“It’s all fun and games-” “Oh, would ya shut up with that, jackass?” growled Cordelia with a frown, “We’ve been walking for hours and all ya’ve been talking about is these damn games-” “I haven’t been talking about games, dummy. If you’d let me finish the sentence-” Theodora tried to reply, her hands on her hips in defiance as her travel companion growled at her. Never trust a fae that could shapeshift, her father warned her, and yet here she was. But, then again, Cordelia was the first lead she had. So, she had to distract her from realizing her true form… because that could be disastrous.

“Yer an idiot, that’s all,” Cordelia snapped back, “We’ve been hikin’ in this direction for four hours , Theodora. Are ya sure ya sense he’s this way?” Theodora knew her father was this way, she could sense him after all, it was a safe scent, and she knew as soon as they descended on him, Cordelia would need to run away, and fast. But, she, for some unknown reason, wanted to be around the annoying fae for just a little bit longer, no matter how dangerous it was turning out to be. But, she could tell the woman had thicker skin than she was letting on, despite complaints, the woman wasn’t even shivering at the frost in the air, and there was a hint of musk coming off of her that humans never had. Not to mention those legs, especially the thighs, were muscular and much more so than Theodora was used to looking at in the fairy realm.

And suddenly, she bumped into the taller woman, who was glaring at the other in disbelief, “Ya look pale. Are ya tired? Is that why yer trying to tell me some dumb bullshit story? We’ll set up camp… in this conveniently placed cave… let me check it out first, I don’t want there to be someone in there lurking and taking both of us out. I’m sure I could take ta anyone ta town, but with someone like ya here, I don’t know if I could focus," she winked again, and Theodora tried not to faint on the spot. Theodora blushed a bright pink, tucking her chin into her chest before turning away to make sure she could keep a perimeter around the area until Cordelia returned. The fae was right, Theodora couldn’t fight, but she did have other supernatural abilities that made her an asset in fights- including surveillance, “Kay! Hollar-” “We’re good, come in, ‘Dora,” Cordelia’s thick accent slipped through with the drop of the first part of her name. Theodora’s insides melted and were suddenly a red hot feeling, she tried not to think much about it as she nearly floated in, “Here’s the blanket, I reckon ya need it more than I.” Theodora snuggled into the blanket they’d… acquired on the way to the mountain, sighing as Cordelia set up the fire from the wood stuffed into a magical bag the woman had found in a previous town, one that could hold pretty much anything. Theodora had been shocked when the fae had wandered about it, seeing as it was a fairy-enchanted item, but then she realized, somehow, it was her father’s. He’d dropped it in hopes someone who knew him would find it. Luckily for her, Cordelia had. She then grabbed an apple out, cutting it up with a spare rock, and giving part of it to the fairy next to her. For reference, Theodora had learned to become “human-size” a long time ago, a ritual that only the fairies allowed outside the communities learned, and it was deemed “human-sized” because they were the baseline for most of the fae and supernatural creatures. Cordelia just so happened to be a wolf-like fae, others would refer to her as a werewolf, but it seemed she was more of a hybrid than anything, taking on more human features in shape, but more wolfish features in terms of body and head, fur/hair, and more. Theodora wondered if they’d ever develop a friendship where they could discuss the inner workings of each other's kin.

She glanced at the fae, scarfing down a piece of chicken, and she gulped.

No, probably not.

“Whatcha thinkin’ about?” Cordelia asked, looking over curiously, with a hint of caution, as if she couldn’t believe that Theodora would even want to speak to the woman despite days of travel together; but she supposed that in other cultures, days were far less time. In fairy culture, days were like years together. So, it’s ironic that Coredilia complained about the time it took to hike this far up, or perhaps she has an elongated sense of time as well, but just intense trust issues.

She thought too much, this had always been a problem, she thought annoyedly.

“Just the games,” she winked, as a joke of course, but blushed herself when the wolfish cheeks grew a tad bit red, “I’m serious though. The Games are an important part of these parts… these fairy parts. I know you’re fae-” “How in Goddess’ name do ya know that?” “You’ve got the hairiest legs I’ve seen in my entire life, your eyes are yellow, you have canines the size of my head in… in fairy form… and-” “Yer a fairy?! And ya just traveled with me even though ya knew I was a fae? Are ya outta yer mind?” the woman growled, “Or just a right idiot?” “I’m not an idiot,” she frowned in return, “You just haven’t hurt me yet-” “Right! Yet ! An idiot! Fae and human alike hunt fairies, yer lucky I like ya so much or I woulda returned ya to where ya deserved. Depths of hell, ya tricky creatures.” “We don’t deserve to rot in hell, Cordelia, surely you don’t truly mean that,” Theodora begged, pleaded her to change her mind with her tone, she couldn’t bear to think someone she’d… grown to tolerate more than a fairy should a fae, could think such a way.

Perhaps her father was right.

“Ya don’t understand, ‘Dora. Yer kind are mischievous little ‘uckers who are constantly stealing me stuff, and then they ‘ave the audacity to try and befriend me to sell it back ta me! It’s annoyin’!” “Annoying, sure, deserving of rotting-” “Okay, sure I overexaggerated,” she waved her hands off with a sharp grin. Theodora gridded her teeth, “You can’t just say that dummy!” “Can’t I?” Theodora stood but was dragged back down. Blushing, she glanced over to see the wolfish fae put her arm around the fairy- the audacity of this woman! “Cordelia-!” “Oh come on, if you’re a true fairy ya’d die in the treck down or up. My body eats’ been the only thing keepin’ ya alive,” she grinned, “Besides, don’t act like ya haven’t been wantin’ to snuggle up ta me this entire time,” she winked.

Theodora swore on the Fairy Goddess she’d get up. Except she didn’t.

She stayed there until the morning sun came up, to which they both rose and continued their trek to find her father. When they did, they fought off the kidnapper and were holding hands while doing it.


Nellie was near the rear of the shoppe when her aunt opened the door for the killer. It was a little past normal closing time for Flowry. That is the name of the thriving floral boutique that is run by her aunt. Nellie has worked there for several years. The front door to Flowry was a milky glass; this did not lend itself to knowing who was on the other side of the portal. There were two large windows to either side of the door; but if you didn’t see who was coming, through one of those windows, then it was a surprise when they entered through the front door. It was as much a surprise as any baby coming into this world; despite how many old wives said that it must be a boy, or girl because you’re “carrying the baby” this way or that in your pregnant belly. As surprises go; this was not a good one. This surprise was somewhere along the lines of the Dr. telling you that maybe you want to go to a drier climate because it would be better for you: would give you more “time.” She saw her aunt open the door; more to poke her head out and speak to whoever was on the other side, than to actually grant access. It was slightly past normal closing time for Flowry after all. It had been an unusual day in the city; what with the unprecedented snowfall in June. From her vantage point in the rear of the store she was unable to see who was at the door; but she did hear her aunt speaking to them. She couldn’t quite make out what her aunt was saying, and she was going to go about her normal business of closing up the floral boutique; but then her aunt did something that sent a chill through Nellie. With her head still poking slightly out the front door; her aunt had taken her right hand from the door itself and lowered it behind her back, and then with her right hand forming the “OK” sign, she had vigorously moved her hand back and forth. The gesture in and of itself would have been meaningless to anyone who did not know Nellie’s aunt very well. It was 100 percent: an “inside joke”; only this was not funny. Nellie had been living with her aunt for several years after her father had gone to War, and not returned. Her father was her aunt’s younger brother; only living brother, before he went to War, so she was taken in by her Aunt. Nellie’s mother had passed years before the War; and she had no other brothers or sisters. Her aunt had taken her in and given her a place to live and work. More importantly she had given the girl “family.” Nellie worked at Flowry, and lived above the shoppe in one of the spacious rooms. Her aunt and cousin Teague lived above the shoppe with Nellie as well. They were her family now; and had been for several years. When her aunt made that gesture; which stopped Nellie in her tracks, the young girl looked about for a place to hide. There was a back door; to an alley, and also a door on one side of the shoppe that lead to the living space above the boutique where Nellie had her room. Both of those doors would have had her cross the shoppe and come into view of whoever was on the other side of the portal that her aunt was currently holding firm, while conversing with the person on the other side of the door. There was a lovely fireplace in the salon above the shoppe. This was where; more often than not, Nellie would have her meals, with her aunt and cousin Teague. One of her favorite things in the evening was sitting in front of the fireplace, and listening to her aunt talk. Teague’s mother would talk about growing up in the old country. He aunt had a gift for story telling; and most of her stories were whimsical, and many were funny, some quite hilarious. But when the weather was dreary, or her aunt had a few glasses of sherry with dinner; then she would tell other stories. The shoppe keeper would talk about lean times; about losing friends and family to consumption. She would talk about a time when there was a conflict in the city between rival factions; and that there were attacks on the street and even in people’s homes. Her aunt would talk about how her father was involved with one of the factions; and that he had a signal that meant “danger.” When her father made that signal; it meant that you needed to hide, and do it quickly. That signal meant that death could literally be at the door. Her aunt made that signal; and it made Nellie worry. Near the rear of the store where she was working, there was an open wooden bin where they would toss the detritus of their floral trade. It wasn’t overly large; maybe three feet by three, by four feet high. It was currently half full of stalks, flowers, loose baby’s breath and what not. Nellie made a quick decision and moved to the bin; and stepped over and into it. She was a lovely girl: at least that’s what everyone had told her for most of her life. She was on the taller side for a woman; close to 176 centimeters, but slender. Nellie knew that she could easily crouch in the bin and not be seen; so that is what she did. As She crouched below the edge of the bin; she heard, more than saw her aunt open the front door to admit the person from the doorstep. The shoppe was very aromatic; as it was still half full of various plants and flowers, even at closing time. Nellie could smell the pleasant scent of Cornish Heath, because there was a bit of it in the bin with her. The smell of the bell shaped lilac flower made her think of the large man who came in several times a week to pick up bundles of it. Fitz was a big man, who worked for that Penrose fellow. She didn’t care for the leader of the enterprise; but she did think that Branok was sweet on her. And for her part; the prospect of his attentions were somewhat exciting. Everyone knew the enterprise troubleshooter by his surname, which was Fitz: but she had overheard Mr. Penrose calling the big man Branok. The head of the enterprise that ran the West Side of the city had a habit of referring to everyone he dealt with on a regular basis, by their given name, as opposed to their surname. Once she learned the big man’s name; she couldn’t help but think that he looked more like a “Bran”, so that is how she referred to him. She found it amusing that she learned her own cousin Teague’s given name from his employer. Everyone called her cousin Teague, which was his surname. Even her cousin’s own mother, Nellie’s aunt, referred to her son as Teague. She had never thought to inquire after his given name; so when she first heard Penrose call her cousin Jowan, it took her several moments to realize that he was referring to her cousin Teague. She struggled to see through the gaps in the boards that made up the bin. She could see glimpses of her aunt and a handsome man. The man was tall; not near as tall as Bran, but close to her cousin Teague in height. But whereas her cousin was built very solid; with broad shoulders and powerful arms, the handsome man was more lean. She couldn’t help but think he was more like a Panther to her cousin’s Tiger. The handsome man looked about the shoppe from the entry way and after he stepped in, he linked arms with the shoppe keeper. From her vantage point, Nellie could see that the man was well dressed. She watched the two as they walked slowly down the aisles. They stopped at several different points and she could see her aunt gesturing towards the flowers or plants that they were near. The two were speaking as they walked, but Nellie had a hard time making out the words. At least her aunt didn’t seem distressed: Nellie thought that odd, since she had seen her aunt make that desperate gesture. At one point; they stopped by a bundle of flowers and her aunt plucked a bloom from the bunch and she could see her aunt place it in the lapel of the man’s jacket. The two of them were closer than they had been during their rambling about the store; so she heard her aunt say, “a handsome lad like yourself needs a flower in his lapel.” From her place in the bin, Nellie could see the man’s smooth, handsome features. He had a distinct Mediterranean look about him. His hair was darker even that Bran’s, who had hair black as pitch. She felt a little uneasy at her aunt’s choice of flowers for the man’s lapel. It had been a black Chrysanthemum that the shoppe keeper had placed in the handsome man’s lapel. After the man had said “thank you Mrs.”, in a silky tone, they had walked a little more down another aisle. Nellie watched the handsome man walk; and couldn’t help compare the way he moved to Bran, or her cousin Teague: or even their employer – Mr. Penrose-. Each of those men had a way of moving that made Nellie think they were dangerous. This man moved in a similar fashion. He was graceful in his movements; and matched her aunt’s steps perfectly, as if they were in a dance. They stopped near a bundle of Cornish Heath: Nellie could not help thinking, “some call it Wandering Heath”, and the handsome man leaned over to smell the lilac flowers. After he straightened up, he spoke some more to his aunt, though Nellie was unable to make out what he said. She tensed as she watched the man pull something out of his jacket pocket and offer it to his aunt for inspection. The item in his hand was a straight razor with an ivory handle. Her aunt was clearly reluctant to handle it; and did not even reach out to take it. It was actually almost beautiful; even though it made her shiver to look at. Before the man put it back in his pocket Nellie did hear him say; “found it in an antique shoppe on Fleet Street.” The pair walked down another aisle; and made their way toward the door at the rear of the shoppe. Nellie heard her aunt say;” well of course I have to lock up.” She watched her aunt lock the back door and then the handsome man took her aunt’s arm in his and walked towards the front of the store. They spoke as they walked; and Nellie clearly heard her aunt say, “I’m worried.” Whatever else she had to say was unclear as they were moving away. Her aunt stopped at the door to turn out the shoppe lights. As she did this; her aunt looked to the rear of the store and Nellie knew that her aunt knew where she had been hiding. Nellie heard the tinkle of the little bell as her aunt closed the door and left with the killer.


Bel, short for Jezebel, was an introverted only child who preferred her own company to a crowds. As an adult she fell deeply in love with nature and you could often find her on a forest trail, hiking in her free hours.   Today was no different, she blissfully hummed to herself over the singing birds and crunching leaves beneath her feet. She had walked this trail many times, so she was familiar and well conditioned for the winding trails up the mountain slope.  Her friends would often ask her if her solo trips were ever frightening and she would always answer no with a shrug.

  She was smart about her trips and was sure to always send her mom her location in advance. Something she however didn’t tend to share was how she carried a gun in her pack and kept five bullets in her pocket, her lucky number.

  She urged forward up the steep incline, eager to get to the top and around the bend where she knew would sit a ginormous red boulder. It was her favorite part of the hike and she had made it a tradition to climb to the top of it every single time.

 She remember the first time she had climbed it, how it made her feel… well at first it made her feel pure terror and bit of nausea. Though once she got past the image of the boulder tipping off the cliff and rolling to her to her death. She had felt unstoppable.

  It was the first time in her life that she didn’t feel trapped. Felt as if she was standing on top of the world. She could feel her heart pounding in her chest and the blood scorching through her veins.

  Bel reached the boulder and began climbing, proudly doing it in half the time than the time before. Once she reached the top she scanned the entire valley with her hands on her hips.   It was an absolutely incredible view and if you knew where to look you could even see the tip of a lake poking out behind the million shades of orange and yellow leaves.

  She closed her eyes against the chilled breeze, tilting her head toward the sun that burned bright even through her eyelids.

Once she finally allowed her eyes to open again they involuntarily locked on a clearing below, the leaves green instead of the fall hues of the surrounding trees.

  Besides it looking bizarre and out of place, she felt as if she was oddly drawn to this clearing. Convincing herself it was only from mere curiosity, she decided to make the trek down which couldn’t be longer than 15 minutes.

  So with one last glance she committed the direction to her memory and began scaling down the side of the boulder.

  When Bel found the clearing it was bathed in streams of sunlight that illuminated everything within in a warm glow. Her legs buckling as she stepping into the sunlight.

  Before her in the clearing was a blooming field of wildflowers of every shade. Bright pinks, soft blues, fluorescent oranges, every color imaginable exploding before her. Too in awe to recall if she saw a single flower on the trail prior, she now stood in the center of thousands of blooms. She watched her step, careful not to crush any of the beautiful flowers. She tipped her head back towards the canopy above, the branches were covered in bright green leaves. She had found a pool of spring in and ocean of fall.

  Her eyes fell to the soft grass where she found herself centered in a perfect circle of brown mushrooms with large flat tops.

  Without thought she bent down and plucked a mushroom from the ground, holding it out in the light. She rotated it left and right, noting how it reflected red to orange in the sunlight.

  Once she plucked it though, her fingertips began to tingle and then then turn numb which quickly spread down her arms like fire.

“That’s not yours to take, child.” An angry voice purred from behind her.

  Dropping the mushroom, it fell softly to the forest floor.

  Bel turned around and couldn’t believe her eyes. Before her stood a tall, fair skinned woman whose skin was made of tree bark. She had branches that stretched, forming almost a crown above the head. Her flowing green gown was the color of aged moss.

  Fear wrapped around her gut, as rage warped the creatures face. Bel had angered a member of the Unseelied court.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t know.” Bel's voice wobbled weakly when she whispered the words. Then could only continue to stare at this creature in terrified awe, baffled by the inhuman beauty it possessed.

  “Pick it up.” It demanded coldly. Bel took a step back stumbling, the movement caused the burning fire to spread throughout her body until she was utterly paralyzed.

  She began to weep in fear, all she wanted to run but her feet would not obey. The creatures face twisted in delight. It watched Bel squirm and fail to break free from the paralysis until it was breathless in laughter.

  The creature crept close to her and pinched underneath Bels arm hard enough to draw blood. When she cried out in pain the creature doubled over in laughter again. Then a snap of its finger Bel fell hard to the ground, her head thudding again a sharp rock.

  “What a pathetic thing.” It mocked “Pick up my mushroom right now.”

  The pain shooting through Bels head was nearly blinding but somehow she reached her hand out finding the mushroom. She pulled herself into a crouch and handed the mushroom over.

  “I’m feeling merciful today, you may keep the mushroom. Leave this place and never return. ” The unseelied woman surprised her by returning the mushroom to her hand.

“Thank you..” Bel said confused. Tears still blurred her vision but she saw the creature freeze when the words left her lips. This time when it laughed it seemed to reverberate through her entire rib cage all the way to shuttering heart. Terror melting all the way into to her bones, Bel knew something was deeply wrong.

 In a tone as hard as stone the creature said, “ and by the light of the eastern sun. You belong to me, Aeylinay Vailh of the Oakwood Flesh Court. You shall do my bidding among the shadows until the blue moon rises again.”   Shadows danced into the corner of her vision until she felt her body drop defenseless again against the ground.

  The last thing she heard before being consumed by darkness was Aeylinay’s mocking voice “foolish girl.” Before it drew its leg back and kicked her into unconsciousness.

  When she awoke to her new life she found herself sleeping in a makeshift tent with many other human slaves of the unseelied.

  Aeylinay Claimed her nights with servant work while pain an exhaustion chased her through the day. Waiting on her hand and foot mean that Aeylinay would always have a toy to torment close by.

  Most humans didn’t survive long. She watched many die until she was numb to the day to day sorrows. Sometimes they would go off into the night to serve their keeper, never to return. Others would pass silently in their sleep, sunken in hunger or exhaustion.

 Life with in the Unseelied court is an awful and cruel life for any being beyond its court.

  She had come to learn the unbearable pain of dancing for days until she felt her bones grinding together.

  They would tie her hair in knots as she slept, send monsters to chase her into dreams. They would feed her berries that cause terrifying hallucinations that gripped her for days. Hallucinations of her close friends and family abandoning her or dying in her arms. Or of little bugs that would crawl over her skin and devour her flesh while she sat paralyzed in unimaginable pain.

  Sometimes they would hold events and watch their slaves fight to the death. Occasionally allowing weapons and armor, other times forcing them to fight bare with only their hands.   They were brutal, warped creatures that she sometimes believed enjoyed torturing humans equal to their love for sweet wines and elaborate gowns. The people of the Unseelied court were beautiful creatures, some radiated power strong enough that a glance could feel like a winded punch to the gut. Some with tall antlers or horns, others gnarled roots similar to Aeylinay.

  Everything she owned was taken or hidden in another wicked trick years ago. All besides her five bullets that she was smart enough to bury in the roots of an oak tree beyond the forest line. She sadly wondered if she would even be able to find the tree again after all this time, even if she had tried. The last keepsake from her formal life.   She lost a lot of things among the court of the Unseelied. Bel wept as she realized she could no longer recall the exact shade of her mothers hair. Or when she lost the memory of an old favorite song she use to know by heart.

  Another thing that was stolen in this realm, possibly the cruelest was time. Her life fading away and the person she once was slipped slowly from her grasp. Scared and alone she was made into something else entirely.

  One day she stood in the shadows of the ball room, lined with other masked human slaves. Sure nobody was looking at her, she stretched up onto her tip toes to see what had caused such a commotion. Everyone of the court stopped dancing and the music drifted off into chilled silence.

  The banished prince had entered and approached the queen directly at her throne. The knights drew their weapons, metal sliced through the air ready to stop the prince if intervention was needed.

  The queen nodded in approval and the knights let the prince pass with his token of forgiveness.

  His gloved hands held a necklace to the moonlight, presenting a ruby red pendant that could reflect the sun even in the darkest of chambers.

  However when he placed the pendant around her neck, it caused an agonized scream to rip from the queens throat before she dropped into a motionless heap on the floor.

  Chaos erupted, the prince was dragged away. The queen, close to death simply by a touch of the pendant.

  She’d later learned that the queen had survived the attack but that day was the first day Bel had ever seen weakness of a member of the Unseelied court, much less the untouchable, beloved queen.

  That was also when she learned that of the most powerful weapon against the immortal creatures was something as simple as iron.

  It took a few days to recall the bullets she had hidden and with realization, hope began to bloom in her chest for the first time since she’d arrived to this realm.  However if it was one thing she had learned from these foul creatures was that sometimes the best revenge took patience.

  So in a months time when the court gathered again for their blood moon gatherings, she waited by calmly with a single bullet clutched in her sweaty palm.

  Deep inside she was willing to risk her life for what she was about to do. She had already said her silent goodbyes to those tortured souls she had come to love in this realm. And to those she lost and mourned in her mortal realm long ago.

  Moments before the challises were passed for the queens grand toast. Bel slipped by the wine fountain and dropped the bullet to the bottom, watching it as it sank and disappeared into the dark red liquid then she turned and evaporated into the crowd unnoticed.

  The queen rose from her throne and toasted again to their marvelous immortality and once she did they all began to drink their wine, even the children of the unseelied drank deeply from their cups until empty.

  Where they once stood in their riches and glory. Now lay on the ballroom floor dying an agonizing death. They were being burned alive from the insides. The iron infused wine dissolving their insides to liquid. And when they all lay motionless the silence echoed across the vast room.

  The once enslaved humans stood in confusion at the dead court before them. They didn’t understand yet but because of Bel they were now free. The silence snapped like a rubber band as Bel’s cackling laugh bounced across the room. Then she began to dance and the other humans quickly joined her.

   She danced and danced over the bodies of the unseelied court breathless in laughter and delight. Delirious with joy she slipped in the puddle of blood that formed in the center of the floor, it staining the bottom of her ragged, torn dress.

  Unsure of how long she had danced along the other humans. A voice shattered the mirth as a chiming laugh rang out through the ball room. It was the banished prince and he hunched over in laughter at the sight of what Bel had done.

 When he finally regained himself again he looked directly into her eyes as if he knew exactly what she had done.

  “It is because of you I am free, I thank you for your actions, child.” The prince said with a smirk, dipping into a low bow. Her legs buckled and collapsed cracking against the granite floors, she didn’t notice the warmth seeping into her dress. All the heard was his words repeat in her head. “…thank you.” He was now in-depth to her.   He turned and began walking away, she wasn’t sure exactly what to say but Aeylinay words returned to her after all these years, clear in her memory as if she had spoken them yesterday.

  Loud and clear Bel’s voice called out to the prince, “by the moonlight of the Oakwood Flesh. I demand you return all of our lost souls to the mortal realm as we were before we were stolen.”

  He didn’t turn around but he halted as her words and with one flick of his wrist, he snapped his fingers.

  The world faded around her and when she opened her eyes she was no longer underneath the stars of the Unseelied court. She was now sitting in a pool of sunlight surrounded by blooming flowers. She sat up slowly and looked around. She was still in the blood soaked dress but she felt it within her that she had finally returned home. She began to sob. Sob in pity for what she had endured, sobbed in relief that she managed to free herself and the other slaves of the court from their misery.

  Then in the distance she heard dogs barking and people shouting her name. With no hesitation she screamed for their help.  Within a few moments police burst into the clearing wearing baffle expressions at finding the lost girl with knotted hair and a bloody gown standing in the middle in a blooming field of spring flowers in the middle of fall.

  Before she knew it she was emitted into the hospital where her mom was already waiting for her in her room. They held each other crying while neither of them spoke a word, afraid to burst the reality of the moment. She stroked her mothers chestnut hair until she cried herself to sleep.

  Bel had learned, what was 8 years of her life in the Unseelied court was only a weeks time in the mortal realm. Her mother feared the worst but she knew where to send the search parties looking.

  Bel was of course never the same , as she returned unrecognizable by the people she had mourned a long time ago.   It took a long time for the fear to settle within her but she finally did find peace and eventually happiness in the mortal realm. She would often think and wonder about the other slaves she freed from the court. However with enough time it all seemed to fade from her memory as if a distant dream.

  Bel lived a full life and grew to be 84 years old before she passed peacefully in her sleep.

  Not a single soul left alive that knew she was responsible for the mass slaughtering of the entire Oakwood Flesh Unseelied court.

-BDS


Calli spent her high school life getting hurt, so she decided to spend her university life getting misunderstood. It took a persistent few to break down the wall she had put up and see what lie beneath. When Rita met Calli, she thought the other girl to be cold and emotionless. She thought that way for a while. They met on their first day of university, both starting off their degree in Engineering. Rita had seen this small girl sitting alone in the corner while everyone else mingled and her kind heart would not allow for her to ignore the other girl. She walked to be closer and when her presence was noticed, the other girl had raised her head. The blank stare would have sent shivers up a weaker girl’s spine, but Rita gave her patented warm smile and spoke up, “Hi, my name is Rita. What’s yours?” The girl appeared to be thinking about whether or not to answer, but eventually settled on a toneless, “Calli.” Rita decided on that day that she would work towards opening Calli up and to see through the cold exterior, believing that no one could be that emotionless. If you asked Rita, her persistence was friendly, but if you asked Calli, her persistence was exasperating. All the same, Calli found that Rita attached herself to her hip and was going no where. Yet three months into knowing each other, Calli said the first thing that was not completely void of emotion. “The last time I had a best friend, she spread false rumours behind my back,” Calli explained with a frown on her face, yet Rita could sense the sadness in those eyes. “So I apologise for not being so willing to open up to you. Please understand.” Rita, sensitive as she was, wanted to cry. Yet she held in the tears, because she had done it. The first crack had appeared. When Vera first interacted with Calli, she thought her student to be rude. Calli never greeted her whenever their paths crossed, she also never reacted to feedback Vera offered on her projects. Vera found herself frowning whenever she settled her eyes on the expressionless face. Five months into being one of Calli’s many professors, Vera began to observe and learn. She wanted to understand all of her students, one of the reasons she had never pulled up Calli on what Vera perceived to be rudeness. One of her first observations of her student was that she only had the one friend, another student of hers named Rita. A warm, friendly girl that seemed out of place next to such an emotionless person. Another observation was that the girl did not trust easily, Vera often having complaints from other students that Calli would do their parts for them in group assignments on the off chance they did not do it themselves. This showed her that Calli felt the need to be preemptive just in case she happened to be grouped with slackers. Then the day came that she realised the girl was not rude or emotionless, she was shielding herself. She realised this when she happened to pass Calli and Rita in an empty hall. The two girls appeared not to notice her and Vera caught the first glimpse of an emotion on Calli’s face. A small upturn of one corner of her mouth that betrayed a smile at something her only friend had just said. Rita was someone she cared for and trusted. A week later, Vera approached Calli when she noticed the girl was alone for once, her sunny shadow nowhere in sight. “Calli,” she calls softly. That expressionless face turned to face her, the only sign she was ready to listen. Vera gives her a warm smile, noticing the surprise in the girl’s eyes to be smiled at when she had not given her teacher a reason to smile at her. “How are you finding this week’s readings? The next exam is coming and a lot of the content this week will be covered in it.” Calli appeared to hesitate, but eventually, she started to discuss the readings with Vera. The spark that steadily came to life in her eyes belayed her passion for Engineering she had been keeping hidden. The second crack appeared. When Daniel met Calli, the first thing he noticed was that she was rather pretty. The second thing he noticed was that she was antisocial and preferred the company of her one friend. Honestly, she had peeked his interest and he spent the last few months of the semester observing her. They were not in the same faculty, but he had learned her habits rather quickly as she frequented the same cafeteria every day and only went from class to class. She never even hung out at the library. That being said, he did eventually take note that her friend was not the only person she interacted with. On the rare occasion her friend was not around, he found Calli to be talking to one of her professors. He did not know the woman’s name, but he at least recognised her as one of the second year teachers for Engineering. He never got close enough to hear their conversations, but the girl seemed engaged with what they were discussing. The interested look, the first emotion he had seen on her face in several weeks, brightened up her face in ways he would think only a smile could do. The more he observed her with her friend and her professor, the more he came to like her. She was different than most other girls he knew, she kept her feelings close to the chest and saved her emotions for those she cared about, not wasting them on those that may not even deserve it. He learned based on the way some people behaved around her that they did not appreciate the way she was like her friend did, nor did they try to understand her like her professor did. One day, he worked up the courage to talk to her directly, finding her alone in the cafeteria. Taking a deep breath, he walked over to stand beside her table and waited for her to look up at him. He noticed a confusion in her eyes, yet he was sure he only saw it because he was beginning to understand her micro expressions. With a gentle smile, he tells her one of his many observations. “You’re beautiful,” because he knew she had not heard it often, or even at all. A blush rose upon her cheeks, and he took that as a success as he walked away. All he had wanted to do was firstly, get her to react, and secondly, make her day. The third crack appeared. When Dia met Calli for the first time in five years, she barely recognised her. The last several weeks of high school, Calli had been morose, lonely and not once had she smiled. Dia knew it had been her fault, she had become jealous of the attention Calli was getting and without thinking, had started vicious rumours. Those rumours ended up hurting her best friend and destroying their friendship. After graduation, she never saw Calli again. The guilt she felt over everything made her glad for it. She was scared what would happen to Calli, what her life would be like knowing that particularly hard teenage years can effect adulthood. She knew shew was being selfish, but she never wanted to know the outcome of what had happened to the girl whose high school life she had ruined. Yet before her stood Calli, not how she had expected to find her. She was smiling, holding hands with a tall man beside her and a bright girl to her other side. The smile slowly faded from Calli’s face as she took in the woman before her, starting to recognise the face of the person who had once been her friend. “Cal? You okay?” the other woman asked, a frown starting to take away her wide smile. “Dia,” Calli says pointedly, eyes narrowing. The way her two companions flinch and face her quickly tells Dia that they knew exactly who she was. Dia was speechless, all her nightmares were unwarranted. Calli was fine and as far as Dia could tell, unaffected. What Dia did not know was that Calli had not been fine and unaffected. It is just that Dia was not around for the years it took. The years it took for the wall to shatter.


Beauty incarnate arose from the seafoam bubbling around her as she awoke. The misty air matched her loveliness. As she took her first steps onto land, grass sprouted around her feet. She was named Aphrodite by gods and mortals alike, meaning “the foam-born.” She was invited to the assembly of the gods, aptly becoming the goddess of beauty and love. Her birth had been an agonizing event, as she had been created out of Kronos’s punishment towards his father. Nevertheless, she became a powerful and enchanting goddess that had portrayed all that love is. Aphrodite had quickly become a woman that was respected greatly by all mortals she had reigned over. Respect for her was greatly recommended, as she could become quite jealous, causing many horrible events to occur. The apple of discord had been a major incident displaying her issue with envy. This apple had the words “for the fairest” inscribed into them. Hera, Athena, and Aphrodite were all convinced that they were the one that the apple belonged to. Zeus decided to settle this issue by prompting the mortal Paris to decide which of the three goddesses the apple should belong to. Aphrodite had offered the most enticing bribe to Paris, love. Paris had wanted to marry Helen of Troy, and Aphrodite was able to make that happen. However, Helen’s husband had grown furious with this and started the Trojan War. Helen became known as the woman whose face sank 1000 ships. The love goddess had felt no remorse, and had caused death and destruction in order to be the one who possessed a simple apple.

Aphrodite was a seductress. She felt her best being able to woo those with her beauty, and she often was very obsessed with her own vanity. If anyone had said that they were more beautiful, especially a mortal, they were immediately ill-fated. She would curse, kill, and punish those who said that one was more beautiful than her, or had even just disrespected her. Common punishments for those who disrespected her were often along the lines of unrequited love. Pan cursed to be in love with Echo, a nymph that ever returned that love for him. The goddess had also murdered Herakles with a poisoned robe for his unfaithfulness. And perhaps the one most painful for an immortal, making one fall in love with a mortal. However, Aphrodite would soon face this pain herself.

Long after her birth from the sea, there was a tragic incident between Aphrodite and a woman named Myrrah. This woman was cursed to fall in love with her father due to her disrespect towards Aphrodite, as it was claimed that Myrrah was more beautiful. Myrrah lusted after her father so much she became with child after anonymously sleeping with him in pure darkness for nine nights. Her father had discovered that Myrrah was the one that he was sharing his bed with for the past few days and promptly chased her with a sword. The gods had then turned her into the myrrh tree in order to save her from her father’s wrath. Soon after the myrrh tree split open and birthed a child named Adonis. He was found by the love goddess, her finding his beauty even from his youth so incredible she kept him away from the other gods and had only shared this secret with Persephone of the Underworld. As Adonis grew up, his beauty became more intoxicating, causing both Persephone and Aphrodite to fall in love with him. Zeus, the king of the gods, was known for settling disagreements, and had allowed Persephone and Aphrodite to each be with him for one third of the year, with Adonis choosing who to stay with for the final third.

Adonis, enamored with Aphrodite, had chosen to stay with the goddess of love for the final third of the year. They had fallen completely in love. Aphrodite had never truly fallen in love, let alone with a mortal. The love that they had for each other was deep and unwavering. Many other gods and demi-gods had lusted over him, but his love for Aphrodite had been resolute an true. However, the vice of

falling in love with a mortal is that they are not immortal. Adonis could not live forever. It is true that Ambrosia, the nectar of the gods, could have made Adonis immortal, but his death was tragic and unexpected, and caused by the gods. It is unclear and was never truly discovered who had done this to him, but the gods could have saved him, but wagered against it. While Adonis was on a hunting trip, he was caught off guard and attacked by a wild boar. The boar had emerged the victor, leaving Adonis to die. Aphrodite had discovered Adonis dying in the woods. Crying, and rushing to his side, she cradled him in her arms until he took his final breath. His death completely shattered her heart, shedding tears that had mixed with his blood, blooming a beautiful anemone flower. Aphrodite held the flower close to her chest as she continued to weep over the loss of her true love. Her cries were heard throughout Greece, notifying people of Aphrodite’s grief.

Aphrodite had never truly gotten past the loss of Adonis, she never truly or deeply loved again as she did Adonis. Eventually, Zeus forced her to marry Hephaestus, the god of the forge. This was done to prevent Aphrodite from attracting the attention of any other men. The goddess of love had ironically never been able to marry for love. It is true that she had her many affairs, predominantly with Ares, the god of war. However, no matter how many men she was able to woo, she could never get over her woe. She stared at the stars that she lived among every night, yearning for her departed lover, crying tears for him every night knowing that he would never return. Her teardrops lived among the stars, each filled with blinding despair, shining with the remaining love she had in her shattered heart.


The children of the seaside town joyously ran around the hills holding out their handheld sparkler fireworks beaming bright red, green and yellow sparks of light. After a few hours of feasting, playing and watching the adults light the skies with colorful rainbow explosions, the children would run indoors for an enthralling story time session. Even some of the adults would join in, mainly my brother Johnny who would enjoy chiming in and creating a puffery of sorts. "Aunt Aurora!" they endearingly called out. "When can we hear the story of Grandpa Murphy and the Deep Sea Monsters?"

My Daideó had long passed now, but he left beautiful memories and lessons with me. Ones I revered and shared with the younglings in town. Stories of bravery that ultimately reminded me of the symbolism of his hands and what they've built throughout his years. Those callus rough warm hands that held my mother as an infant and welcomed her into the world, they similarly introduced me to my love of the oceans. I remember him holding my hands lovingly while he strolled me around town, they were never soft and smooth but dirty and gruffed with salt crystals. They smelled like the fish and lobsters he'd catch during his excursions. Holding them reminded me of security and calmness like that of waves on an early morning. Consequently, they also reminded me of how wild and terrifying the open waters could be, like a constantly changing living organism. "Children, look at those unique hands of yours", I began the story the same every year, trying to get the children inquisitive and engaged. "Those hands of yours they tell a wonderful story". I say, "Every wrinkle, every scar, every burn mark is a story of your life, your adventures". I looked over to see the children stare intensely at their open palms and fingers to explore the creases and broken lines. They laughed and began to peer into their neighbors hands. "Every hand is different, some are soft and smooth, some are molded by the wrinkles of time, polished by the rays of the sunlight". It was like an ethereal connection, not just physical. I sat on the chair in front of them, sliding through images of Grandpa Murphy on his boat holding out enormous trophy cod fishes and working on his boat. "This story is about the incredible pair of imperfect hands of a brave old fisherman from Waterford Harbor, one as mighty as you'll ever remember. I looked around the room and their curious eyes were widen with intrigue. "And one last thing..." I say pausing for dramatic effect. "These pair of hands were missing a pinky!". To their gasps I proceeded to explain as vividly as I could, they stared and balled their small hands into fists and rested them under their chins listening attentively. Fifteen years ago, Grandpa was woken up by screams of a scared little girl who saw the fiercest monster in the darkness of the ocean. But, she refused to speak a single word about the mysterious giant in the sea, instead keeping her secrets to herself. Those small secrets turned into bigger ones, Uncle Johnny was the first to hear of them. This giant had eyes like windows of a lighthouse and tentacles almost as tall as them. Though they were as real as anything she refused to burden her grandpa dismissing it as an isolated event. My brother had just came home from a three month work at an oil rig in South America for the week. After explaining my sightings to Johnny, he says to me, "Look at me, Aurora, I know my baby sister, I know when you're lying". He couldn't believe a creature so big could exist. Even longer than the fifteen feet long female anacondas in the tropical Andes he's told me about. Then me and Johnny began to notice stranger events in town, incidents of docked boats getting destroyed and strange shadowed sightings from around town. They escalated when a fisherman disappeared and the fish became scarce. Me and Johnny would read the newspapers to find clues to pinpoint the sightings, we finally discovered they lead to Nohoval Cove. Given the high amount of migratory fish that swam by the surface at nighttime, it seemed like the right location. We had finally decided to tell grandpa and he immediately came to the conclusion he wanted to confront the beast. We would set out to sea armed with flashlights, flare guns and other miscellaneous items that illuminated light. Grandpa carried a large heavy metal case with him and dragged it to the boat. "Aunt Aurora, Aunt Aurora!" the kids called out raising their hands up. "Yes?" I pointed to a young boy waiving it higher than the rest. "What was in the metal case?" he says. Oh, it's a secret, you'll know soon enough! We sailed out several feet from shore in the middle of the cove in our boats waiting hesitantly. If anything happened we weren't too far away from the shore to rush over and escape. Then suddenly that same trembling growl begins to emit from below the ocean creating ripples on the surface. I knew the sound too well as they replayed in my nightmares. The beast propped its head up for a brief moment before it vanished into the darkness below. I jumped and alerted Johnny and Grandpa. Then almost instantaneously our boat began to vibrate again more violently. Then almost as if it were guided by a ghostly pilot, the boat began to move by itself deeper into the ocean further away from shore. We almost crashed onto the rocks protruding from the surface as our boats scraped them passing by. Grandpa tried to override the boat trying to turn on the motor but it malfunctioned. I tugged on Johnny's hand frightened, then suddenly the boat stopped. Like a calm before the storm the creature reappeared but this time almost in front of us. It crept in closer and beckoned us with its tentacles stretching from every direction pinching the wood as if it were fragile and easy to break. "May the cat eat you, and may the devil eat the cat, you evil beast", yells Grandpa holding out his flare gun waiting for the right moment, he shoots it in the air startling the beast. It swam away but not before divulging the skyline from obscurity, the horizon blocked by large tall vertical shapes. We realized he was not alone, beneath us revealed tentacles squirming allover the ocean. They slithered around, one foot in the water would risk being drowned and entangled in their tentacle traps. In the distance some of their heads poked above water as they approached. Some were much larger than the first monster, almost tripled in size. Grandpa yelled but his voice disappeared in the symphony of growling and erratic water splashes, he fell off the boat and tripped tangled on a rope. Johnny tried to pull grandpa back, his hands wrapped in the suckers of another giant squid, he bled fighting them away. Grandpa yelled for the metal case while trying desperately to climb back on the boat hanging from the edges with one hand. Johnny was finally able to pull him back yanking him from the the collar of his shirt. Grandpa then ran to the case enclosed and pulled out a large harpoon gun from inside. He could barely hold it straight as he wrestled to balance it, he hugged it under his arms and pulled the trigger. The giant was injured as it ripped one of his tentacles clean off, much like when he took Grandpas pinky several years ago in a vengeful fashion. The beast screamed out and moved away, while the rest of the creatures came closer. They created small whirlwinds beneath the water. After being surrounded we panicked and emptied out our pockets and bags for anything useful. I hadn't considered the damped firework in my pocket. Our last resort, I grabbed it and held it up towards Johnny's face. His trembling hands pulled his lighter and flicked the striker, nothing. The tentacle beast closed in and surrounded us each now whilst pushing the boat side to side. Once more Johnny flicked the striker and no luck. Grandpa ran towards us and flicked his match the first try and held it to the fuse of my firework. Third times the charm. The spark trickles over to the firework and soon after shot out to the skies, creating a loud deafening explosion, sparks of flickering flames danced in the sky. The creatures from beneath disappeared back down to where they came from. From this day forward the tradition was born. The three of us escaped back to shore with the guide of the light house. We had alerted all of our neighbors in town and shared our warnings. Now, before the fishing season commenced, in March we began a tradition for a firework show. It served to bless the fishing harvest season and to keep the beasts under control. We kept the tradition alive throughout the years. The marks on our hands caused by the smoke powder and small burns were our testimony. My grandpa's hands eventually worn out, but his legend and the tradition he set out to bring the small town together would live forever.


Live Action Role Playing, known to some as LARPing, is a misunderstood sport. Some of this has to do with the fact that it’s played by those who look like they’ve been pulled right out of a fantasy book but it can also quickly become a lifelong passion. Each year, groups from all over the East Coast travel to the heart of the North Carolina to partake in the midsummer LARPing tournament where hundreds of teams compete in a 30 acre arena to claim the title of Champion. Usually, only the bravest win, but this year the ruthlessness of one team dominated all others. Though they were new to the community, they were bold and cunningly aggressive. After narrowly escaping ambush set by this group, Steve, Arnold, and George ran for the woods but, being one of the last two teams standing, they knew they wouldn’t be allowed to hide for long. They scaled a steep slope and hid behind a large rock formation known as Kings Rock. Breathing heavily as they braced themselves against the backside of the cool stone, Steve and Arnold nervously surveyed their surroundings. A soft wind blew and the pines danced around them, their rhythmic motion producing a hypnotic ambiance. Neither dared to risk peeking around the rock to see if the enemy was near. George looked at the trees. “How the hell did they get the drop on us?” panted Steve. “I don’t know!” said Arnold. They kept a heavy hand on their crafted weapons made from PVC pipe. Every LARPer took pride in their weapon, tailoring it to their strengths and wrapping the “dangerous” parts in foam and duct tape. Arnold wielded a spear because he was nimble. Steve used a bow because he was the sneakiest of group. George wielded a sword for its simplicity and because it felt familiar. “What do we do now?” Arnold squeaked. “How would I know!?” hissed Steve, “They still have five people. The odds of us winning are slim to none.” It was times like these where George found himself useful. Being an average build with unkempt hair, brown eyes, and pale skin; he was nothing impressive to look at. In fact, it was easy for him to blend into any group. He was shy, spoke softly, and his opinions rarely carried weight. However, when times were tough, the group expected him to point them in the right direction. “We are still in this fight,” he said and pointed down the slope, “We have the high ground. That’s huge.” When his friends saw this, their eyes lit up. “You’re right!” said Steve, “Okay then, I will get on top of Kings Rock and you guys draw them up the hill. Once they are in range, I will pop up and start picking them off.” It was a simple plan but it was all they were able to come up with before they heard the other team rustling though the woods below. Steve quickly scaled the rock, leaving Arnold and George looking at each other, still wondering what to do. “What now, George?” asked Arnold. Having already served his purpose, George felt his confidence wane. Arnold saw this and sighed. “We’ll draw them to opposite sides of the rock and hope for the best, I guess.” George wanted to say that it would be better to stick together and fight as pair but, before he could say anything, Arnold was off executing his plan. George watched him go. His heart racing at the thought of having to fight alone. It made his feet feel like they made of concrete. He started to run to his position but his foot caught on a root, throwing him forward into the rock wall. THWACK! The world around him faded to black and wind moving through the trees was the last thing he heard before his mind slipped away into darkness. When he awoke, he lay in the shade of a large willow atop a lonely hill in the middle of vast open plain. He blinked but immediately felt like his head was caught in a vice grip. “Ugh,” he moaned and went to rub his forehead but was surprised to fell that his hands were thick and calloused. He wobbled to his feet, standing a whole foot taller than he used to be, with a muscular frame that filled out his chain mail armor. “What the…” “Whoa there, Sir George. Not so fast.” A man came from around the tree wearing the same red and gold tabard George wore over his armor. “Where am I?”

The man cocked his head and stared for a moment. “That pack of goblins must’ve hit yer head harder than I thought.” “Goblins?” “Yes, Sir George, goblins. A whole pack of them you slew. Nasty little buggers be terrorizing an entire town until you dealt with them.” After a round of questioning, George found out that he was known across the land as Sir George the Bold and made a living traveling the country on horseback, slaying monsters and evildoers in the name of the King. The man before him was Turner, his loyal squire. “Come now, Sir George. We must be on our way.” “Where are we going?” “Hobbsboro, of course. If we leave now, we can make it there by sundown. Now, if you please, the last time we were caught on the road after dark, we got ambushed by wolves and I almost lost a leg!” George mounted his horse, Bill, and they traveled north along a single trail that cut through the grassy plain. Though he had never ridden a horse, George found that knightly skills came naturally to him; like his muscles instinctively knew what to do. They arrived at Hobbsboro before sundown and once word spread that Sir George the Bold was in town, people flocked from every household to catch a glimpse of him. Soon, the mayor came out to greet them. “Sir George the Bold!” he shouted, “I see the King still sends his best.” George looked around at the gathering crowd. The accumulation of their watchful eyes gave him a nervous chill. So many prying eyes! What do they want from me? George figured that if this was his new reality, he would have to start acting the part; just like he did while LARPing. “Yes. Only the best for those in need.” The mayor led them to the Inn where he ensured they were fed and their horses properly taken care of. While George slurped down a hearty helping of beef stew and devoured a loaf of fresh bread, the mayor explained that his daughter had been kidnapped and was being held for ransom by a band of thieves. “If I pay them, the citizenry here will starve this coming winter but if they aren’t paid by the full moon, they’ll murder my sweet Amelia!” he said. It was only after he said this that George realized the dangerous task at hand. His confidence waned. The mayor saw this and frowned. George’s heart sank. Here was a man who admired him as the greatest knight in all the Kingdom. The courageous Sir George who single-handedly slew twenty thieves to rescue a peasant’s wife and now, here he was, shaking in his boots. He took a long look at the mayor and knew he had a responsibility to do something.

“I will rescue your daughter,” he said, “That, I promise.” The mayor gave a mighty cheer and then told him everything he knew about the thieves. “Their camp is a two days ride from here, nestled in the middle of Duskwood. A fierce and ruthless bunch they are if they chose to live in that awful place but surely they are still no match for Sir George the Bold!” Come morning, George and Turner mounted up and rode out of town. People lined up and watched them go, cheering as they passed. George couldn’t help but smile. He felt larger than life, that what he was doing meant something. They were counting on him and he would deliver. They traveled east for half a day along a dirt path that led into a dark forest. At the entrance, Bill stopped suddenly, snorted, and stamped his feet. Turner’s horse did the same. “Something is spooking them,” said Turner. George did not like the look on his squire’s face and the thought of a faceless threat stalking him in the shadows almost made him abandon his quest; but the thought of letting down so many good people steeled his heart. “Forward,” he commanded and Bill obeyed. They traveled for many hours and, as the deepening shadows indicated night was closing in, they came across a small cottage. When they neared, an old woman limped out to meet them. “Hello there!” she cried, “It is not every day I see people come this way. Please, grace an old woman with your company and I will make you a proper supper.” Turner took one look at the eerie cottage and shuddered. George heard the word supper and his stomach growled. “We would be honored,” he said. The woman led them into her house and while George spoke of his travels, she prepared them a whole feast. Soon, her long wooden table was set with roast chicken, baked golden potatoes, and all colors of fresh fruits. As soon as she declared it ready, the group dug in without hesitation. After stuffing himself silly, George plopped down on a rickety chair, and was fast asleep. He awoke some time later to the touch of a leathery hand on his shoulder. After blinking the sleep from his eyes, he saw a silhouette standing before him. In the near complete darkness of the cottage, it looked like the old woman but her figure was now crooked and bent over, with long fingers that protruded from her ragged cloak. A dark hood covered her face and she spoke with a voice that made George’s skin crawl. “Your soul is not of this world.” George tried to reach for his sword but his body did not move. “Do not be afraid. Though I am known as the Witch of the Wood, I will not harm you.” George relaxed and found that he could speak. “If you know where I come from then can you tell me how to get home?” “You were sent here to learn something that your soul has forgotten.” “What have I forgotten?” “In order to return to your time, you must remember.” “Remember what!?” “You must…” A deep sleep weighed heavily upon him. “…remember.” In the morning, he awoke to find himself, his squire, and their horses in a small, grassy clearing with the cottage was nowhere in sight. After a very confused conversation, they decided to continue on with their quest, following the forest path for hours until Bill suddenly stopped, snorted, and stamped his hooves. “Forward!” George commanded but Turner rode up beside him and whispered, “We are being hunted.” “What!?” A large reptilian beast leapt from a nearby tree with its sharp talons and fangs drawn. Bill quickly leapt out of the way as the creature zipped through the middle of the group, disappearing back into the forest. “It’s a reptilid!” shouted Turner, “To Arms! To Arms!” The reptilid reappeared further down the path. Its serpentine body compressing back onto it’s sinuous, swept back legs as it poised to pounce. Its forked tongue flicked while it glared with large unblinking eyes. “Your sword, Sir George!” Turner cried, “Draw your sword!” George’s sword flashed out of its sheath but the beast saw how it trembled in his hand. It hissed, leapt off its hind legs, and charged. George stared at the reptilid, too fear-stricken to move. It lunged forward with its claws extended but before it could slay them both, Bill reared up and kicked the beast back. Unprepared for the sudden movement, George fell from the saddle and hit the ground, hard. The reptilid hissed and attacked again but Bill held it back with a flurry of vicious kicks. George looked up at his horse in awe. Such bravery! He got back to his feet and breathed deep. Bill brayed excitedly. George held his sword tight with both hands and moved it to the ready. Giving a savage battle cry, he charged forward and, with one mighty stroke, severed the beast’s head from its body. The reptilid’s body fell to the ground in a quivering heap, muddying the ground with spurts of thick blood. “Well struck!” cried Turner. George smiled, wiped his sword clean on his trousers, and slid it back into the leather sheath at his hip. “Let us continue on our quest!” he shouted. He then patted Bill and leaned in close. “Thanks for showing me how to be brave,” he whispered. Bill neighed and stamped its left hoof triumphantly. George mounted up and they continued along the trail for a few hours until they came across the thieves’ encampment. When they saw him approach, five thieves quickly assembled in front of the camp with their weapons drawn. “Well, Well, Well,” said their leader, “If it isn’t the King’s lackey sent to rescue another poor damsel in distress.” A nervous chill crept up George’s spine. Turner stood close by, watching closely. He knew the next thing out of his masters’ mouth had to be brave or else risk emboldening the enemy. George eyed the thieves. There are five of them and only one of me! He wished to gallop to safety but then he thought of what the Witch of the Wood had said. Remember what your soul has forgotten. George straightened himself and in a commanding voice shouted, “I am Sir George the Bold! You will either give up the mayor’s daughter or I will slay you in the King’s name!” Visibly shaken but not deterred, the thieves stood shoulder to shoulder and gripped their weapons tight. “Very well,” George boomed, “Forward!” Bill reared back, kicked its front hooves, and charged forward. George glared, his sword pointed directly at the leader. Seeing this heroic display, the thieves scattered and ran for their lives. The battle was over before it even began. “Huzzah!” Turner shouted, “Well done!” He rode up beside his master and gave a look of respect unlike any he gave before. The two of them then found the mayor’s daughter and freed her from her bonds. “Oh thank you, Sir George,” she said, “Never had I seen such bravery!” George smiled as she kissed him on the cheek. He opened his mouth to say something but, the world around him faded from view until he was but a singular conscience in a black void. When he awoke, he was back at Kings Rock, with his aching head atop a rough pile of leaves. “Help! Help!” Arnold cried nearby. George was on his feet in an instant and rushed to his friend’s aid. Arnold stood alone at the top of the slope, keeping three enemy combatants at a distance with his long spear but was quickly losing ground. Further down, two bodies lay motionless, holding rubber arrows at their chests. A myriad of other arrows were scattered around them. “Help!” George charged. When the enemy saw him coming, he raised his sword and shouted, “I am Sir George the Bold! Surrender or I will slay you where you stand!” The sheer confidence in his voice made the other team freeze, allowing Steve to take one of them out with a single thrust of his spear. George charged in and took care of the rest, his sword moving gracefully from one combatant to the next until they both lay motionless at his feet. George had just won his team the championship round. “Where did that come from?” Arnold cried. “That was amazing!” Steve said as he got down from his perch.

After everyone consolidated back at home base, George’s team was called in front hundreds of others to receive the championship trophy. Everyone cheered as George held the trophy high for all to see.  “All hail, Sir George the Bold,” they cried, “May he never forget the courage he showed here today!”


Take 1 . Pushing through the throng of suit jackets, the smell of sweat haunted by stale aftershave. The bar was crowded. A typical Dubai drinking hole for advertising and film people. They called it the Red Lion, pretending that it was the same as you find in England. Except it wasn’t. Like the city, it was faux, built on dreams and hopes, rising from the sand of dry dusty life. It was my escape, this city, a haven for a film director. Being busy, pushing for the next job, networking was the way to fill life with money and meaning.

From the hollowness of nothing. But that realization came later that night. After I reached the bottom. When I saw depression. Not felt it, saw it, like a glowering creature that enveloped my body with sadness, a fear that, if this was all life was about, then it was not worth it. As if it saw me, the real me, naked. Tonight though, I played at being buoyant, enjoying the noise of revels, inhaling the camaraderie of the film crew who smiled and offered me my double J@B scotch on the rocks. Any noise. Until there was none. Film crews, like theatre folk, believe the dream they are living. On location, away from family and kids and school trips, they hold onto each other, supporting the excitement of ‘Action, Roll Camera’ life until the next take. And then after the grueling day in the desert near Sharjah, in heat of forty degrees, they bond with alcohol and stories of the day. “Did you see how we nearly lost the camera in that shot of the Land cruiser sliding down the sand dune.” “Ja…I thought we were going to lose the light.” “Did the director know what he was doing?” The driver of the car wasn’t there to tell his side of the story; how I had insisted he breast the sand dune at high speed so that I could get a shot of the car in the air over the sand. “Cheers!” “Terrific day, Sir,” the cameraman said. “Here’s your Scotch!’ I downed it in one gulp. Exhausted, from the day’s concentration and the tension of being the director- the man in charge of the shoot. It is all an act- I must appear to be in charge, that all questions can be answered by me. Major imposter syndrome. They tell you that the best directors choose the most experienced crew to lessen the pressure. I found the reverse. Better people expect better knowledge from the man in charge. And I did not know enough. Constant questions which bludgeoned my creative vision to death. “What lens do you want, sir?” “Where do you think we should put the light. Sir?” “Don’t you think we need to have the car tyres blackened, sir?” “How long do you think it’ll take to clean the sand of wheel marks before the next take, sir?” “What time do you want to break for lunch, sir?” “Can we see the driver if the car in this shot, or do we use a double, sir?” “Time is running short. We will miss the sunset shot, sir.” “I’ll have another one, “I said. The barman nodded and I downed the scotch. The barman was used to film crews who over worked and overdrank. He smiled, handed me my change and I turned to watch the crew, most showing the effect of their drinks. They included me as manners, but not as one of their own. Directors were the people who were papal if they were considered good at their job, but unforgiven if they failed to meet the crews’ expectations. On this shoot I sensed a disdain behind their smiles. I sighed. The scales were falling off, I was beginning to hate this business, my ability to play the game. Perhaps I was just tired. “Reduced crew tomorrow,” said the assistant director. “You handle it, “I said. “It’s just postcard shots of dunes and thorn trees. I’ll begin the edit.” He looked chuffed to be given the responsibility. “I’ll do my best, sir.” He assumed a straighter posture when he told the crew. “The wanker said I will take the shot tomorrow,” he said. Well, that’s what I would have said. I pushed through the sweat and cigarette smoke, the retelling of the landrover flying over the sand dune; again. I left. The street was quiet outside the noise of the pub. It felt safe, away from the pressure of people drinking to enjoy themselves. I was empty. Double scotches had not filled the gap. These crew members weren’t friends; they were, at best colleagues. But the sinking thought, the realization that I did not respect them, that they certainly did not respect me hit me like the humidity fogging up my glasses. What was I looking for? That they should like me? That they should be impressed by my artistic skill? I had no answers. I did not want these thoughts. Another drink. I hailed a cab and headed for a bar in Satwa, where local Emiratis drank and picked up prostitutes.

Take Two It was a fug of smoke and the feeling of being an outsider was comforting. No one knew me, had any expectations of me. The thobes and gutras thronged the bar. Ethiopian and Moroccan women perched on stools glad-eying the men. “Need a friend?” said one to me as I finished my first drink. “La, habibti,” I said. I was not in the market for sins of the flesh.  The crowd was dense, and I caught a young dark man looking at me. Not visible at first, hidden behind customers and smoke I caught him staring again. His face came in and out of the light, as if he was dodging a spotlight. When I got a full view, I saw that he looked familiar, but I did not know him. I peered to see if perhaps he was with people I knew, but he was alone. Then, he nodded, moved. He walked slowly. Carefully. “I’m a student,” he said. “I saw you filming the Land rover. I was part of the crew to clean the car after every shot.” I laughed. A man emerging out of a cloud of cigarette smoke, commenting on my work. “Only brown people can clean cars on film sets,” he said, without irony. He was right. No white people were used as labour on film sets. I sighed and downed my drink. I could not get away from my career, even in this dank bar. “Must be paying you too much if you’re out drinking!” I said. He laughed. “I don’t drink. Don’t have the need.” His voice was deep and warm. Not like the voices of labourers who gabbled, as if the next moment would be their last. This man spoke without accent. At times I thought he and I had the same voice.

He was a handsome man, in a Bollywood way, sweeping eyelashes and dark long hair. He reminded me of the actor from a Monkey King series I had watched on TV. Why was he here?

“Never seen you here before,” I said. “Tonight, I wanted company.”  “Why this bar?”

He smiled. “If I go to a Western bar, they treat me like a waiter. Just like on the film set.” “Drink?” I offered. “Coke, or 7 UP?” He shook his head. “I’ve had my fill,” he said. We stood at the bar, leaning against the counter, watching the ladies chat up the men, some leaving with customers, others patiently smoking. “Why here? “I said again. “Why not?” There was something strange about this guy. Normally labourer types don’t go into bars and talk to white men. He spoke to me as if we had met before. It felt odd, as if we were in our own searchlight at the bar. “And you? You’re the only westerner here.” He said.

He was right, the only white man in the room.

“An obvious client for the ladies.” We laughed. “I’m not here for that.” I said. “For what then?”

I had no answer for this stranger, invading my space. But I remained silent. He would not know tonight was one of my worst times, doubting the person behind the mask was real. Perhaps he did, which he is why he came over. “You are very patient on the film set,” he said. “I don’t often feel it.”

“I saw that. You work with people you don’t like. Who don’t like you. But you do the job.” “That’s what you have to do,” I said. “Bare spots and darkness.” “What?” “Walt Whitman. He said an artist must know lows and highs.” “I need another drink after that,” I said. “I’m going to the beach” he said.

“Bit late for a swim.” “No swimming. I get peace there.” “I live on the beach.” I said. “I know. I was at your wrap party.” “For the last film?”? “Yes. But in your job, you don’t see people.” I felt stung. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said. “Not me-second unit. I’m not necessary.” He turned and after a pause. “Your river. It’s your bridge you are crossing.” He had left by the time the drink arrived and the heat of the whisky, the promise of rest, eased me as I stared at the crowd; a tourist examining items in a window display he could not buy. “Double Scotch,” I said. Take Three The sand crunched though my toes as I stumbled towards the sea. The waves rippled along like a ribbon, white lights of foam suddenly spreading across the sand. In the distance, through the humid haze, the lights of the Burj Khalifa reached to the sky. The desire to have the tallest, the biggest, the fastest; the signature of Dubai. Using cheap labour from India and Iran, the city is an example of materialism at its best and worst. When I first arrived here, Indian labourers were forced to work during the hottest period of the day, some falling to their death from the scaffolding. Nowadays there are safety nets, and the hours are proscribed. But still they fall. Now into a net. My cottage, more of a lean-to really, overlooked an undeveloped part of the beach front. Built in the seventies as houses for the migrant labour to build the port, they were now occupied by artists and freelance film makers, like me. The rent was a pittance, the cottages were basic, built not to survive, but they did, and we took them over. I loved living there. I could control my expenses and choose which jobs I wanted, without money pressures. But the question would not go away. What would happen if I gave it up? I began to strip. I would swim. I left the bottle of whiskey on top of my clothes to stop them blowing away. I stumbled to the edge of the sand holding the shadow of the ebbing tide. Naked in the humidity was a release and I edged into the water. It was lukewarm, holding the heat of the day. As I waded out, I wondered would I have the strength to drown. It was then I felt, saw, an orange glow, threatening to push me under. Silent screams wrapped around me, suffocating me. Trickles of pain travelled through my arms, my feet, my face. I panicked. It must be the alcohol, I thought. Panting, I grasped a support for a flyover in construction.Bare concrete and stone. I held on to it until my breathing settled. I released my grasp of the pillar and turned to the shore. Soon my beach would be a carpark; my haven would be gone. Perhaps it was all leading to this moment. An attack of fear in the water. I dipped under, enjoying the brief sting of salt in my eyes. Slowly I swam and I stumbled back to the shore. In front of me was a lone figure, sitting cross legged, staring out at the ocean. Cast in shadows and light. The young man from the bar. Was he following me?

I sat down beside him. I thought I would share his isolation. Obviously drunk. Sharing his isolation meant destroying it.

Three more double scotches at the bar took me over the edge. Fear of leaving the comfort of anonymous people in search of sex and booze, of stepping into a real world, fueled my thirst.

The first drink relaxed, stopped me pretending to be normal. It was exhausting to hide trembles of the person behind the mask.

I sat down, cross legged and tried to work out what the man was staring at. Eyes straight ahead, looking beyond the boats. A light from the distance passed over us, like a lighthouse.  There one minute, gone the next.  He did not acknowledge me or react to my nakedness. Most Middle East people would avert their eyes from nakedness. He did not even notice. He was dressed in jeans and a loose shirt with sandals neatly arranged near his feet. This young man had punctured my thoughts, roiled me. We sat in silence. My mind was not. That night, I met despair.

Whether he felt it or not, I cannot say, but he said. “That is my home.”

I looked out over the black waves, every now and then punctuated by the lights of ships queueing for the harbour.

“The ships?” “My country.”

“I can’t see anything,” I said. “You will if you try.” I moved to get up. The man was obviously high or something. “Iran is across the sea from here.” I said. He turned to me and smiled. A gentle smile. “But it’s hundreds of miles away,” I said. “You can’t see it.” “It’s still there.” He said. The waves plashed along the shore, lights flicking, then gone, boats hazy in the distance. I offered him a swig from my bottle. He shook his head. “I’ve had my fill,” he said.

“So have I.” We sat in silence again, slowly watching the sky lighten.

“You should dress.” He said."You must choose who sees you naked." Nudity on the beaches was not allowed. I grinned as I slipped on my clothes. “The secret police will think we are lovers.” “In a way we are,” he said. I remember frowning at him. “I was looking for a friend too.” I turned to trudge up to my house in the grey dawn.  When I looked back, he was not there. * “The thing of course, is to make yourself alive. Most people remain all of their lives in a stupor. The point of being an artist is that you may live.” Sherwood Anderson


My grandfather has this quarter he is absolutely obsessed with. It cannot be replaced with just any old quarter. He has memorized every detail of this specific quarter – the date, the scratches, the tarnish of the metal. It’s a 1957 Philadelphia mint. It has a gash through Washington’s head that makes it distinguishable from other quarters and it has a chip on the tails side at the two o’clock position. I know this because he made me go through an entire cash register to find it. I took it from his nightstand one evening to go buy gum at the Quick Mart. The old man nearly lost his mind when he saw it missing. He was on all fours with a flashlight searching every nook and cranny, trying to retrace his steps, looking like he was about to cry. I was scared at first, scared by his behavior, scared to confess I spent it. I didn’t understand the importance of such an object. To me, it was loose change, no different than the other coins I scrounged up above the washer and under the couch cushions. I did my best to act normal, but I think I over did it and looked suspicious. Chewing the gum might have given me away as well. His eyes were like spotlights shining in my face as he questioned me about the gum. They weren’t real lights, but I was sweating nonetheless and broke, confessing. He sent me back to the store with the description of the coin and told me not to come home until I had it. Luckily, the guy behind the counter was understanding and not busy. He dumped the quarters out on the counter and helped me search. I felt like a fool going back up there to swap quarters. When I got home, I asked my grandfather what was so special about this one particular quarter. The year was 1962 when my grandfather, a seventeen-year-old Richard ‘Dick’ Gibbons, stepped onto Vietnamese soil for the first time. He was proud to serve his country the way his father and grandfather had before him, but he quickly saw the reality of war etched on the faces of young soldiers as they shuffled about the basecamp. Some of those young men were just returning from missions, their clothes and faces stained with dirt, sweat, and blood, their demeanor downtrodden. He was assigned to one such platoon. They barely had enough time to grab fresh socks and a slice of Spam before their captain explained to them their mission details. Dick felt his reserve weaken as he was faced with his first mission. He asked what it was like out there and his platoon looked at him in silence. A grizzled veteran of thirty years on his third tour, Sergeant Amos Wilkes, took Dick aside and explained to him the realities of jungle warfare as they geared up. “You never know where they’re coming from, kid. It’s their jungle. They’ll see you before you see them. The heat, the fatigue, the fear, it’s going to play with your mind. You won’t be able to tell a monkey’s screech from an enemy signal, a snake in the grass from an attacking foe. Keep your head on a swivel and your eyes and ears open at all times. What do you have for luck?” Dick shrugged, “I don’t believe in luck.” “Where we’re going, kid, a little luck doesn’t hurt. I keep the bullet that missed my heart by less than a centimeter during my first tour with me at all times. I got lucky and I take that luck with me wherever I go. Priest over there, he carries a pocket bible with him. Sanches has a Saint Jude pendant around his neck. Even the captain keeps a picture of his fiancé with him for good luck. Don’t underestimate the power of belief. Whether a person believes in something tangible or intangible, no matter how ridiculous it sounds, that belief has great power to comfort and embolden people through difficult times.” On their second day out, they were patrolling the jungle when they heard a jungle creature, something sounding like a large bird crying out. The sound made the captain halt and throw up his fist. Everyone stopped, surveying the area. Something shiny caught Dick’s eye on the ground. It was a quarter. He thought it was odd that a piece of American currency found its way around the world into an Asian jungle. He took it as a sign of good luck and bent over to pick it up as a gunshot rang out and a bullet zipped right over him and into another private’s thigh. Dick laid in the weeds staring in disbelief as the medic dragged the private to safety. A firefight broke out. With every click and bang, Dick flinched and flattened himself closer to the ground. Wilkes came running at him in a crouch through the weeds. “Get in the fight,” Wilkes commanded as he grabbed him by the collar and pulled him along. “We’ve got them on the run!” Dick ran alongside the sergeant who was following the captain in their pursuit of enemy soldiers. The jungle opened up to a village with some makeshift stick huts and acres of rice fields in the background. The captain signaled search details. Dick was sent into one of the huts. He held his breath, trying to remain steady as he entered the hut. It was dark inside, not much light getting in except through cracks in the walls which just cast an eerie glow. He was immediately attacked, surprised by a man with a knife. It was close-quarters hand-to-hand combat and Dick was outmatched. The enemy had him pinned to the ground and was shoving his knife into his chest when Wilkes ended the altercation with a pistol shot to the man’s head. Dick pushed the man off him and scurried back against the wall. He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out the quarter which now had a gash in George Washington’s head. He held it up for the sergeant to see and said, “I think I found my lucky piece.” That was day two of a two-year tour. My grandfather said he witnessed some atrocious things in Vietnam, things he wouldn’t even tell me about. He said when he returned stateside, those things haunted him, keeping him awake at night. He said he could still hear the distant cries of soldiers being stabbed to death in the night. He said he could still see the faces of the dying, pleading for help, crying for their mothers with their limbs and guts lying beside them. He said he could still feel the cold breath of death on his neck when he was alone at night. He returned to his old habit of flipping the quarter from knuckle to knuckle just as he did in his fox hole at night in the jungle. The screaming stopped. The faces disappeared. Death didn’t feel so imminent. So, maybe his sergeant was right, belief is a powerful thing in the minds of those who believe, especially when that belief is resolute enough to be called conviction. I wouldn’t have spent that quarter had I known its significance to my grandfather. It was humbling listening to his story. He lived through something I can’t even imagine living through and he attributes his survival to his quarter. Besides, if believing in something gets him through the night, who am I to judge.