”. After unearthing some more information about him and his clients, I had my final report ready for the public. Im not going to lie, it felt nice to be able to service the city while developing my career at the same time. At that point, life was going great. I had an unshakeable reputation as the best journalist at the Daily Globe, I had met the love of my life, Sarah, and moved in with her, and had recently had a talk with some of the heads about a promotion. If only things had persisted like that. The Auras, they were my gift. No one else could see them, feel them. I was determined to carry this secret, this gift with me to the grave, and had it not been for him this might’ve been the case. It was a dull Monday morning. I was sitting at my desk, typing away my daily quota for the newspaper when I first felt it. A chill that ran down my spine, sending goosebumps all over my body. I blamed It on the air conditioning and tried my best to resume working, but as time passed the feeling got worse and worse, eventually exerting such a pressure that I found it difficult to breathe. As I tried to revert my breathing back to normal and calm down, a faint white glow began emanating from behind me, growing stronger and stronger by the second. It eventually enveloped the whole floor, and to my shock and relief, felt comforting. I was taken back to all the nights my mother would hold me as she read all those nursery books. The first time I had met Sarah and my heart skipped a beat. The day I’d asked her to move in with me and she’d happily said yes. All those wonderful memories, the white glow seemed to possess as it wrapped around me like a warm blanket. The glow simultaneously emanated a sense of pressure and strength, but possessed a calm that made me relax and put me at ease. I was so distracted by all these emotions that it took me a good while to realise that this was in fact someone’s Aura. Once I realised this fact, I quickly scanned the floor to see the source of this enormous, powerful sensation. The owner of the Aura which dominated every other Aura I had ever seen. My eyes landed on a man, dressed in a trench coat at least two sizes big for him. He wore a fedora on top his neatly combed hair, horn rimmed glasses that made him appear to be twice his age, and was holding a stack of folders while talking to some of the other reporters. Eventually, he spotted my gaze, and began walking towards me. I noticed he had a limp as he walked, and generally seemed to be quite awkward as he slowly made his way towards me. It was hard to believe that he possessed such a brilliant Aura, when he seemed beyond normal. Upon catching upto me, he flashed me a dazzling smile as he uttered the words that I would never forget for the rest of my life, the very words that would end up changing my life. “Hey, I’m Clark Kent, the new guy. It’s a pleasure being able to work with you.


I noticed the door a few days ago. It was bright yellow, nearly impossible to miss unless you were just blind. It had a sign on the front: “Caution: Active Construction Zone.” The rule was clear, and I wasn’t one to break the rules. I continued walking, noticing the faint sound of metal clanking coming from inside. It wasn’t disturbing or scary in any way. The sign was loud and clear, it was a construction site. The next day, as I was on my way to the bakery, I heard voices coming from inside. Echoing syllables that I couldn’t quite make out. It was as if they were almost words, but some piece was missing. Typical of a construction site to have workers, no need for alarm. Although, I couldn’t help but feel a bit uneasy about what I was hearing on the other side. The sounds, those strange grunts that were one vowel away from being a proper word, seemed to echo through my head as I tried to sleep that night, instigating curiosity. The enigma behind those disembodied grunts had me in its grasp. I had to know what was making such otherworldly sounds. As I walked by the door the following day, I noticed a bench across the narrow, brick paved road. It was vacant, and gave a perfect view of the metal door. It would be the perfect spot to conduct a little stakeout. I perched upon the bench, seating myself inconspicuously on the right side. The metal armrest gave me the perfect opportunity to appear nonchalant as I scrolled through my phone without purpose. My eyes would shoot up as crowds of people walked by the door, waiting for anyone to open it and walk in. After dozens upon dozens of pedestrians walked by without so much as acknowledging the yellow eyesore, I felt my curiosity burning. There had to be someone, anyone who worked at this so-called “active construction site.” After another half hour of sitting and waiting, and losing count of the pedestrians who walked by without entering, I’d begun to grow impatient. In the whole span I’d sat in that seat, from 10am to 12pm, not a single person entered or exited the door. Yet, I could still hear sounds coming from inside. A repetitive hammering of metal beating against metal coupled with those inconceivable sounds that had no place in the English language. What was in there? How were the people getting in and out? Was there a second door that I didn’t know about? Yeah, that had to be it. There was just a second door. If I went around to the other side of the building I’d find a metal door, probably the same color with the same sign. So I walked. I circled the block, going from Fourth Street, where I’d been posted up, over to Fifth. As I walked halfway down the block, estimating where the adjacent door might be, I was met with a brownish-red brick. No door. No, no, no this couldn’t be. This can’t be possible. There has to be somewhere for people to get in. Somewhere for them to get out. The door couldn’t exist without ever opening. The thought raced across my mind that, perhaps in the time I’d spent walking the block, a handful of people had entered or exited. Perhaps I was missing it! “No!” I shouted, bolting down the street through crowds of pedestrians. I received concerned glances, furrowed eyebrows, and mumbled curses as I pummeled my way through the groups of people. When I finally found my way back to the door, I hesitated. I didn’t know if I should be the one to tear it open. To be the one who discovers what is really going on. It felt as if I’d begun a descent into madness. My mind raced back and forth with possibilities. Perhaps it was just a construction site down there. Maybe I’d open the door just to find a crew of greasy men in white tank tops and yellow hard hats smashing away at something with sledgehammers. But what if it was more? What if whatever was down there was some sort of secret begging to be revealed. The Illuminati’s secret base of operations, or the remnants of the UFO crash in Roswell, New Mexico all those years ago. It was my civic duty to make it known to the world! I grasped the handle, smooth and cool in my hand, and slowly depressed it. As it fell in a counterclockwise motion until it was perpendicular to the ground, my heart began speeding. Blood rushed rapidly through my veins and caused my face to begin burning, ever so slightly. A bead of sweat formed on my brow. Anticipation and anxiety gripped me and my breathing became shallow. I pulled the door. “No…” I said, in utter defeat and disappointment. “No, no, no… NO!” I’d begun to shout, attracting the attention of passers-by. The constant drumming of metal on metal had grown louder, but what was on the other side of that door was nothing more than a brick wall. An identical brick wall to the one over on Fifth. That door that I’d grown so curious of was nothing. Upon closer examination I’d found that it was simply leaning against the wall, not attached to anything. It wasn’t at all possible. It couldn’t be. I could hear that droning. The sounds of people murmuring those strange consonants playing in my ears. A group of teens walked by, mumbling to themselves. The sounds seemed so familiar. They were like distant echoes of strange syllables that didn’t quite make words. I had no clue what was going on. Why were they talking like that? I needed to know. “Excuse me,” I said, stepping in front of the boy who led the group. He was a bit off-put, staring at me in contempt. Then I heard a sudden and extremely loud POP. I winced as the high pitched squeal echoed through my head. I grabbed at my ears, covering them tightly in an attempt to halt the static noise that accompanied the pop. I turned my gaze back toward the teen as he looked to his friends, appearing to mouth something followed by a silent laugh. His friends joined in. “What is going on?!” I shouted, unable to comprehend. Another group approached from behind me, silent. As an older man put a hand on my shoulder I jumped, startled by his sudden appearance. I stepped back, pressing myself against the wall as he silently mouthed words to me. Was I going crazy? Had I finally lost it? He pulled out his cell phone and dialed something, looking at me as he spoke on his phone. The words were void of any sound now. There weren't even the strange groans I’d been hearing before. All sound seemed to be absent. After a few minutes, I saw red flashing lights approaching. An ambulance. Two men jumped from the front cab, removing a small case as they hurriedly came toward me. Their mouths moved silently, and I assumed they were asking questions. I simply returned with a gesture of pure confusion, shrugging my shoulders and letting my jaw hang open, dumbfounded. They looked at each other, exchanging a look of disconcert before turning back toward me. One man, a burly guy with stylish hair, approached holding a medical tool. An otoscope, as I’d learned it was called. He placed the hammer-like tool in my ear. After removing it he looked at me and slowly, exaggeratedly mouthed the words “Can you hear me?” I shook my head. He nodded before removing a small memo pad from his breast pocket. He pulled a pen as well and scribbled something down. “Sudden deafness.


I feel my feet barely touch the rough rocks below the water. I wade only a small distance from the shore in the murky green lake as the thumping in my temples respond to the overbearing heat. I breathe, and yet it feels that the water has filled the air as much as it has my pores, and the soft caverns of my lungs continue to feel its nourishment. The water is still and cool, and I can stand in place on the rock with only a slight feeling of my hips twisting. *Rain has yet to fall.* I close my eyes to the looming willows, intertwined with white daisies and zippering fleas, and listen to the imminent summer storm. Not relentless as one to change the seasons, but one that is thorough and plain. Livable. I feel this emotion come over me, I am nothing in this world. No bigger than a grape woven into the skirts of a mountain and yet I have this power that comes intrinsically to the living thing. I am nothing in this world, and this lake will never remember the feeling of my feet on its bottom as I remember the feeling of its bottom on mine. In ten years or ten weeks or ten days will I remember the rough edges of this rock? The rock on which my whole world stands still. I gently kick with my feet, not letting go of the rock, just enough to keep my balance as the waters around me begin to crack open like ice. The rock nourishes me as I balance on it, as if it can protect me from all the rain to come. And yet somehow, I know I must leave the water someday, away from its protection. But I am not scared, until I had the rock, I never needed it so I will continue living without it. Living, finally. The song of a bird makes me open my eyes. A short call, not one to start a response. And yet the bird decides that it does not require the energy it consumes in calling; it will just call instead. And call it does. And stand I do, looking around for it but without any success. I am marvelously intrigued by the tone and rhythm of the call, and it makes me continue to look around and lose my balance slightly, kicking to stay upright and treading with my hands. I feel the cool waters clashing with the skin around my neck, skin that feels the weight of the dank air. Flies swarm so close I could bite down on them and chew. I feel the bird calling me out, its song continues. Tears beat at the back of my throat and near the bottom of my eyes. Why, I do not know. I should begin crying soon, I know I should. But I cannot until I leave the water, lest my tears fall into this vast basin and be shed in vain. The water picks me up, and slowly drifts me backwards. I trust it, it is not a long journey to shore, it can take me there. And if I should drown because of it, then I let the world make its choice, as I am nothing. Nothing like the snails on the road. Goodbye, rock. *Rain begins to fall*. I emerge and I am something, something like snails to a watchful eye. The lake is more active now, waters moving and pushing, somehow this part’s work is done and yet as a whole there is so much more to do. Oh, the woes of the waters. Life fills me with warmth as the air engulfs me. I feel the lake on my skin, its homely waters resting in bulbs as I lay still. Some are disturbed by the occasional faint droplet coming from the sky. Those are painful tears, tears of something ready to burst, but tears of love or hate only the waterer knows. The rain hurts, and so I let out my tears. I imagine them beating through my skin, and finally ripping through. Not coming from my eyes but from under, a place they come from when they are not mine. These are not my tears I am crying but I feel the pain, fuck I feel the pain. Why do I feel such pain? And then I take my first real breath, and everything comes back to normal. I have a gentle wheeze as I inhale, and feel the real air enter my lungs. Warm and thick, I feel it pressing against my cheeks. I know why I am crying. The bird’s call makes me stand up. Water dripping down my back and down my legs until it reaches the soil, just as the rain begins to wash away the muck left on me. Calm but strong, the bird’s call finally has a location, it has been calling me. I meet its gaze. It is a small bird, yellow in its feathering with red around its eyes, and a tall head sticking up from its round body. And finally I understand that I was wrong. I am nothing to myself, but to that bird I am everything. So what am I… Everything or nothing? I cannot be both, but here both exist. And so I decide I am something after all, and the mountains can have their grapes in their skirts because I have you. I didn’t realize it was you until I could see you, but I see it now. I have you with your brown-almost-black eyes and your ugly toes that you are always embarrassed of, but I find adorable. You sit perched on a rock nearby (did I love a rock once?) and you sing for me to come to you. And I come to follow you forever. Until you find the place you want to take me, somewhere where the rain doesn’t feel so bad, as it enters, my skin.