(Content warning: pregnancy loss) The first time you have a miscarriage, your loved ones might send you flowers. You might get a beautiful tree to plant from a loved one who has found peace in her own grief. Someone will send a box of chocolates - the finest ones they could find - with a note that says, “Sending love. Hope this helps.” It doesn’t, but you appreciate the gesture. You’ll take a week off work to grieve. You’ll watch movies without really seeing them, you’ll cry until your face is raw, and you’ll eat every chocolate in that box. Even the ones you hate. Nothing tastes the same anyway. A few times you’ll laugh but you’ll feel guilty about that, which will make you cry again. One night the insomnia will be impossible to overcome, and you’ll give up trying to sleep, opting instead to scrub your kitchen from top to bottom at three in the morning. You’ll need a surgery. Your doctor will solemnly tell you that there was a one in four chance of this happening, but he offers some reassurance that there’s only a one in a hundred chance of it happening again. You’re comforted by this statistic. The second time you have a miscarriage, it’ll be a little quieter. You weren’t able to get pregnant on your own this time, so this was an IVF pregnancy. You thought for sure the medications and the testing and the monitoring would make a difference. You’ll get a few kind texts: “I’m so sorry.” “I’m here if you need to talk.” “Can I do anything?” You’ll also get a few that mean well, but still sting: “At least you know you can get pregnant.” “At least you’ve been through it before.” “You knew it could happen, so maybe you were better prepared this time.” You need surgery again, so you take a few days off to rest. You watch your regular television shows, you cry a couple of times, and you buy yourself chocolates this time. Your doctor promises to run more tests so this won’t happen again. Next time will be the one. Third time’s a charm. He tells you there was less than a three percent chance of this happening. You are not comforted by this statistic. You wish he’d kept that one to himself. By now, you’ve collected a group of friends that you met in online support groups full of people who have felt your pain, and they will hold you up until you can stand on your own again. You’ll love those people for the rest of your life. The third time you have a miscarriage, even you don’t know what to say. Some of your loved ones will still send texts, and you’ll be grateful for those. Someone will say “at least it was much earlier this time.” You’ll want to punch that person in the face. For better or worse, most everyone assumes that by now you’re used to it. Maybe you are. Shouldn’t it hurt less, though? This time you don’t even bother taking the day off work. What’s the point? No surgery this time. It’s business as usual. You still cry, but only quietly to yourself, afraid that you don’t deserve to grieve this one. You walk around for a few days in a fog. When the bleeding starts, you breathe a sigh of relief. Finally. The beginning of the end. You toss and turn in your sleep, when you can sleep. You pray, whether you believe in that or not, that this is the last time. You’re so tired. You play the blame game like you always do, despite the doctors and nurses assuring you that it isn’t your fault. Despite your partner telling you they know there’s nothing you could have done. Your friends, the ones who get it, are ever sturdy. They love you as fiercely as always. The burden they carry for you and with you is a gift you can never repay. You’ve never been in the same room, but you’ve been in each other’s hearts for a while now and you can’t imagine your life without them. Your doctor says there will be more tests, more experiments. You’ve only got one more shot. You try not to think about that. Everywhere you look, people you love are pregnant. Sometimes it was an accident and you’ll feel jealous. Sometimes it was hard fought and preceded by losses of their own, and you’ll feel deeply grateful for their success. You’ll feel hopeful that it will happen for you too. You’ll feel terrified that it won’t. You’ll buy baby shower gifts from the list of things you’ve been dreaming about for years. You’ll donate the samples of formula that the companies keep sending you because they don’t know you aren’t pregnant anymore. You’ll stare in the mirror at your empty belly and wonder if you’ll ever see it grow with new life. You’ll feel cramping and wonder if you’ll ever feel contractions. You’ll see blood and wonder if you’ll ever know what it feels like for your water to break. On particularly hard days, you’ll hear a baby cry in the grocery store and wonder if you’ll ever be comforting your own child in the dairy aisle. I don’t know what happens the fourth time you have a miscarriage. I hope I never find out. What I do know is that if it happens to you once or twice or ten times, you can be assured that you aren’t alone. You can find the rest of us out there, holding you in our hearts, feeling your pain and carrying your loss no matter what number you’re on. We’ll wrap ourselves around you and we’ll tell you that you’ll be okay, because we know you will. We’ll tell you it’s okay to cry and grieve whether you were four weeks along, or twenty or forty. Whether it was your first loss or the latest in a long line of horrible endings. Whether you have children already or are still hoping for them. We’ll be there. And if you tell me you’re going through it, I’ll send you chocolates, because I know that they don’t fix anything – but I also know they don’t hurt. Hope this helps.


I dig a hand into my bag and sift blindly through its contents. Hairbrush. A set of keys. A folded up piece of paper. Lip gloss. Wallet. And finally, a balled up napkin that I’d once used to kill a spider. On another day I might have paused to wonder why such a thing was still in my possession, but this wasn’t the time. I grabbed the napkin and dabbed at dry eyes, letting out the softest of whimpers simultaneously. “You poor dear.” The owner of the voice was a petite elderly woman, wearing a large black hat. She touched my shoulder and I fought the urge not to recoil.

“Thank you,” I said meekly.

That should have been the end of it. There is no need to start a conversation at a time like this. These things were meant for quiet reflection, right? Every one grieves in their own way, right? But perhaps it was the fact that my eyes were neither red nor wet, or the fact that the only dress I owned was deep red and not black that caused the woman to utter the words I’d been dreading.

“And who exactly are you, dear? I don’t think we’ve met.” “I’m Raina.” The woman reflected on this statement. I could almost see the mechanisms of her brain searching for the name, and any connection to the deceased. She would either accept the fact that she didn’t have any memory of my name or face as a sign of her increased age, or she will press me further for more information. When she un-scrunched her face and peered into my eyes, I turned away and sniffled. “There, there,” she said, “and, please forgive an old woman, but how did you know my sister?” “Sister?” “Oh, how rude of me. Yes, her baby sister, Dee,” she replied, smiling softly. And now it was my turn to process this very alarming turn of events. How was it possible that I missed this very important fact? Ms. Yates had a sister this entire time? One who clearly had all of her wits about her? Why had she told me that she had no family? And why had I placed so much trust in that senile, bitter woman?

“I thought she was alone in this world,” I said. Dee looked me up and down, and sighed a deep sigh before looking away. It was one of those sighs that speaks to a lifetime of frustration. The kind that couldn’t properly be explained to a stranger on a day such as this. I half expected her to get up from the bench and find more suitable company. But, when she turned back to face me, her eyes were red and welling up with tears.

“She was only alone,” Dee finally said, “because she refused the help of everyone who loved her. Myself included. And her children of course.” “Children?” The question had escaped my lips, though I’d meant it to be an internal question. Honestly, I of all people could understand family dynamics that were less than stellar, but this was too much even for me to comprehend. You mean to tell me that Ms. Yates, a woman who complained nearly constantly for over a year that she was all alone and miserable, not only had a sister but children, too? Dee pointed a slender, wrinkled finger across the aisle.

“See that girl there, with her hair pulled back? That’s Sheri. And beside her on the left, that’s Joshua.” “It’s just-“ “And now,” Dee cut in, “I really would like to know how you knew my sister.” “Well, I work at Sandy Springs Nursing Home. I helped take care of her.” Her eyes widened as she nodded her head. I had been prepared to explain further about how I took a great liking to Ms. Yates, as I myself was alone in the world. I was prepared to tell her about how Ms. Yates let me read my school textbooks aloud to her in her room when she couldn’t sleep. About how we talked about the number of states we’ve visited and, for me, hoped to visit later on. But, I didn’t get a chance to explain any of the heartfelt responses I’d conjured. Dee stood up, and placed a hand on my shoulder, her eyes somewhat knowing.

“We’ll talk after.” And with that, she went up to the front to sit with Ms. Yates children. I saw them whispering. I saw the son begin to turn around toward me before the daughter elbowed him in the ribs. What on earth could they be talking about? It’s true that I have not been able to shed a single tear, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t care about the poor woman. Sure, she’d been a pain in my rear-end over half the time, but that was a small price to pay for a larger payout in the end. As the preacher spoke, I wondered what this could mean, the fact that Ms. Yates was very clearly not alone. She had a sister. She had children. And however estranged they might have been while she was alive, they all showed up to her homegoing. Would they accept the fact that she’d left me, and not them, everything she owned? Would their money afford them the luxury of high-end lawyers who would tear me down and make sure I never received a dime as long as I lived? Would they have me killed? I could see the headline now. Local girl found dead of apparent suicide. Over my dead body, I thought.

When it was over I sat in my seat, still and quiet, and avoided their occasional glances as they shook hands and accepted condolences. When they’d shook the last hand, they motioned for me. “I’m Sheri,” the woman said, stretching out her hand.

I shook it. She was, no doubt, her mother’s child. They had the same thick eyebrows, and the same expression on their faces when clearly not amused. “And I’m Joshua,” the man said, keeping his hands in his pocket. “I’m Raina. I looked after your mother while she was at Sandy Springs. I’m very sorry for your loss.” I couldn’t read their expressions, and for a while no one spoke. They sized me up and I did everything in my power to stand tall. It is not my fault that their mother, in her last days, chose to honor my tremendous care with a gift of this magnitude. I wasn’t looking for a handout. I mean, I wasn’t

not

looking for one. But I certainly wasn’t expecting this. I mean, the keys to a home in Florida. Three stories with a pool. One of those high-end Lexus cars. And over a quarter million in a savings account. All mine, upon her death. “I suppose we owe you an apology,” said Sheri, breaking the silence. “An apology?” “I imagine she promised you a great deal of wealth upon her passing.” It must have been the look on my face. They all looked at one another and nodded their heads. Sheri let out a huge sigh, and Joshua placed his hands over his face. Dee placed a hand on my shoulder. “As a matter of fact,” I said, with my head held high, “she did. And, I truly cared for her, which is more than I can say for the rest of you.” Immediately, I knew I’d said the wrong thing. What did I really know about Ms. Yates, and about this family in general? My mind recalled what Dee had said earlier.

She was only alone because she refused the help of everyone who loved her . What if Ms. Yates wasn’t the victim in all of this? What if the victims stood before me, in the flesh? I braced myself for the slap in the face I knew I deserved, but it didn’t come. Sheri motioned for me to sit. “My mother,” Sheri said, taking my hand and sitting beside me, “was a wretched, miserable, trickster.” “I-I don’t understand.” “And she hated us,” Joshua said, “for putting her in that nursing home. So much so, that she vowed to make everyone else miserable in the end as well.” “Oh, but she was a delight, and she said I was like the daughter she never had.” Sheri winced at the words, but kept her composure. I looked from Sheri, to Dee, to Joshua, trying to make sense of what I was hearing. Ms. Yates, while yes clearly bitter, was always so sweet. And she promised me so much of her wealth. How could that be the same woman they were referring to? “Raina,” Dee spoke softly, “my sister, was treated terribly at the facility before she came to you.” “We got her out as soon as we realized!” Sheri exclaimed, tears in her eyes. “We did,” continued Dee. “And I want you to understand that we all took turns caring for her in the years prior to that. And she resented us deeply for having health in our bodies. We never thought we’d have to even put her in a nursing home, but then I fell, you see.” “And I lost my job,” Sheri said. “And I,” Joshua said, looking down, “well, let’s just say I wasn’t in a state of mind to help.” “So, we did the only thing we could do,” Sheri said. “But this doesn’t explain why none of you visited her the entire time she was at Sandy Springs,” I cut in. The response came nearly in unison from the three.

“She wouldn’t allow it.” “She spat at us,” Joshua said, his head still lowered. “Said she wished we’d never been born,” Sheri said, placing her head on Joshua’s shoulder. “And the worst of it was,” Dee said, “we hated ourselves for it, too.” “And so,” Sheri chimed in again, “when we were able to get her out of that horrid place and into Sandy Springs, I guess she figured you’d all treat her better if you thought she had money. If you thought you were getting something more than a measly hourly paycheck.” “She was always saying if she had money like Ms. Sanders, she would have been treated better,” added Dee. I didn’t want to believe it. Two days ago, when I found out the news of her passing, I nearly quit my job. Earlier today I’d been planning my next five vacations. I’d been doing my best to force tears when what I really wanted to do was leap for joy and kiss the dead woman’s cheek. My student loans would finally be paid. I’d have a vehicle that could make it more than ten miles before leaking some essential fluid. I’d make my own rules and do what I wanted in life. But now, they’re telling me- “She didn’t have a dime to her name.” The tears came then. Not for Ms. Yates. She deceived me into giving better care. Wait. Did I give better care? I thought about the number of times I snuck her an extra Jell-O from the cafeteria, or gave her extra warm blankets from the warmer. How she never had to ask to be changed. I was always there. I did exactly what she thought I’d do. I should have felt a tremendous amount of shame. And, I would have. If not for the complete and utter disappointment. “And just to be clear,” I said slowly, “there’s also no Lexus?” “No, dear.” They all got up then, and left. I stayed, reflecting on how I never would have imagined it possible to be bamboozled by a 92-year-old. But here I was. Royally bamboozled. I jumped at the buzzing in my pocket. It was work.

“This is Raina,” I sighed. “Raina, thank goodness. Joe called in and I really, really, need some help. Please, please, please I will even buy you dinner tonight. I’m begging you.” “See you in 20,” I said.


TW: Themes of mental health, physical violence, and death Adina Rialto was bored. Twelve months ago, she had been the winningest fighter to come out of the Bruised Knuckles club. Now, no one would fight her. Her phone only rang when her agent had a new brand sponsorship that wanted to use her success for themselves.

She’d been competitive from the moment her parents had signed her up for her first sports camp at five. They had been trying to find an outlet for her endless energy. It had kept her busy, but had also cultivated a ruthless need to win at everything in her life.

Adina conquered the soccer field then took on the football field - making every boy who laughed at her on the line eat her dust as she scored again and again. She still holds the record for most points scored by a running back at Yamara High School. Her teammates may have hated her since she demanded plays revolve around her, but Adina Rialto couldn’t have cared less. She was the best, no matter what challenged her.

That attitude had come with her to the octagon. There was no one who doubted that she was good, but there were those who felt she was too ruthless. If Adina saw an opening, she took it. Those openings had caused several career ending injuries. Her last opponent was still in a coma, effectively shadow-banning Adina from future fights.

A year without the roar of a crowd screaming around her. A year without hundreds of eyes on her while she pounded her superiority into her opponents. A year without the adrenaline high of winning. She’d do just about anything to get another hit of that natural drug in her veins.

Adina had half-heartedly tried other sports.

Triathlons didn’t give her the same feeling of glory when there were hundreds of other competitors and crowds only saw the finish line. Two to three hours of effort with spectators only watching the last sprint? Not what she was looking for.

The adult leagues for games like soccer and flag football didn’t appreciate Adina’s drive, either. Most of those players were looking for casual games to enjoy after work and some friends to drink with. They wanted the type of “fun” that included participation trophies.

— When her phone rang this morning, Adina ignored it. She focused instead on the bag in front of her. Left, right, jab. Right, left, kick. Sweat ran in rivers off of her arms, coating the concrete floor of her personal gym. She may not be competing, but Adina maintained peak conditioning. If she was asked to be in a fight tomorrow night, she’d be ready to be its champion.

Her phone’s ringtone again interrupted the pounding base rattling through her headphones. Adina sighed and stepped back from the punching bag. It was probably her agent.

Norman had stopped leaving messages lately and taken to calling repeatedly until she picked up. He knew it was annoying and the only way he’d get her to answer.

Adina grabbed a towel to wipe the sweat away from her body and accepted the call. “Norman, if this is another offer from Nike to be a brand ambassador, I will hang up.” “Well, hello to you, too.” After a moment of charged silence, Norman stopped waiting for pleasantries. To her agent’s credit, he tried to instill some sort of manners into her. She just wasn’t interested in caring about other people.

“To answer your question, no, this is not about Nike. That deal is off the table. Honestly, Adina, you make it difficult for me to do my job when you refuse any of the offers I work so hard to get for you.” Another beat of silence. Adina wasn’t interested in having this conversation with Norman, again. So, she wouldn’t.

“I hear how apologetic you are in your breathing.” The joviality in Norman’s voice had gone down a level or two. He might finally get to the point so Adina could get back to her workout. “Anyway, I have a new client who would like to work with you. She’s the latest star rising in the MMA arena and she wants you to be her coach. She’s already won the national belt and wants you-” Adina threw the headset off into the gym mirror. A large crack formed on the reflective surface. Her broken image stared back at her, shoulders and chest heaving in anger. A coach? Adina hadn’t fallen that far. In fact, she was entering her prime years. The athletes most remembered by history usually found they only got better as they aged. She was only a few years away from thirty, which was the decade she always dreamed of achieving the status of a legend. Coaching was not in her future. Her body had not come even close to washing out yet. Besides, what was it they always said? “Those who can’t do, teach.” Adina was no coach.

Muffled words were still coming from the headphones on the floor, but Adina picked up her phone and ended the call. She really needed to get out tonight and let loose. It was rare that she ever drank, but Adina would risk one night to clear her head. Tomorrow, she would start planning for her comeback.

— Adina sat tucked away in the shadows of one of the bar's few tables and sipped on whatever whiskey she had been given, feeling the base of the music rattling through her bones. Her attention never left her phone’s screen, where she watched dozens of highlights from Nadia Cruz’s fights.

It hadn’t been hard to figure out Norman’s new client was this slip of a girl. In Adina’s absence, Nadia had entered her rookie season and promptly stepped over dozens of experienced fighters to take Adina’s throne.

She’s just keeping it warm for me . Adina didn’t want to admit it, but there was a small piece of her that felt threatened by the youth. Nadia was good . Real good. Her form was no less than perfect. Each punch showed her indomitable strength. Nadia was an outstanding athlete in her own right. But Adina was still better.

An idea came to Adina, then. She should wait until tomorrow, after the alcohol had left her system and she had gone through all the risks, but an excited heat raced through Adina’s veins. Swiping to her text messages, Adina opened her chat with Norman and typed.

“Tell Nadia Cruz I will train her if she can beat me in a show match.” Before any more doubt could hold her back, Adina hit send. — It was a great idea. Though Norman had been hesitant to put his two star clients into the same match and risk permanent injury, he hadn’t been able to deny the money opportunity. Adina Rialto coming back to reclaim her throne from the newcomer, Nadia Cruz.

Sales for access to stream the fight were record-breaking. And for the most loyal fans, ringside seats had brought in an additional small fortune of profits. It was the show match of the decade. Nadia herself had responded with a signed contract in less than twelve hours. It added to Adina’s pride, knowing that the young fighter had seen the value in the opportunity.

At the weigh in, Adina had watched Nadia’s every move. The way she balanced on the balls of her toes, even while waiting for the referee. Every sculpt of visible muscle was analyzed and Adina was pretty sure the rookie was slightly favoring her right shoulder. Nadia had held her arm tight to her body when passing near anyone.

For a few moments, Adina had considered offering to reschedule to fight. She wanted to win, yes, but she needed it to be a win that proved she was the best. If her opponent wasn’t one hundred percent healthy, would they truly know that?

But the energy that had surged through the press had already invaded Adina’s mind. Many of the journalists in the crowd were the same ones who’d followed much of her MMA career. They had yelled to be heard during her conference session and most of them asked if she was ready to be a champion again. Adina was an addict falling off the wagon after too long a time sober. Every nerve felt electric as she had fed off of the adoration.

— An hour before the fight, Norman was sprinting between both locker rooms, trying to oversee the needs of both of his stars. When he’d come to Adina with a fifth sponsorship offer for the night, Adina had pushed him out the door and locked it. She needed the quiet - to empty herself before she gorged on the cheers of the crowd.

This moment was going to put Adina back on her path to becoming the legend she dreamed she could be. She knew she’d always pushed the boundaries with her brutality, though she’d never meant for Jessa Goodwin to end up a vegetable. They had given her the title belt after that fight, but she’d hidden it in her closet instead of displaying it with her many other trophies. Adina had known that she hadn’t really won - Jessa had just lost.

Adina needed this win for more than the affirmation of her skill. She needed it to redeem her image. She needed other athletes to accept fights with her again.

Norman hammered his fist into the door and yelled, “It’s time to go, Adina!” — Adina’s heart beat so hard she thought it was trying to explode from her chest. The lights, the noise, the people all looking at her as the announcer called her out. It was euphoric. When she was too old to compete anymore, she hoped she could die in one last fight, so she could feel this as she went to the mat for the last time.

She was getting distracted. Adina’s brain was in sensory overload, trying to process every single thing happening around her. Taking it all in was impossible, but she found herself trying.

Focus. Focus on Nadia. She’s across the octagon. Let’s catch her eye and stare her down like I used to .

A few deep breaths while she glared at Nadia had done little to take the edge off, but Adina was still confident her body wouldn’t have forgotten how to fight. Even if her thoughts felt a little slow. She just needed a round to shake off the dust. It would excite the crowd, anyway. They’d paid for a fight, not a one-round knockout.

Adina checked the wraps on her hands and found them shaking. She’d never felt this way before starting a fight. The exhilaration was almost too much. Adina clenched her fingers a few times to crush the panic that was edging its way in. The moment was just getting to her a bit. She’d be fine once the whistle blows.

Chest tight, Adina stepped up to the center of the octagon. She looked down slightly at the other woman. “Bring only your best, Nadia.” The rookie beamed back at her.

— Norman picked up the newspaper his assistant had left on his desk and opened it to the sports section. He skimmed past the headlining story - some bullshit about announcing the artist for the Super Bowl halftime show. Who cares ? He found what he was looking for in the bottom left column. INFAMOUS MMA CHAMPION, ADINA RIALTO DEAD AFTER SHOWMATCH ACCIDENT See more on page 12 Norman flipped the page again to find the article. He was now glad for the Super Bowl story. It had kept this story and his name from the front page of the sports section. The article was a brief account of the “tragedy.” There should be minimal PR risk from it.

Norman had taken a gamble, allowing Adina to fight his rising star. In truth, he’d been considering dropping Adina from his talent roster. No one had wanted to fight her after the way she’d brutalized Jessa Goodwin. Adina had gone from being just a liability to a liability that didn’t make any money.

The match, however, had paid for itself ten times over with the number of viewers who had tuned in. It indeed had been the event of the decade.

The first three rounds had been an even match. Adina and Nadia had traded good hits, neither holding back. The crowd loved every second. Norman was a little worried since he’d seen the way Adina’s hands had shaken after being announced, but he’d written it off as excitement. All that woman did was train. He knew she was going to be fine.

But, when round four began, Norman saw Adina’s eyes move between Nadia and the crowd. Every time they yelled, she lost her focus, almost turning to smile a few times. Nadia’s fist would bring Adina back just in time to be blocked.

Then, a young girl sitting ringside yelled, “Go Adina! You’re my hero, Adina!” The girl couldn’t have been older than ten. She wore a t-shirt with a large print of Adina’s face covering her from neck to hips.

Norman had watched with horror as Adina fully stopped and turned to the girl. Her eyes sparkled while her lips spread in the biggest smile Norman had ever seen from her. A split-second later, Adina was no longer standing and Nadia’s hands had immediately covered her own shocked face. The referee called the medical team in and they shifted Adina’s limp body to a stretcher. The arena had been silent while they ran her to the tunnels. Nadia “Knee Buster” Cruz. That’s the stupid name the fans had given her. The young athlete had been horrified after receiving the news that Adina hadn't made it. Nadia just liked MMA. She never thought there was any risk that someone would die on the mat. At least her reputation didn’t seem to suffer the way Adina’s had. Though, unlike Adina, Nadia hadn’t been on thin ice before causing massive brain damage to another fighter.

Nadia was taking a short break and seeing a therapist, but she would be back and making Norman money soon. She’d already accepted a contract as a spokesperson for Nike and Norman had received positive replies when floating the idea of future fights for her.

Nadia Cruz still had a career left and he would make sure she got the best opportunities. Norman was happy to let Adina’s legacy fade out of the world’s memory, along with page 12 of today’s paper.


"Come on guys please can we play the Mysterium," I pleaded to my 3 best friends Robert (Rob) Johnson, Ivy Ruth, and Rebecca Garden. "Sure," Rebecca said, twirling in the seats in my basement meeting room which my dad usually uses for work but not today because it was a Saturday. "We always play this game," Rob groaned, which was true but still it's an awesome game. "Plus I'm always stuck as a ghost." "Well not today my dad promised me that he would be a ghost." "Sure, Rubs," Ivy said, sitting down next to Rebecca. "Fine. But you promise me I wont be a ghost," Rob said sitting down across from Ivy. "I swear," I replied sitting next to him. My dad hurried down the stairs still in his sweatpants and sweater which was very different then the usual stiff black suit and tie he wore to meetings about his books that he wrote and the book store he owned. "Who's ready for Mysterium," He said, taking it off of a shelf on the wall. We sorted out characters. Me: Alma, Ivy: Jessalyn, Rebecca: Madame Wang, Rob: Alphonse, Dad: Ghost. "Let's start,'' my dad said. After 50 hours (15 min) of setting, we finally began but soon there was a rattle shock in the room. Then everything fell into darkness. "What happened? Ruby, Rob, Rebecca are you okay," A voice but that of Ivy's. It was like the voice of a (I'm completely guessing) 1920's American woman. "I'm fine," I replied but my voice was like what a Spanish woman would have sounded like in the 1920's as well. I looked around and we were in the front of a tall mansion. "Me too," A heavy French accent called out. "And me," I said in a Chinese accent. I turned around looking at the other people circling me. They were my friends but they were also the characters we had picked in the game. "Wait one minute I'm Alma. Rob your Alphonse. Rebecca your Wang and Ivy your Jessalyn." "Which means we are in the game," Rebecca said. "And this is the manor." "And your dad is just a ghost most likely trying to give us visions now so do you all remember who to get them." No we all said in unison but then we saw a button on our arms and when you saw a button you always got to press. I waited a while but I only felt an odd wait in my pocket. I pulled out a Pendulum and a card just like the ones in the game/rule book. "Alma Salvador Specialty: Pendulum Divination," Wow I thought reading that I get visions through this (I held the pendant). I held it up and closed my eyes. That's when I saw what was almost like a camera moving closer

to the door. "Let's go inside," I said, walking towards the door and opening it causing a LOUD creaking noise. I stepped followed by the others. That's when I saw 5 suspects sitting at the dining room table. One looked like a chef and the one next to him was a hunter. There was at the head of the table a con man magician and to his right was a maid and a woman with a basket full of baked goods. I watched them but knew they could see we were here. I looked up and saw there were 3 sets of staircases. The second floor had a bunch of rooms and on the last level there were weapons laid out on different podiums.

We then heard a whisper stretch throughout the dim room, "Madame Wang." She looked terrified but then closed her eyes and pulled out a book and found what visions she needed." "Mine are only two and they're identical to some cards. Mine is a house with buttons on it and rope strung across and also a mouse with a bird outfit on." I knew which one it was immediately so I told her. "I think it's the maid with her buttons and tailoring just like on the mouse," She nodded and said, The maid. That's when the maid disappeared into a card on her chair for Rebecca to pick up. None of the other suspects noticed. Rebecca went up the staircase. "Jessalyn Smith," My dad said. Ivy took out tarot cards and pulled 2 from the deck. One was of a girl and a lion on a boat pointing towards the ocean. The second was off a man running away from something on a red carpet with guard dogs barking at him. "This is easy," Ivy said, "The hunter." He vanished leaving the card for her to take. She went up the stairs slightly tripping on heels which made me and Rebecca giggle. "Alphonse de Belcour," The ghost whispered. He closed his eyes and did his numerology. He told me what his 2 cards were. One was

a cave with axes and gleaming red eyes looking out of it and the second was the same rat dressed as a bird standing on cheese. "Easy this is Magician," He said, but nothing happened. I rubbed my temples. "No, it's obviously the chef. Didn't tell you tell me was on top of cheese," I shook my head and took out the Pendulum and watched it swirl and got my two cards. One had pastries falling from the sky so I didn't even pay attention to the second one. "The baker," I called and she was gone so I took the card and went up the stairs. "Madame Wang," The house echoed. She took out her book which I could now see was a ghost mystery book. There were 5 rooms just like the 5 people. One was a dungeon with a mysterious cave blocked by a book stand. The second was a bedroom with a stone lion hanging on it with an open window and drapes hanging off the top frame of the bed. The one next to it was also a bedroom but this one was pink and open with toys thrown around instead of a dark ominous nighttime room. There was light everywhere and a purple rug on the floor. The next room reminded me of a tropical forest but there was a weird tombstone in the middle with the same lion. There was also some kind of dome enclosing it like a greenhouse. The last one was an abandoned home patio looking out on a dead forest with a chair and table on the patio.

"The next visions show me a man on an odd bicycle flying in the air. The second was a bunch of books stacked to look like a triangle," She said looking at the 5 rooms. "I'm going with the child's room." It vanished, leaving only the card behind. She went up the last set of stairs. "Jessalyn Smith," The ghost whispered. She stepped forward and pulled her two cards. Here's where a red chair in the middle of a room and a red bed surrounded by ether stuffing our clouds. "Easy, bedroom," She said and it was gone and she left me to go with Rebecca. After a few minutes I was with rob again, "Alma Salvador." I took out the pendulum and got the visions. One off a little spiked creature wearing a skull like mask the other an apple punctured by needles dripping black stuff down the pestle it was on. "Green house," I called but nothing happened. No, it was the dungeon off course both showed torture like in a dungeon. "Madame Wang," I didn't hear what happened for the rest of the turns because Rebecca and Rob moved up but soon it was Me, Rob, and Ivy left cause Rebecca had passed and disappeared. "Jessalyn Smith," Dad said. I waited until she got it right her visions were 2 ones showing magic and a circus so her weapon was dumb bell like the worlds strongest man. Then Rob got it right with the candlestick and both his pictures showed fire. (You can see that I'm not putting as much effort into writing any more because I'm getting tired of writing about this. This is Ruby talking) Finally, it was my turn and I got it right with the type writer because one pictured showed a business mouse. Finally we were done and I was back in the basement with dad and everyone else. "Okay now that was weird," We all said.


The needle stabbed the skin deep until a red drop soaked the metal. I didn’t feel pain anymore. The bloody needle scratched the one hundred and fifty eight mark on the formerly white wall. I dabbed an alcohol soaked cotton ball over the newly punctured skin in my left inner arm. The newly punctured skin was located at the end of series of fading marks surrounding my body. I stood few paces back watching the whole picture, the tally marks, that started one day on a whim, the day I was released from the hospital, in a desperate attempt to cope with the grief, with the guilt, until now the wall was overwhelmed by the bloody marks drawn every day. The memorized pain in my flesh was the reminder of the mistakes I could never forget or forgive. My mind, always protective of me, was in a haste to let go of the memories which threatened the calm and peace. Brutally every detail about her was fading. Hardly, I could picture her; her face in my mind felt unfamiliar, as if belonged to a stranger that never existed. I tried to imagine her melodic voice, to recall her familiar scent, nothing came forth. I loathed myself for letting it all slip away. True, I survived, but sometimes it felt I died along with my family that night. The tally marks were the string connecting me to them. I felt as long as I kept track there was still a chance to get my family back. To say our marriage was a happy one would have been an understatement, we were deeply in love. I would not claim we hadn’t small and trifle disagreements, but never anything serious. How I wished to hear her carefree laughter that had the magical ability to rid me of any distress and angst. I met Anna almost five years ago, right out of college. We started dating, two years later we married. On our second anniversary we decided to try for a baby. Few months later Anna crying gave me the news. I was happier than ever I was in my life. Tomorrow was the due date, our child were to be born if that night would have turned another way. We would have been a happy family; I would have run around the hospital delivering the news to our friends and family with tears in my eyes: ‘it’s a boy,’ or ‘it’s a girl’. I would have held Anna and the baby in my arms and never let go. Unfortunately it was thwarted by my own foolish negligence. My phone vibrated. It was Richard, a colleague; perhaps the only person remaining that could be called my friend.  I had cut off my relations with anyone I knew from before the accident. I let it go to voicemail. He was a good person, and had tried to coax me for a guy’s weekend, fishing or something, getting me out of my own solitude. Richard knew about the accident like everyone else in the office, but he was smart enough to understand I did not welcome talking about it. *** The next day, as soon as I woke up, even before I had my eyes completely opened I knew something was amiss. I sat baffled watching the wall, white as snow, not a mark, not one tally mark of the days gone by was left. Panic raising, my heart racing, I jumped out the bed. For seconds a futile hope sparkled in my heart, maybe all of that was only a nightmare, maybe in the next room, in the kitchen, I would find Anna, cooking breakfast, or frivolously thumbing her phone, paging through a book. But room after room it was deserted, nothing else beside the marks was different. There was no trace of her in the house. It had not been a dream, or if it was, I was still living it. I run my hands over the white wall, touching, to feel my blood still under the perfect white paint, but it was intact. A tear trickled down my eye. I slid down onto the floor leaning against the wall. I took off all my clothes inspecting my body, trailing the fading puncture marks, from the first mark on my right hand near my wrist, which I had made the day I was released from the hospital and came back to the empty home. I recall resisting the urge to cut the blue vein. The trail went from the wrist to my upper arm, to chest, down to my right leg and from left leg, to my abdomen and to left arm, which the last mark still shined red. My eyes got blurry, an unsettling feeling spreading through my body, I let myself float. When I became aware once more, I was standing in front of the white door, which had been locked in the past one hundred fifty nine days. I pushed the key in my hand, and turned. The nursery still beautiful and perfect remained untouched as if trapped in that time. Not knowing the babies gender, Anna and I agreed on a neutral color. Frosty aqua walls, with white crib, and chairs, the small red pillows and carpet with pictures of little elephant holding heart shaped balloons. I could see Anna and me painting and furnishing the room, getting everything ready in the first three months. We were overly excited, fantasizing about our future, the three of us. In the corner of the room, in the little white bookshelf with animal dolls hanging off from it, was the stack of photo albums that Anna got printed, from our wedding, the first sonogram of the baby. I grabbed one album and paged through. Watching our life in pictures, I stopped on the wedding photo, Anna looking stunning in her strapless white dress, and I in a black tuxedo with a bowtie. My hands trembling touched the picture; an urge filled with pain and love came over me to melt into that picture to live it once more. Tears dripping onto the album, I could hear Anna laughing, teasing me as I played James Bond. The air became suffocating. I left the nursery with haste, locking the door. I took the car keys, and left the house. I figured a little open air would do me good, but it was as stifling outside. An hour later, I was not sure why I had driven to that place. But the tree that changed the course of my life was standing in front of me. No sign of damage, it stood tall and strong. I was half hoping to detect a sign of evil on the tree, something that differentiated it, but it looked lively as others. “Why are you so sad?” a voice said. I turned and a small girl, perhaps about six, was watching me. “What did you say?” The little girl repeated. “Why are you sad?” She was alone, no adult around that I could see. “Where are you parents?” “I don’t know,” The girl standing still gaping at me shook her head, sending her pony tails bouncing around, and then added “are you lost too?” I was indeed; at least it felt like it. I looked around, there was not one car parked beside mine. Where had the girl come from? “Where are your parents?” I repeated. She shook her head again. “I know my house,” she said getting into my car. I hesitated a moment, looking around, and got in my car drove as she, a six year old, said. On the way she inquired question after another. I started telling her everything about the accident, the tree, Anna, and our unborn child. She was not like normal children; she listened with eyes that seemed to understand. I told her what I could not tell anyone. How it has been my fault, how I had neglected to checkup the car, and the tires which were old and worn out. If I had been careful perhaps my family would have been alive today. The tire blew, and the car derailed from the road, overturned and skidded off into the tree. The passenger-side received a significant part of the impact. Anna had died in the hospital along with our unborn child. I was not sure why I was telling a six year old but there I was, hardly able to control, words poured out. “I wish I had died right there instead of them.” “I don’t think it was your fault,” the little girl said. “You couldn’t have known this would happen.” How I wished I could believe that. It would have been much relief. I pulled over by a street as she said. I got out the car, and opened the backdoor, but the girl was gone. No trace of her. I looked around, nothing on the street as well. Looking around I realized across the street was the cemetery. Not far Anna was buried. I was not sure then if there ever was a girl, maybe I was going mad. I crossed the street toward Anna’s stone. Beside the gravestone I saw few figures standing. Closer I saw, Julie and Scott, Anna’s parents standing now noticed my presence. I had not seen them ever since the funeral. Across from them two more figures, Richard, my colleague, and by him stood Eddie, my father. We nodded to each other. In silence they retreated few paces giving me space. I knelt down by Anna’s gravestone. I started telling her how I had been since the accident, how guilty I felt. Sometime past, I felt lighter, and stood, turning I saw they still waiting for me. Richard and I in my car were following Anna’s parent’s car, they had insisted for me to join them for dinner, all of us, even father and Richard. Pulling out from the cemetery I half expected to see the little girl again, but nothing. I wondered if that girl could have been my baby if things would have turned another way.


Work finally over, Molly scrambled her belongings together, aimed a fleeting goodbye in the direction of her colleagues, and left the office.

She’d forgotten her girlfriend Grace’s birthday and though Grace hadn’t said anything that morning, Molly wanted to make it up to her with a special evening.

Molly spiralled down the stairs, out of the building and practically tumbled into the street, pulling her tote bag over her right shoulder as she managed to get her left arm into her coat sleeve.

She checked her watch, determined to get home before Grace. It was the first warm day of the year and people were pouring out of their places of work onto the bustling high street.

Summer had been late in arriving and now everyone had a spring in their step, coats slung over their arms as they made their way home with smiles on their faces, enjoying the warm weather.

Molly had things to buy before her bus arrived and she was glad it was Thursday when the shops stayed open later. Tied to a lamppost outside the butcher’s shop sat a small brown dog, panting slightly in the unusual warmth.

Molly crouched down and patted the dog, “Well hello there Mr Dog, what are you doing?”

The dog did not reply but a stout looking woman in a coat far too warm for the weather blustered her way out of the butcher’s, a hefty shopping bag swinging from her hand. “Come on Buddy, these sausages won’t cook themselves,” her bag thumped against Molly, almost knocking her to the pavement from her crouching position. “I was just talking to your lovely dog,” Molly righted herself with a wobble, brushed down her skirt and pulled her bag back onto her shoulder. The older woman shook her head, “Talking to the dog, would you believe it…” and with that she untied the lead from the lamppost and bustled away.

As they headed down the street Buddy the dog turned and looked back at Molly as if to apologise on behalf of his owner.

Molly smiled back and then remembered that she had things to do and headed into the butcher’s shop, the brass bell above the door clanging her arrival.

The shop had a distinct smell, clean with the metallic tang of meat and a hint of herbs.

The butcher smiled, a well built man with big hands and a big face.

“I’d like some steak please,” Molly was suddenly unsure of what to ask for. The butcher nodded, “Fillet, ribeye, sirloin?

I’ve got some lovely rump too if that would interest you.” “Rump if you think so, thank you, two pieces please.” Molly was glad of the butcher’s advice and watched as he took two large pieces of glistening red meat from the counter, wrapped them in paper and put them in a white plastic bag which he sealed with a piece of red tape.

“Thank you,” Molly reached into her bag to find her purse which had made its way to the bottom, “it’s my girlfriend’s birthday, so I’m treating her!” “Isn’t she the lucky one," grinned the butcher, “have you got a good red wine to go with that?” “Oh, that’s what I need to get next, and then a cake, a red one!”

Molly took the money from her purse and handed it to the butcher, taking care not to brush her hand against his meaty one.

“You’ll think I’m silly, but she’s a huge United fan, the reds, you know, so I’m doing everything in red for her tonight… the meat, wine, cake… everything!” “Red is it?

Well, have a lovely evening,” the butcher winked at her, wiping his hands on his bloodied apron, “just three minutes either side for those.”

He passed her the steaks, and blushing slightly, Molly took the meat and dropped it into her bag.

‘I do hope it doesn’t leak,’ she thought to herself as she headed for the door, then thanked the butcher again and left, the bell above the door jangling a farewell. Molly chastised herself for her blushes.

On her lunch hour, she’d popped to the town’s small department store and bought a bra and panties set from the lingerie department.

Bright red to match her special theme for Grace, and she’d reddened then too as the shop assistant wrapped her purchase.

When Molly got back to the office she’d quickly changed into the new negligee in the washroom and now her faded black bra and knickers were floating about somewhere in the bottom of her bag alongside the steaks. As a minor irritation to proceedings, the label in her new bra was causing a scratching sensation in the middle of Molly’s back and she stood outside the butcher’s for a moment squeezing her shoulders together, unsuccessfully trying to relieve the itch.

Her next stop was the off-licence.

Grace enjoyed a bottle of red wine now and again and the off-licence was just a couple of buildings along.

Molly checked her watch as she hurried towards the shop where a man in a linen suit was just leaving.

He held the door open for Molly and gave her a bemused smile as she rushed in.

Molly nodded a thank you and immediately began to scan the shelves for a bottle that looked appealing with an acceptable price tag.

She was no wine expert and chose a bottle of red wine with a picture of a castle on the label.

Molly took the wine over to the counter where a woman reading a magazine was sitting on a tall buffet, shelves of tobacco and fancy chocolates behind her.

The woman took a drag on her cigarette, balanced it on an ashtray at the side of the till, and punched in the price of the wine.

Molly rummaged around in her bag amongst underwear, rump steaks and other paraphernalia to find her purse again.

She flustered as the woman behind the counter tapped a red chipped fingernail on the top of the till, picking up her cigarette to take another drag. “Sorry,” muttered Molly, eventually locating her purse, “I’m in such a rush, I need to get back for my girlfriend’s birthday.” “Hope she appreciates it,” the woman rasped and coughed slightly, “special birthday is it?” “Oh, no, not really, just the first one she’s had since we moved in together, so I wanted to make it nice, you know.”

Molly passed over a note and the woman slotted it into the till, handing over a couple of coins in change. “Well, don’t you let her get used to it!”

The woman gave Molly a wry smile, tugged on her cigarette some more and returned to her magazine. Unsure of how to respond, Molly took the bottle and pushed it inside her bag, thanked the woman and hurried out of the door and back into the sunshine. People were still milling backwards and forwards.

A young man weighed down with shopping bags was dragging a small, whining boy along the pavement.

It was very warm and Molly felt a little damp under her arms.

She couldn’t take her coat off because it wouldn’t fit in her bag, and Molly needed her hands free for the cake she was about to buy.

There was a queue outside the small bakery and the young man and protesting boy joined the back of it.

The boy was kicking his feet at the pavement and the man sighed in dismay at the boy’s scuffed shoes, moving his shopping bags from one hand to the other, craning his neck to see if the queue was moving.

Molly felt like stamping her own feet, she really wanted to get back before Grace and the bus was due in ten minutes.

The cake she wanted was in the window, a red velvet cake.

Molly knew that she should have bought the cake at lunchtime but the lingerie shopping had taken longer than planned.

As if to remind her, the label in her bra scratched some more and she wiggled her shoulders in an attempt to stop the itching.

The queue moved forwards and eventually Molly was inside the shop.

The boy in front of her pointed to a large cream bun with white icing and sprinkles on top and the young man nodded in defeat. Molly checked her watch, there was still enough time.

An elderly man was now being served, though he didn’t seem to know what he wanted.

He took off his hat and scratched his head, then put his hat back on again.

“How about that lovely red velvet cake in the window?” said the woman behind the counter, “I’m sure your granddaughter would love that!” “Well, yes, if you think so,” the man smiled in relief that the decision had been made for him. “No! Oh no, no…” Molly hadn’t realised that she’d spoken aloud.

Everyone in the shop turned and looked at her.

Molly blushed deeply, “I wanted that cake, that’s all…” her voice trailed off.

The small boy with scuffed shoes looked up at her blankly and feeling foolish, Molly turned and bumped her way out of the bakery, the queue impeding her need for a swift exit.

Back outside, cheeks blazing, Molly wanted to cry.

It was all going wrong.

The red birthday surprise was a disaster.

A birthday with no cake was unthinkable.

The elderly man in the hat came out of the bakery carrying a cake box tied with red ribbon.

‘I bet he drops it,’ thought Molly crossly.

Then she checked herself.

‘It’s my own fault for being so disorganised and this damn bra is really getting on my nerves!’ Molly decided there was nothing for it but to make the best of what she’d got and walked dejectedly to her bus stop.

A sizeable queue had already formed and Molly took her place at the end.

She noticed the overheated woman with sausages and Buddy the dog standing near the front of the queue and Buddy glanced over at Molly.

Molly gave Buddy the dog a weak smile.

She was far too warm and decided she just had to try and cool down.

Molly carefully put her bag on the pavement and peeled off her coat, folded it over the top of her bag, and hitched the bag back onto her shoulder. Unsurprisingly, Molly had no money ready when the bus arrived.

Exasperated and annoyed at her continued state of disorganisation, she put her bag down, moved her coat, lifted out the wine, put her coat over the crook of her arm and tried to find her purse.

She could feel the bag of steak like a bleeding heart and her old bra half wrapped around it, but no purse.

The queue moved on with a gap now growing between the man in front of her and Molly, who was crouched on the pavement, the bottle of wine beside her.

The bag of meat, with accompanying bra swiftly joined the bottle of wine, along with her cosmetics purse, diary and hairbrush.

The queue behind her, fed up with waiting, shuffled around Molly and it wasn’t until her purse fell out of her coat pocket that was hanging from her arm that she remembered putting it there in the off-licence.

Molly stuffed the wine, meat, bra, cosmetics, diary and hairbrush back into her bag and climbed onto the bus as the driver closed the doors. There were no seats left on the sticky, hot bus and Molly wobbled with each bump and turn, not wanting to hold onto the hanging strap due to her damp armpits.

She disembarked at her stop and hurried the short distance home.

Her heart sank as she saw the lights on and Grace’s bicycle outside. Grace was in the kitchen, finishing off a plate of jam sandwiches.

She was wearing her favourite United top.

“Hello darling, you okay?” Grace looked up, licking her fingers. Molly put her bag and coat down and went to wash her hands at the sink.

“Yes, fine… it’s just so warm…” “I got back early for the match,” Grace brought her plate over to the sink, “got to go in a minute, I said I’d meet Zac down the pub to watch the game.” “But, your birthday…” “Birthday?

Not until next month Molly!

July fifth!

It was still June the last time I looked!”

Grace picked up her keys and bag from the table. “July?”

Molly slumped into a chair, “No, it’s today, June fifth… it has to be”. “Oh Molly, what are you like!”

Grace kissed her on the forehead.

“You feel warm, why don’t you take a shower and relax?” The label in Molly’s red bra scratched her again as if to suggest that a shower was a good idea, anything to stop the infernal itching. “Listen,” said Grace, taking Molly’s hands, “I’ve bought a nice bottle of red wine for you to have while I’m watching the football and a lovely piece of steak.”

Molly blinked, then stared blankly as Grace continued. “Oh, and I almost forgot, there’s a red velvet cake in the fridge for you too!”


"Are you coming tonight?" Texts Melissa. "Coming where?" I replied. "For planning the camping trip!..hmm, did you forget?" "Ohh, I'll have to check with my mother about that," I stated. Well, you see, it's not my mother. She already said I could go, but I'm just a little hesitant. What if I don't fit in with the cool kids? What if I get lost?! Melissa, Annie, and her brother Andrew invited a couple of other classmates and me to this mountain camping trip, but I'm not sure if I want to go. Don't get me wrong; I'm excited about the opportunity but just a bit nervous. There's going to be so many people there. What if I mess up? I'm going to be a laughing stock! It's Friday today, and also my last day to decide. Therefore, I have to be quick so that I can inform the group in advance. During breakfast, my dad asked me, "Hey, so about that camping trip, are you going?" "Uhmm, should I?" I responded. "Of course you should! I would If I were you" "All the mountain scents and fluffy marshmallows, Oh and the super scary stories!" He describes passionately. That sounds very...interactive..I thought to myself. After a bit of contemplating, I decided to give it a go. What's the worst that could happen, right? The following day, we all met at the bus stop and began the long journey. "Just three hours, seven minutes, and ten seconds away, guys!" remarks Andrew. "ugh..could you not, Andrew?" murmured Annie. We were an hour in, and some people had already started exchanging snacks. And oh boy, was it getting loud. Melissa and I are besties, but since she was asleep, I was a bit bored. The best way I can describe it is like an old sack of potatoes. No literally.

I decided to go to the last seat and take a nap.

I woke up a little before we arrived at our destination and decided to read a book. As I turned to the next page, everyone started screaming, "Truth or dare!" "Truth OR dArE!!" God, what a fun game for an introvert like me. But luckily, we were almost there in five minutes, so no eternal torture has occurred yet. As we got out of the bus, tall, icy mountains and green gold grass stare directly at our faces. Dad was right; it does smell so..refreshing! The stunning mountain scents took away our lost souls for a moment and returned them with a light breeze. Just like that, we were here.

"Whos hungry?" Asked Melissa. It was a long hike up to the mountain top, so we figured we'd have lunch first. So we settled in this vintage-ish-looking restaurant that surprisingly only sold noodles and green tea. But I love noodles, so yay! We waited for our food to come. Meanwhile, I glanced at the painting hung on the wall. It looked old..too old, in fact. Parts of the paint chipping off, falling to the wooden floor. "Food is here!" said the waitress joyfully.

After having lunch, I took a last peek at the restaurant and left with my friends. It was about three P.M., and we started walking uphill. Apparently, it would take an hour to get there. *One hour later* "Ohh, we are finally here!" says Melissa trying to catch a breath. "Ahh, spider!!" I yelled and tripped to the rocky ground. "Hahaha," Andrew laughed hysterically. "Not funny!" I cried. "Tha..t..that..was a fake spidey, y'know?" He continues to laugh at my stupidity. "Geez.." goes Melissa.

We started setting up our blue and orange tents. I had a bit of trouble doing that at first.."A little." "Ahh, oop. "Oh, crap, I can't even set up a tent..." I said while trying not to look like a fool. Luckily, Annie and Melissa had my back on that. After we finished putting the tents together, Andrew and I went for a short walk. "So, how does it feel like to finally socialize, huh?" Asked Andrew. "Well... it's good, I guess. I'm just not used to being with so many people at once." We walked across the bridge, and the view was immaculate. Nothing but beauty surrounds us. "You know, I've heard that there used to be a city here years and years ago," stated Andrew. "A city? Really..when?" "I don't know, but quite long ago..I heard of it in the news...archeologists are still on the hunt for more info." He replied. It was getting a bit dark out, so we decided to head back. Melissa, I, and a couple of other members made some chicken skewers for dinner. And after having dinner, I read a book and went to sleep. *Phone alarm goes off* "Geez...tell your phone to shut up, Annie!" "Okay, you don't have to shout..." she replied quietly. We got up and quickly prepped some sausage breakfast sandwiches. "So, who wants to go explore the place?" Asked Melissa. I then realized that practically everyone but me raised their hand, so I did, too. "Great! we will leave after breakfast!" She tells enthusiastically.

We all met at the campfire and decided to split into groups for safety's sake. Me, Andrew, Melissa, and Grace were together in a group. We started walking, and ten minutes in, we saw the same lady from the restaurant. "Hey, so ya'll going for a walk?" "hmm, Yes, sort of," I replied. "Have fun, but don't cross the bridge," she said hesitantly. "Why, what's with the bridge?" Asked Grace. "Just. Don't. Cross. The. Bridge....you won't like it." She said in a suspicious tone.

The minute she left, Andrew made the most intelligent decision EVER. "We are crossing that bridge! I don't care, we are!" We continued walking for twenty minutes more, till we reached the bridge. "Hey, look, it's not worth our time; let's just go the other direction, k?" So says Melissa, trying to convince Andrew. "Why are you such a coward? It's just a bridge, seriously!" answers Andrew. "Ugh, fineee..." mumbles Melissa. We stepped on the wooden bridge, one by one, trying not to lose balance. The strings which kept it in place were shaking more than ever. "Oh. My. God! what if it fa.." "Ah, how positive you are, Grace!" Yells Melissa. As we almost made it to the other side, the bridge fragmented into thousands of tiny bits, moving our souls restless. At that moment, I saw nothing but black. I woke up in a cave, with everyone...but Andrew. I tried waking up Melissa and Grace. "wheres Andrew?!" Asked Melissa. "Well...you se.." "I knew it! It's all his fault!" cried Melissa. "What will we do now?" Asked Grace. "Try to find him..that foolish.." "Stop arguing, guys!" The cave was enormous; the more we kept going inside, the bigger it seemed to get. It was a neverending maze. I tried calling for help, but the signals were too weak. So we continued walking till we saw some form of light. Some form of hope -- is what we thought.

And the end of what seemed like the most extensive cave ever was a door. I turned the handle; "it's open.." I whispered. This wood seemed familiar, but I couldn't recall where I saw it. I opened the door, and it was a...a city! A legitimate town, inside a cave! Inside there was a staircase with thousands of houses. We walked up the stairs, trying to make no noise whatsoever: tiptoe and tiptoe. At the top of the staircase was another door, this time smaller.

I opened the door, and lo and behold, it was the same restaurant we had lunch in, and that "painting" was a secret door.

"So, you disobeyed me, huh?" We suddenly heard a voice from behind us. It was her. "I told you not to come, didn't I?" She says while looking at her razor-sharp nails. "What do you want?!" Shouted Grace. "Easy, easy. I'm sure you don't like to see your friend getting hurt, do ya?" "Frien...Andrew! He's here!" I said, both happy and scared. "Hmm, listen, why don't you chipmunks pack your bags and permanently leave? I don't want ANYONE finding out about this city..Understood!" She screamed straight to our faces. We agreed - we had no other option. "Also, if you tell anyone about this, I will know. Mark my words. Now LEAVE!"

She released Andrew from her "so-called" restaurant, and we sprinted uphill. The incident left us shivering, staring at the full moon while having a bonfire. Trying to ignore what even happened.

The next afternoon, we packed our bags and were ready to head home. After arriving at home, my dad asked me, "So, how was the trip?" "Umm, it was pretty good...definitely didn't find a city or something.." I replied. "Haha, you kids be daydreaming, there's no such thing as a hidden city, REMEMBER. " I heard her voice in each letter of that word.


Whenever the end of the world happens in movies, it always seems to happen in America. Max thought that this was odd considering that surely the end of the world is just that, the end of the world, and not just this year's actor of choice running away from zombies with artfully placed blood and dirt all over them. Well, as it turned out, the end of the world had nothing to with zombies or a new strain of measles killing everyone or even the rapture as so many people on so many street corners in so many cities would have liked you to think. In truth, it came with plenty of warning unlike all of those other scenarios. The asteroid barrelled its way into the solar system and it was massive, the size of London which made it big news. No one was worries about it at first, it seemed perfectly obvious that it would simply crash into jupiter or some other large celestial body. As time went on, however, that seemed like a smaller and smaller possibility as the magnitude of what was happening sunk in on a global scale. Max felt like the entire world was going through the stages of grief. A massively personified reaction on a global scale. He wasn't sure if they had reach acceptance yet but then again, what was there to accept? Everyone and everything would be destroyed and there was nothing to do about it. How depressing. Just as he had moved out and was about to begin his life as an adult the whole world decided to end just to spite him. Perses, the name of the asteroid, became a fixture of life looming over the world metaphorically and soon enough physically as it was able to be seen even during the day. It had become a sort of tradition for Max and his sister Judy to watch the sunrise and just watch Perse hurtling towards them. "How long did they say it'll take?" Judy asked, leaning forward onto the railing in front of their flat. "Well, some people say three days and some two." "What do you think?" Max shrugged, "I'm not a scientist but looking at it, it can't be long now," he laughed mockingly, "Funny how all of these billionaires, even Elon Musk with his rockets, can't escape this. The end of the world truly is the great equaliser." "That's true," a pause, a shaky exhalation of breath, "I'm scared." A hand gripping the railing, gripping another hand, "Me too." "Do you want it to hit near us or not? I'm not sure to be honest, do I want it to be over in a flash or not?" Judy was a smart kid, top set in all her classes, too bad she wouldn't life to sit her GCSE's let alone do anything with that big brain of hers. "Well I hate all of this waiting, it's torture. People still have hope that NASA will save the day but come on! We're going to end up like the dinosaurs and everyone knows it," Max felt so powerless. Both of their parents had decended into a stupor of drink and drugs, clearly the end of the world meant that they were going to catch up on everything that they hadn't had the chance to do. It left Judy and Max terribly alone at the time when they needed support the most. "Come on, let's go for a drive." "But you haven't passed your test yet!" Judy looked truly shocked and it made Max want to cry, he had missed so much of her growing up even in his short time at university. He looked at her blankly, "Does it matter? It's not like anyone cares." Max wasn't sure where he wanted to go until they were both in their dad's car and he was driving there. The lake was one they would go to on the weekend to walk around and see some nature and he knew the place well. Whatever other people were doing with their last hours, it wasn't going to their local lake and they had the whole place to themselves. Max decided to drive right up to the edge of the lake and sit on the bonnet of the car like in the movies, it made him happy and anything that made him happy nowadays was worth doing. The siblings sat together on the bonnet of the car, not speaking. There was nothing to say, nothing to apologise for and no more amendments to make-those had all been said and done days ago. All that there was left to do was to watch the ducks swimming along the surface of the lake. If they knew that something was wrong they didn't show it. Suddenly his phone started to buzz violently, the news updates were pinging on his phone in quick succession but the information took its time to fully settle into his head. Perses was speeding up at and unprecedented rate and was on a collision course with the moon. A hope that Max hadn't even realised he still had died in him; there had been talks of sending a rocket up to deflect the path of Perses straight into the moon. There wasn't even enough time to tell Judy before it happened. There was no noise but the moon suddenly came lurching into view. It was mid afternoon but the moon shone bright in the sky, too bright and too large. Just grabbed his arm, "What's happening? Max?" "It's Perses, it hit the moon. It's coming towards us," his heart felt like it had turned to lead and ripped out of his chest, "I-I don't know what will happen now. I can see it getting bigger, oh god." "Max," Judy sounded calm, calmer than she had been in days and calmer than he felt, "it's ok. Let's just sit here. Look! You can see the reflection of the moon on the lake, it's huge!" "You're right, Jude. It's beautiful..."


The first day Zakka had met Nneka, he was attracted to her curvy figure, but didn’t think of having anything to do with her because, as a soldier on the battlefield, he was a walking corpse. He could die anytime. But he could not leave there, where he met her—a cave. She squatted in front of an emaciated boy, about three years of age, giving him water from a water-bottle she had found among the kits of a dead Biafran soldier several meters away from the cave. The boy seemed to have some difficulty in drinking the water. The first time she had thrust the bottle into his mouth, some of the water poured down his bony chest and then trickled uphill to his bloated stomach. She removed her head tie and wrapped it around the boy’s sunken buttocks. She didn’t like the way his skin sagged like there was no flesh—only skin covering the bones, and the way his shrunken penis hung between his thin legs. Nneka shivered as she heard some grasses crunch under foot behind her. Zakka had been standing there for some time as she attended to the boy before he took a few steps closer, his rifle in hand. “Your brother?” he asked as she turned towards him, holding her breath. Nneka shook her head, her eyes fastened on his hand holding the rifle. “You have been here how long?” She didn’t answer him. Zakka had just lost a partner some hours ago. His partner, though an igbo man, was fighting on the side of Nigeria. He had seen a ripe guava and scurried to go pluck it when he stepped onto a buried mine that exploded under him. Zakka had shut his eyes tight at the deafening sound of the explosion. By the time he opened his eyes, his friend had been ripped to shreds of flesh and warm, sticky blood.

“What’s your name?” he asked her. “What do you want to do with my name?” “Nothing. I just want to know.” “Before you shoot us?” Zakka looked at the boy’s sunken eyes and brown hair. He looked around and then dropped his rifle, moved closer and stood right in front of her, almost stepping on her foot with his old boot. “I hate killing people.” “But you have been killing us.” She noticed his eyes settled gently on her cleavage. She quickly turned and adjusted her breasts. Zakka moved towards the boy and took his feeble hand. He wiped away some tears from the corners of the boy’s eyes with his other palm. Nneka turned and looked at him. “Where is your family?” She pointed at the boy. After a long pause, looking at her flat nose and full lips, he said, “I’m sorry.” She scratched the side of her large hip without a word. Suddenly, he moved towards his rifle and picked it up.

Nneka looked at him with no sign of fear in her eyes. As he was about to leave, she asked, “What’s your name?” “Zakka.” “When will you people stop killing us?” “I’m sorry I can’t answer that question—you go tell your brother, Ojukwu, to stop the war. He…” Tired of standing, the little boy sat down on the ground, his thin legs stretched in front of him. Zakka made to walk away, but she called him back. He paused, turned towards her. She brought out two coins from the hip pocket of her gown and stretched a hand towards him. “In case you see food anywhere, please help us buy.” He glanced at her palms. The coins were a two-and-a-half Republic of Biafran shillings each. He wondered where she had been since the war started, that her light skin still seemed to glow. “I am not coming back here.” With her hand still stretched towards him, she said, “Just in case you do.” Looking straight into her eyes, he dropped her hand gently. “Keep it. You will still need it.” He glanced at the boy and said, “When I find some food, you’ll see me. Otherwise…” He then walked away. Meanwhile, in his village, Gbakunta, there had been heavy ominous cloud covering everyone. The apprehension that hung in the hearts of the villagers was so palpable one could carry it like a hoe to the farm. Zakka, who had ‘confessed’ to being a wizard, fled when amuamua were leading him to go dig his grave where he would be buried and burned alive. Nobody had ever heard of such a thing—that someone escaped from the hands of amuamua.

The chief priest said that Zakka had only invited a curse that would wipe out his whole family—all of them would die one after the other and Zakka too would not live a day longer from the day he had escaped from the village. Prior to Zakka’s escape, people were dying in droves after bouts of stooling and vomiting. This had gone on for weeks till when some elders went and consulted with their family chief priest and he advised they needed amuamua to cleanse the village. So, in the dead of the night, amuamua went round the village, chanting. Hours later, Zakka appeared, mumbling around his father’s compound. And then the amuamua surrounded him. His mumbo jumbo was interpreted as a confession of witchcraft—which he said he was the one who had killed his two step-brothers. In the morning, he was taking round for all to see as one who had been causing the ‘mysterious’ deaths in the village. His punishment was that he would gather all the firewood needed to burn him alive after he had dug his grave the size of his height. But Zakka had escaped and when he learned that the Nigerian army was recruiting soldiers to fight the secessionist, he willingly joined, hoping that it would take him far away from his village where they must be searching everywhere for him to kill. Amaka was on the ground, crying. Her little friend was dead. This was the closest she came to really feeling the loss of someone. Her father, who was a rich businessman, was not at home and most of her family members had fled for their lives when some Nigerian soldiers invaded their community in Afor Umohiagu village, near Owerri, shooting and throwing bombs.

Amaka didn’t see any of her family members bombed or gunned down and could only remember running haphazardly amongst other confused and terrified people. She did not know where her family members had run to. She didn’t even know how she got to that cave. But she picked the boy beside a dead woman while wandering along the way. She never asked the boy if the dead woman was his mother or sister, and the boy never said a thing to her all along.

She had been with the boy in that cave for only 6 days, but she was devastated when he died. Not just because he died, but because she thought about how the death of her own family members would meet each of them—would they die of starvation like her little friend? Or thirst? Or gun shot? Or air strikes? Because the enemies had no mercy—they bombed refugee camps and even hospitals.

The boy’s death also brought her face to face with her own death—how death had become so ubiquitous on the land just because some two coconut head soldiers disagreed. She didn’t care about their reason for disagreement. She only wondered about how life, as she knew, suddenly evaporated into thin air—no, not thin air—how life became so confused, uncertain, bloody, and meaningless.

“He is dead?” Zakka asked, standing behind her with his rifle hanging over his left shoulder and some food items in a small old sack. She turned and faced at him, her eyes red and glistening with tears. He walked up to her and took her into his arms gently. “I’m sorry…” Her nose touched the strap of his rifle, and then she looked up at it. “I’ve brought you guys some food.” After a long silence, she said, “I don’t want food…” “I’m sorry he died, but I love his kind of death.” Nneka disengaged from his embrace and gave him a curious look. “It was a peaceful death, wasn’t it?” He said and almost smiled. She wiped away tears with the back of her hand… Meanwhile, the place darkened from the quick gathering clouds above the sky.

“His flesh and bones are together, at least. They wanted to burn me alive where I came from. I escaped only to come and join this… I have seen my colleagues’ hearts riddled with bullets. Some had their flesh scattered all over the ground like over-ripe banana in the hand of a toddler.” She folded her arms tight across her breasts as it drizzled. “His wasn’t a peaceful death.” She said. “It was slow, painful and hopeless.” For the first time, he didn’t have the right word for her. He looked at her quietly as the downpour caused her gown to stick to her curvy figure. She wiped away some rainwater from her face. “Please remove this.” She said, looking over his shoulder. His heart began racing under his rib cage. He searched into her eyes.

She nodded, as though she understood what he was trying to say. He dropped the sack and began to unbutton his shirt. “No, not in this cold weather. I meant the gun. I don’t want to see it.” He paused and looked up. “So God is bringing us rain—no more miserable thirst.” She held the strap of the gun and slid it down and out of his hand. She dropped it faced down against the wall of the cave and then drew him into her arms.

“It’s for our protection — the gun.” He said and ran his hands over her thick buttocks, feeling the lines of her panties. As she reached for his button with her right hand, Zakka shrieked, blood splattered on her face, clothes and around the cave. “Bastard wanted to rape her!” she overheard a husky voice say in Igbo, before she saw two blurry figures brandishing their rifles and one of them dancing in the rain.


Claire had already laid out the terms before. They were simple and effective. Yet Ehm still pouted, like an ever so petulant child refusing to go to school.

“Chance… number one… mister.” She huffed and puffed between reps of squats. Her voice rattled in her throat barely audible over the morning’s pulse-pounding wake-up call. The track looped ten times that workout session, the vocals melting into their own incoherent instrument.

“I hope you like what I picked today. I know it’s your favorite. ” Her sarcasm laid its trap outside the blank void that was his brooding closet. The interior’s darkness persisted with mute stubbornness. “Suit yourself.” With a shrug, Claire moved onto a set of push-ups and sweated away her anxieties for the procedure to come. After wrapping up her workout, she situated a portable speaker on her desk, pointing it directly at her writing chair. By the end of the day, the frantic tempo of her hyperfocus song would seep into the cracks of everything around her. She would breathe the upbeat melody more than hum it. But for the next thirty minutes of her morning she needed something measured and ominous. The looming minor key of Moonlight Sonata proved foreboding. Punching the volume-up button stirred her gut which growled for its first cup of coffee and pleaded for Ehm to behave. Still no bites from the closet. Beethoven’s eerie march continued. She soldiered on through her process. “It’d be easier on both of us if you would just start talking.” Ehm certainly could hear the desperation bubbling up into her mouth as she scrubbed at the first plate in the sink. Her skin formed a layer of goose bumps from the cold sweat following her weightlifting. It helped her to focus on the reek of her body odor over the dish soap’s lavender scent. Her scrubby sponge’s little cut-out smile did nothing to allay her queasiness. If only Ehm would poke his head out from her bedroom with a similar grin and an apology for his stubbornness.

“I don’t even know why you’re being quiet today. We reached a really fun part of the book. You get to go on a date with your girlfriend .” She shimmied her hips and goaded him with a sing-song voice. “I thought you’d like the idea of a fair. I won’t make you go on a Tilt-A-Whirl after eating corndogs.” Unless you keep dodging me , she thought as she scoured more furiously at a set of spoons. Poking past the bedroom door frame, Ehm’s gray eyes greeted her with caution. Where Claire expected gleeful impatience for the prospect of finally kissing the protagonist, there was only a little moue fixed behind thick-framed glasses. If he didn’t herald possibly the worst part of my day I’d say he’s cute , she thought. While playing with the fabric of his bowtie, he attempted the day’s first string of words. “Do I have to?” “Yes! It’s a very important par—” His head slowly retreated back into the room. She scoffed and returned to mangling the scrubby’s cheerful visage. Claire made a mental note to help him with a confidence-building plot arc in the near future. “One more step!” she yelled over the somber music as she set a plate and fork in front of her computer monitor. This was about the time she began playing “which stage of grief am I in?” While denial and bargaining duked it out, she moved on with her morning and sauntered past the disparaged man in her closet and into the bathroom. Only the whites of his eyes gleaming from the darkness clued her in that he was still with her. The motions of plugging up her tub and fine-tuning the temperature of the water felt detached and numb. Bargaining finally won out. “Please, Ehm. I’ll let you do anything you want at that fair. Get stuck on a Ferris wheel, win Odessa a big teddy bear.” Silence. “What flavor of trope do you want? It’ll be better than what we’re about to eat.” Nothing but ear-grating silence. She sighed and slipped into the tub, focusing on the tepid water to keep from breaking another sweat. The entire basis for her technique stemmed from one of her previous morning baths. Like most discoveries it was not so much an “aha!” moment and more that it toppled into a place it shouldn’t. She was in the middle of sudsing up her arms when the bar of soap in her hands did what bars of soap were invented to do: shot out between her fingers and hit her straight in the mouth. Her body reeled at the concussive shock, dunking her head beneath the grimy bathwater as she went to gasp.

Ehm had fallen into one of his sullen moods and remained stubborn and tight-lipped. The instant Claire sucked in a liter of water he mirrored her violent reaction. Arms flailing, he retched an invisible liquid out of his lungs. He dropped to his knees at the edge of the tub, glasses fogging over from the steam, and begged her through wet coughs to “never do that again.” “It was an accident!” She wheezed, throat shredded and mouth coated in a metallic acidity. Never again did she want to sample such a sickening taste, but his dripping desperation lathered up an idea. When his next session of stubborn meekness arrived weeks later, she faced him down with unblinking determination.

“What are you doing?” Without breaking eye contact, she lifted the bar of lilac-scented soap to her mouth. His tongue recoiled behind his grimace.

“You need to speak.” The logic was half-baked, and Ehm knew it. “How is a punishment used for naughty words supposed to make me say something?” “Does a mouthful of soap need logic?” “You don’t need to treat me like a child if you’d only listen to me.” “What do you think I’ve been trying to do all morning?” she shouted. Ehm’s muteness led to sputtering as Claire licked the bar, eliciting a gag from her as well.

Over the span of months she found use for her nauseating idea. Most times, it worked. The times that hadn’t, she questioned her choice in muses. Her threat of punishment matured into a grand presentation on her office desk. She plated the bar of vanilla-cream soap and added an extra flourish of pouring herself a glass of gray bathwater. “Last chance, Ehm.” Claire sat in her chair, arms crossed and leaning forward, waiting for a response. Ehm hovered at the entrance to the office. She did her best not to mimic his weary stare at the thought of their communal breakfast. “Claire,” he whined, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Don’t think I won’t do it.” “Ple-please, no.” His plea was lost amongst the cacophony of music and left nothing but flapping lips. That didn’t count as talking in her book. “Why don’t you say something? I thought you loved Odessa.”

“I do.” “So tell me all about your date with her.” His lips clamped closed once more, leaving her to huff in frustration. The fork tines pierced through the block of soap and wobbled it in front of his face. She brought his dessert-scented torture to her lips and mourned for her taste buds. I’m sorry, Odessa. But if I can’t have him, no one can!

His words stumbled over themselves before she could fully bite down. “I don’t want to go to some stupid fair!” She pulled her teeth out of the bar, leaving a comical indent on its smooth surface, and wiped the shavings from her lips with her shirt. “But it’s the—” She grumbled at the bouncy second half of the sonata and flicked her thumb over the off switch. Sweet silence followed that she hoped would soon be replaced by her usually chatty muse. “But it’s the setting that makes the most sense for the story.” He fiddled with the tweed of his jacket’s sleeve, still hesitant to look her in the eyes. She tested the waters, lifting the revolting lollipop to her gaping mouth and watched him wince. Words were rendered useless when hand-wringing spoke on his behalf. She sat back in her chair and contemplated his actions. Maybe he didn’t need that confidence-boosting arc after all. “Where do you want to go instead?” Her tone remained thoughtful. Ehm glanced up in a sheepish manner and swallowed a lump that didn’t taste of sanitized bile. “The greenhouse at the university.” She nodded in understanding. “You wanted something more private.” “And quiet. I was thinking we could have a picnic there.” He bobbed his head along with her. “You know this is all I ever asked for.” The hunk of soap clattered onto the plate and she placed her face in her hands, embarrassed to look at her sweet, shy creation, who could be oh-so-talkative when given the chance. “I know. I’m sorry.” Claire’s hushed tone filled every gap she had pushed between them and invited him in with open ears. Picking up her notebook, she huddled into her chair and imparted to him a suds-free smile. His shoulders slumped with a relaxed sigh and he plopped onto the floor next to her.

“So,” she clicked her pen. “What would you like to do on your picnic?”


Dear Diary,    I am writing to you, against my own interest, because I no longer have anyone else to speak with. Not that you are able to speak with me, but nevertheless – here we are. This exercise is rather ridiculous, if you ask me, and I’d prefer another human being for company, but it’s too late for that. No longer an option; there are no others left. I am alone now.

   I’ve never been the type to keep a journal, and it seems as though I’m speaking to myself, because a record of my thoughts is unnecessary, and speaking to myself is insane. Well, I guess it’s as insane as thinking thoughts. It appears that I’ve placed myself in a moral juxtaposition – I can’t justify writing my thoughts down, but I can justify thinking my thoughts. Quite the paradox, for lack of a more suitable term. Seeing as I can’t imagine that I’ve lost my mind (although a crazy person can’t understand that they’re crazy..), I will continue writing to you, Diary.    So – the idea of writing a log of my thoughts and feelings was brought to me by my father first, and I understand why he thought it important. My father was a researcher with a team of scientists and engineers, and he kept meticulous notes, extensive journals filled with tens of millions of words of findings, theories and data of various types. He loved what he did and he did it well, right up to the moment he died. My father was the first of us – the first of five to die in this chamber.

   Next to encourage my keeping a diary was my mother. She always hoped I’d follow in my father’s path, but I didn’t care much for the massive amount of time and effort that was required of a scientist, and I believed that I’d be bored to tears just sitting in place reading all of those letters and numbers. I never once feigned interest in my father’s work. Regardless, my mother suggested I write my thoughts down on a regular basis. Another thing to add to my list of disinterests – I never once wrote in a journal.    That is until today.

   Mother died last night, peacefully while she slept. Perhaps it wasn’t peaceful. She had suffered for months from a blood infection that father couldn’t prevent from entering her brain. And then father died before he could attempt to remedy mother’s condition from there.

   Once father died, the rest of us went into panic mode, and my brother and sister cried more than anything else. Mother cried as well, but she also spent a lot of time trying to crack father’s code to the door lock – a keypad that required a thirteen-digit number to unlock the door. She clearly failed in her thousands of attempts. Now I sit here alone, writing to a notebook about things that no longer matter, and that can’t be changed or fixed.

   I’m trailing off now.

   My younger siblings both died from malnutrition, starvation, or something related to either or both. Father apparently thought that mother was maintaining the food supply; mother apparently thought that father was maintaining the food supply. Both brother and sister suffered terribly for weeks before neither of them woke up suddenly. Mother cried for days. That is, she cried until madness overcame her and, after days of holding both of them tightly, sobbing and moaning, she decided that starvation wouldn’t be what killed her.

   I caught mother chewing brother’s ear, or at least what remained of it. I hadn’t been paying much attention – spinning out in my own spat with starving to death – and I wasn’t able to stop her before she’d nearly finished her meal.

   Disgusted by her lack of self-control, and rather taken aback by her utter lack of compassion for her own child, I stuffed my siblings’ corpses into a corner, sat diligently in front of them for months. Mother had lost her mind long before she lost her life, and I made sure not to let my guard down until after she could no longer move from her bed.

   For so long I’ve been waiting for her to not wake up. Although I despised her, I only wanted her suffering to end, and that would only happen if she died. Mother’s breathing had become weak, wheezing and whistling, and I knew that she’d stopped suffering as soon I no longer heard that agony issuing from her lungs.

   I waited awhile – five days, to be exact – before I checked her pulse. I couldn’t force myself to touch my mother’s neck, place my ear to her lifeless lips. She’d been dead, and I knew it to be true, but I waited, and I would’ve waited longer had I not tripped over sister’s femur, stumbling right on top of mother. When I checked mother’s pulse, she felt cold, stiff. Dead. Still I placed my face close to hers, an ear pressed against her mouth just enough to hear and feel that no air remained in her body.

   Sleepless through the night, I decided to have a little snack, and then I drank the final bottled water. I couldn’t seem to stomach more than a few nibbles, and the rot caused me to gag until I vomited the last sips of the last water. Oh well. I’d only been delaying the inevitable anyhow.

   The bunker probably smelled horrendous, for more than one reason. The septic system malfunctioned months ago, and the corpses of my family – what remained of them – had long been rotting.

   And now we’ve arrived at our current destination - I’ve decided that, with literally nothing else to do, I should write my thoughts in this old notebook. These pages mostly filled with father’s data. Every single piece of information that he could produce concerning mother’s condition. Disorganized scribblings of an intelligent man gone mad. I’ve taken my parents’ advice, and now I’m writing to you, Diary. I’m finally recording my thoughts.

   The last of us now on the brink of death. No more water. No more food (although I could give another try at the leftovers..).

   I’ve decided now, three-hundred-and-sixty-six days since father trapped us down here, to “take up journaling”. My first, and my last, on this seventh day of March in the year of two-thousand-and-twenty-eight. Oh, Diary - don’t be so silent now. You are the only one that I have to speak with. The rest are gone, and I too shall join them soon. Who, then, will YOU have to speak with, Diary? Reluctantly Yours, Me