*By Bebe Smyth, South Sun Gazette* *“Demolition of the old New Castle technology buildings in Commerce Park West was halted today after workers discovered the skeletal remains of a human being. Crime scene investigators were called in to help identify the remains. The New Castle technology buildings were abandoned three years prior as the parent corporation made moves to consolidate properties during the last economic downturn in the technology sector. City planners had rezoned the commerce area for residential use. Demolition is slated to resume Tuesday morning.”* Fred tunneled his eyes onto the monitor, pressed hard on the power button, and leaned forward. It was 7:00am, too early for any life to be stirring about the cubicle farm. Not that he would notice anyway. The machine booted (slowly), Fred entered his access password (#1TopDog), opened the e-mail app and clicked on the first new mail, something from corporate. Fred scanned quickly the standard corporate blurb; smiley greetings from the CEO; cheery few sentences about last quarter and the company making great strides; attitude and determination of all employees was key for continued progress. In total it was a collection of snappy inspirational clichés. That was the set up. The email continued on, not enough progress; tough times; competition, and unexpected shifts in the market place. The last lines gamboled on about the value of the individual, their importance, their spirit and the need for continued commitment that will lead to future success. I’m sure of it. Then he scanned the rest of his inbox. Before him a long list of emails from conference organizers, subscriptions of interest, daily updates. But the email that he looked for, the one of highest interest to his situation, was not there. He knew the plant was closing, he just didn’t know when. Fred exhaled a silent stream of exasperation. He read on but found nothing directly addressed to him. Just a continuum of corporate spam; Meeting Minutes, production announcement, customer success stories. By eight Fred was ready to move onto the next part of his routine - which started by brewing a fresh pot of coffee. He rose slowly from his desk; it was a task to raise his head after being fixed to the screen for an hour. He had to fight against gravity, or scoliosis in order to rise up. Years of hunching over a screen had turned the heads, necks and backs of colleagues into an s shaped curve. In the past, many of those walking around, reminded him of the comical parody “walking like an Egyptian”. They were gone now, let go ahead of the final plant closing. These deformed individuals, with their feelings of importance and corporate self-worth, were gone. Too bad Fred thought as he ratcheted his ass up slowly from his cubicle. His staying power rested on keeping a low profile. As his ass finally gained space from his chair he proceeded to the coffee machine, head down, eyes averted. Eye contact with the wrong manager could be dangerous. The coffee machine stood disgustingly bleak and alone in the break room, just another reminder of corporate cost cutting measures. The corporate sponsored coffee service had stopped long ago. How long he couldn’t remember. It still really ticked him off. He grunted low, with some disgust of this poor excuse for a break room. That growling sound made him feel defiant. But it was a sound made only for himself, because Fred never openly complained. “Nope, not going down that path” he reminded himself. Rule #1 - complainers go first. Just keep your mouth shut and focus. Be steady, one step at a time, keep a low profile. It was a strategy that worked. At least the water was still free. Fred filled the coffee machine with enough water for 2 cups. Staring at the Pyrex coffee pot, looking intently at the water Fred grunted again to himself. Well maybe it’s free, but it’s not looking to good lately. Maybe the brown tint was just coffee residue from the previous millions of pots of coffee. Maybe it came like that from the faucet. Maybe it was his eyes going bad from years of staring at a computer screen. He filled the coffee filter with his own store bought coffee, clicked on the machine and waited for the brew to begin. The coffee machine gargled and perked, and the coffee aroma filled Fred’s nostrils in a most gratifying way. When all the bubbling and gargling was over and the last drops of brown fluid dripped from the machine, Fred poured his coffee, added creamer and took the first cautious sip. Ahhh. This would be the best part of his day. The caffeine jolted his body awake and cleared his head. The gratification went right to his bones. His heart fluttered and he took a deep breath. Well, no sense hanging around the coffee pot. Loitering doesn’t help your company profile. Best to take your cup and move back to the cube as quick as possible. Walking back slowly to his cube Fred heard the ominous sound of electricity beginning to fail. A hard click of relays implanted somewhere in the bowels of the building. Fred couldn’t remember if he had left open his file on competitive benchmarking and marketing analysis, a huge compendium of a report that he had been working on for over a year now. Damn, I’m going to lose work, he thought, and in the next breath he cursed the IT department because his backup power supply never came back from repair. Fred began the race back to his cube hoping to close the file before the machine came to a dead stop. A ridiculous race to catch a file before all the electricity ebbed from his machine. He scurried in a jerky motion as quickly as his gimpy legs would carry him. As he raced he could feel the palpitation in his chest growing into a full hard thump. Ignoring the thump in his chest Fred listened to the sound of things whirring to a standstill, in his head he estimating the time before shut down, quickening his pace and keeping his feet moving. I’ll just make it he thought optimistically. Fred came to his cube row as things stopped completely. Spurring himself on his gait became gangly and awkward, the last steps to his cubicle were frantic and panic stricken. He plopped down into his swivel chair, the hard thump in his chest became a giant knot and he gasped for breath. It was a knot that quickly cut off his air and made him nauseous. Fred was able to gasp a breath, but he already knew this was a heart attack. Damn this will cause a commotion. He leaned over and vomited into his waste basket. He needed help quickly. He grabbed for a desk phone, something he hadn’t used in months, but there was no dial tone. Fred sputtered, and then slumped forward onto his desk as the lights went out. Thirty minutes later, in the twilight of the deserted office building one could hear the scurrying and scratching sounds of rodents stirring. Their interest had been peaked, and shortly thereafter the mutilation began. His body was found, at least what was left of it, 2 years later, right before the old New Castle Technology building was demolished. The story was initially reported in the South Sun Gazette. A follow up story reported on the identity of the bones found, one Fred Foster a former employee of New Castle Technologies. The mystery of what Fred was still doing there remained. CSI could not provide any conclusive evidence of foul play, and could not answer the question of how the bones of Fred Foster ended up inside a building that had been vacant for almost 3 years now. New Castle Technologies did acknowledge that Fred Foster was at one time an employee of the company, but he had been terminated along with several other colleagues almost three years ago. A spokesperson for New Castle could not answer or would not comment on how Fred’s body had found it’s way back into the building. And that was the end of it. Almost. Mary Conner, a second line HR Director, remembered the New Castle building having visited the site several times. The last time was to go over the closing schedule. She didn’t remember any of the employees there and only had a vague remembrance of her counterpart on site, an older lady who was ready for retirement and just counting down the days. But her curiosity had been peaked when she saw the story in the Sun Gazette. Over the course of the next five or six weeks, Mary spent a few moments of her spare time working on her “hobby” as she called it. She pieced together these details: Prior to plant closing corporate had moved Fred to a global responsibility. However the manager in charge had been on vacation and somehow the transfer was never actually authorized. The transferring manager had been let go in the last downsizing as well, so Fred was somehow a free floating element in the corporate innards. There was no one who clearly owned the headcount of “Fred”. So Fred never did get an email. As far as corporations go, New Castle Technologies operated much in the same way as every other corporation. Whether or not someone claimed Fred as a headcount, the IT department kept providing services to a one Fred Foster and billing this to a global headcount bucket that held all the miscellaneous contractors and temps that filled jobs on an as needed basis, and as long as IT got paid it provided service, no matter where the individual sat. Their world was virtual and they had little concern for actual location. That provided at least a theory as to what Fred, or his remains might have been doing in the abandoned building. But she thought further and asked herself why someone didn’t notice a car left for days in a parking lot unattended. She hypothesized that most likely someone did notice the car in an empty parking lot. Someone who could hot wire it, chop it up and sell the parts. Mary sat pensively in her cubicle staring at her screen. She felt satisfied with this hypothesis. In her mind she had elevated herself from HR Director to CSI agent. She smirked to herself, but understood there was no way to share this victory. No one to tell. Don’t stir the pot Mary, that was her motto. She hunched over, focused on her screen, and clicked to open the next email.


*, here expanded with a longer, hopefully more disturbing, ending!* **The following materials detail the pathological progression of >!\[Redacted\]!<, hereafter referred to as Patient, and subsequent Incident. The materials are presented in chronological order.** *** *Item 1; Initial security report from* >!\[Redacted\]!<, *located in* >!\[Data Expunged\]!<. Patient arrives at 08:00, the opening time of the clinic, and begs to be sedated. Patient has wrapped their hands and feet in towels, scraps of cloth, and gauze. Patient complains of an itching sensation, and claims to have applied the wrappings to keep from harming themselves. Patient is registered and asked to wait. Security footage from the lobby shows Patient progressively growing more agitated. Patient starts pacing the room, rubbing their arms with their wrapped hands incessantly. At 08:14, Patient walks past a mirror. Upon seeing their reflection, Patient exhibits an extreme fear response. Patient screams and destroys the mirror with a nearby chair, then tries to force entrance to the wards. Security is called. Security arrives at 08:16. Patient subdued by means of sedative injection administered in the left shoulder. Patient notably extremely afraid of the syringe. Audio transcript as follows; *“No! Please, no! No needles, no knives! Break the skin, she comes in! Mother will come in! NO!”* *Patient screams incoherently for several more minutes until the sedative takes effect. Patient moved to isolation and restrained to a bed.* Report Ends. *** *Item 2; Dictation by Dr.* >!\[Redacted\]!<, >!\[Redacted\]!< *City Hospital, regarding Patient’s admittance to his care. Any mention of Patient’s name or characteristics have been redacted. Statement begins.* “Patient was admitted under sedation. Report from psych says >!\[Redacted\]!< has been exhibiting extreme paranoia, fear, and aggression whilst awake. They’d tried talking to >!\[Redacted\]!< several times over the past three days in their care, with minimal results. >!\[Redacted\]!< mostly screamed at them and begged them to take the IV out, apparently extremely afraid of needles. They referred >!\[Redacted\]!< to us when they noticed a discoloration of the skin around the PVC. Upon examination, it was discovered the skin and soft tissue around the puncture had ossified. >!\[Redacted\]!< was sedated and transferred with a suspected case of *Fibrodysplasia ossificans progressiva*. Dudes who dropped her off were real jokers. Thanked me for ‘Returning the slab’ when they got their stretcher back. Morons. Examination shows two distinct spots of external ossification - shoulder, the spot they administered sedatives - and in the wrist, around the PVC. Bone’s so dense there the PVC can’t be removed. Gonna do a more thorough assessment and have a chat with >!\[Redacted\]!< when >!\[Redacted\]!< is awake.” *** *Item 3; X-rays of Patient, taken during examination.* Images reveal bone growth in locations consistent with reported injection sites. Notably, the growth appears abnormally acute. Patient’s wrist and thumb are nearly entirely ossified, and the thumb joints appear to be growing sideways, towards the index finger. Shoulder injection site displays a similarly aggressive pathology, with bone growth expanding in a web-like pattern around the injection site, with particularly acute growth in the direction of the neck. *** *Item 4; Dictation by Dr. >!\[Redacted\]!<, taken two days after recording of Item 2. Statement begins.* “Jesus. >!\[Redacted\]!< is *fucked up,* and I’m not just talking about the FOP - though at the rate things are going, it’ll kill >!\[Redacted\]!< within a week. Almost as if it is becoming more intense. The shoulder’s bad, but the thumb… It’s grown into the index finger and hand. Like the webbed fingers of a frog - only with hard, unyielding bone. What little >!\[Redacted\]!< says that is intelligible doesn’t make sense. Something about *‘The Mother’,* and *‘Being a shell’*. Jesus. At least it’ll be quick, at this rate. *** *Item 5; Security footage of patient’s hospital room, 01:32 in the morning.* Footage shows Patient attempting to sit. Patient works against their restraints with their ossified wrist for several minutes. A loud snap is heard as the bone is broken. Patient proceeds to saw through their restraints with jagged bone shards. Once free, Patient assumes a fetal position, hands on their face, fingers splayed. Patient speaks through clenched jaw - ossification has immobilised the mandible. *“I am Mother’s precious Egg. A shell for all her hopes.”* Camera feed cuts out. *** *Item 6; Photographs of Patient’s room taken upon discovery of Patient, four hours later.* Photographs show an egg-shaped structure of bone, of a consistent size to contain Patient’s body, fused to Patient’s bed. EKG and IV are still attached, entering through the “shell”. Readings indicate Patient is still alive. *** *Item 7; Security footage of Patient’s room, seven days after discovery.* A large crack appears in the egg’s shell. A torrent of blood spills out, and a brief flash of movement can be seen within. A scream is heard, and the camera feed cuts out. *** *Item 8; Recording of live news report from* >!\[Redacted\]!< *City, originally aired 23 minutes after Hatching Event recorded in item 7.* “>!\[Redacted\]!<, reporting live from outside >!\[Redacted\]!< City Hospital, where some sort of attack seems to be occurring - police are tight-lipped about the circumstances, but staff and patients are evacuating, and heavily armed police-” A shriek interrupts the report. Camera view shifts in the direction of the hospital’s upper floors. A window on floor five shatters as something flies through it. Camera view follows the object as it falls and impacts the ground. Camera focuses to reveal the object to be a body, missing its lower extremities and one arm. Reporter >!\[Redacted\]!< screams, and the recording ends. *** *Item 9; Recovered body cam footage from Officer* >!\[Redacted\]!<, *hereafter referred to by squad designation Delta. Recorded two minutes after the News Report in Item 8.* Video shows Delta, accompanied by Echo, moving room by room through the hospital. Audio transcript as follows. *“Shit, Echo, we’ve got blood. A whole trail of it.”* *“Copy, Delta. Calling it in.”* Echo confers with Squad Leader Alpha. Alpha orders Delta and Echo to follow the blood, in case there are wounded survivors. Echo confirms, and they proceed, following the trail through the corridor. Trail terminates at room #213 - the room Patient was being treated within. The door is closed. Delta motions to Echo, who nods, before moving to the door. Delta turns the door handle, and eases the door open. A roar is heard. The door smashes into Delta’s camera, cracking the lens. Delta is thrown backward by the impact and falls, camera pointed at the ceiling. Echo opens fire as a brief blur of white and red passes over Delta’s camera. A scream is heard. The gunfire ceases. Delta screams as the camera view moves again, rising several feet off the ground. A distorted entity comes into brief view, bending towards the camera. Video feed ends after 57 seconds. Delta is still screaming. *** *Item 10; Excerpt from Autopsy report of Dr.* >!\[Redacted\]!<. “Cause of death is assumed to be shock from excessive blood loss. Evidence of severe blunt force trauma, tearing with sharp implements, and crushing of the chest presumed to have been caused by mastication. Notably, teeth marks are consistent with human teeth, though several magnitudes larger. Several major organs, as well as the right arm and everything below the rib cage is missing-” Incident report ends. Location of the entity remains unknown.


We’d been sailing for a little over a day from Stetguttot Heath. A soft westerly breeze made the sailing straightforward. As of such, Alessia had taken to tying a simple rope knot around the wheel and otherwise relaxing, letting the right-angle winds push us south-east towards Talin Barier I was sitting on the two steps leading up the ship’s wheel as Alessia sat on the side of the boat, her outstretched fingers occasionally brushing the water as the boat leaned into the wind. We’d been discussing our former lives, and I had spent the better part of the last five minutes getting lost in the memories of everyone I knew on Kadear. “I miss Thomas sometimes. I wonder what he’s up to, what happened to him after I left and Kadear changed. There’s a weird ambivalence there. Missing my life and people, and yet knowing it was never real?” “Hmm hmm,” Alessia said, her eyes staring a foot or so above my head. “There must be people you miss too, from back where you’re from.” “I’ve been on the sea too long for that.” Alessia’s tone was flat and her face was frozen in place. “There must be some people. Your family at least?” I found myself letting out an awkward laugh, wanting to see her face shift. “Not really.” Nothing changed. Her whole body locked in place like a hare ready to bolt. I paused for a second, squinting. “Something wrong?” Alessia pushed herself off the taffrail and walked past me up the steps. I quickly stood up and joined her. “You see over there, that boat?” she said. On the horizon, I could make out the silhouette of a tall boat poking up against a mottled sky. “Yeah.” “Last three course changes we’ve made, they’ve copied it, exactly.” “Going the same place?” Alessia shook her head, her jaw tensing. “No. They’re following us.” “Following us?” I asked. Alessia turned and looked out to the port side of the boat, walking over to inspect an island in the distance. “Yeah. We’re being followed.” “Why?” She stopped and turned to me. “They’re pirates, Ferdinand. They want the ship, its cargo, and for us to be dead.” I felt my face go cold, the blood draining from my skin. “Pirates? Shit. Can we outrun them?” Alessia pointed at the boat. “Three sails to our two. Bigger boat. Whatever we do they will get closer bit by bit.” She walked over to the helm and ripped off the rope tied to the wheel. “Where are we going?” I asked. “That island.” Alessia pointed out to the portside. Some seven or eight kilometres away there was a large stretch of land, covered in a thick forest. “Outer Fastanet. There’s some rocks on the south side. *We* can probably sneak between them, but they can’t. Won’t escape, but it can buy us a couple of hours.” “Outer Fastanet? Never heard of it.” “It’s uninhabited. Only know it from charts.” Alessia ripped the wheel to the left and the boat turned sharply in the water. I looked out at the trailing vessel. Just as expected, it turned slightly, changing its course towards us. “So we get through the island, and then what?” I asked, feeling a lump in my throat. “We find a beach. Stop. And do everything we can to tip this in our favor. Out here, we’re screwed. On land?” She rocked her head from side to side. “I can think of a couple of things.” “Okay,” I said, trying to prepare myself for the potential fight to come. I looked at the course Alessia has set. The main bulk of the island was just to the left. To the right, a series of jagged rocks stuck out of the water. Waves crashed against them, spray shooting up into the sky. Alessia had us set on a path dead between them. “I need you to do something,” Alessia said, her eyes darting between her course and the sail above her. “Anything.” “Grab a bag. Multiple if you can. Get anything valuable. Money, equipment, anything. Grab any tools too. A saw, maybe some nails. If this goes wrong our best hope is to leave with our lives, some money, and something useful.” “The boat?” “If this goes anything but perfectly, we ain’t keeping the boat.” Alessia’s voice was harsh and firm, but I could notice it waver slightly. “Life first, tools second, money third, boat last. You understand?” “Understood.” I turned and headed down the stairs into the hull. I grabbed a couple of bags and started trying to prioritise what to take, what would be most useful if we never saw the boat again. I spent a long time holding my notes in my hands: all my travels so far, my observations, my memories. Materially they were worth nothing, but truth be told, I may have forced them into the bag had I not also been packing for Alessia. Her orders were to abandon sentimentality. The notes, my letters from home, most of my clothes - they would have to be left. I packed one bag with the money we had and what valuable items we had aboard. The other I packed with tools. A saw, nails, a few tins of food and empty water canisters. This would be it. Two bags. Two bags to hopefully save our lives. I took one last look at the small room I had been able to claim as my own. It was the greatest gift I had ever received, and over the past few weeks it had truly become a home. The small trinkets on the shelves, the way I had hung up my clothes at the far end; it was the first time I had left a signature of myself on a place other than Kadear. I looked at the room, said a silent thanks, and closed the door, for what may have been the last time. By the time I emerged on the deck we were piercing our way between the islands and the rocks to our starboard side. The sails were fully open, catching as much wind as they could. Normally, such pace through treacherous water would be considered stupid. Under the circumstances, it was a necessity. Alessia’s face squirmed and grimaced; her arms twitching and shifting with each gust of the wind as she tried to keep the boat on path. A backdraft of water from the cliffs dragged us out to sea, knocking us off course. “Shit,” Alessia muttered, as she pulled the wheel against the current. I looked over the right side, as the boat drifted towards a tower of black granite rising from the water. I held my breath as the boat steadied itself, passing within a metre of the pinnacle. We were close enough that I reached out, giving the tower a futile shove, hoping to give us an extra centimetre or two away from the danger. After another twenty minutes of sailing through the knife-like stones off the coast of Outer Fastanet, we emerged into smoother, less worrying waters. I couldn’t help but feel the tension release from me, even if, in the back of my mind, I knew we were far from danger yet. Although the other ship was nowhere to be seen, it seemed inevitable that we would see them again. The dangers we had already faced were merely to buy time. We followed the coast round, the large cliffs blotting out the sun and cutting out much of the wind as we looked for somewhere to land. Ahead, we could see a point where the sun reached out and touched the ocean - steep cliffs no longer blocking it. We steered slightly towards the shore, hoping it would prove to be an inlet. We got lucky. Quickly the towering hillside crumbled and gave way to a small beach. There was perhaps only six or seven metres of sand before a thick coniferous forest consumed the land, but it was still enough. We turned the boat towards the beach, letting the hull grip against the coarse ground. “The tide’s going out, so we don’t need to worry about an anchor,” Alessia said, letting go of the helm. “So let’s try and figure this out.” She looked at our surroundings, staring at a clearing on top of the cliffs overlooking the boat. “What’s the plan?” “Go into the cargo hold. You remember those explosives I bought on Stetguttot Heath? Go get them.” “Explosives?” “Yep. Time to make use of that purchase.” “Is this wise…?” “Right now? Nothing is.” I opened up the trapdoor to the cargo hold and headed once more into the boat. I found the equipment - a small canvas bag at the back of the ship containing wire, fuses, and four separate packs of explosives. I picked up the sack and headed back up, handing it to Alessia. “Okay. Take this,” she said, handing me two sets of wires and a detonator. “Unspool it. I want you to take one end with you, and get up on top of that cliff up there.” She pointed to the overhanging clearing some twenty metres up in the air. I traced the cliff face, spotting the ledges that I reckoned I could climb up to. “What are you going to do?” I asked. “Position these,” Alessia replied, pulling out one of the explosive packs. I jumped down off the side of the boat, and began laying out the wire along the ground towards the cliffs. “Be sure to bury that,” Alessia called out. “Try and make it less obvious.” I stopped and sighed. I redid the few steps I had already taken, lifting the sand over the wire with my shoe, ensuring it was a few centimeters deep, enough for the weight of the beach to keep it in place. At the cliff face, I once more stared at the climb ahead of me. However, after a few seconds, I had figured out a route and I began shuffling between the ledges, shimmying along any path that looked big enough to balance on. It took me the better part of twenty minutes or so, but eventually I reached a ledge at the top of the cliff. As I walked up to the overhang I looked out to sea. There, to the south, maybe an hour or so away, I could see the boat coming around the rocky outcrops. I sprinted the last few steps and pulled the wires over so that they dangled straight down to a thicket of bushes below. “I can see them,” I called out to Alessia. “We won’t have much longer.” “Okay,” she called back. “I’m about done here.” She walked over and picked up the ends of the wires I had been dragging, connecting them to another series of lines before stretching out the wires to the placed explosives. The first few were buried some four metres or so from the boat, however the last two were on the hull itself. “Won’t that damage the boat?” I called out. “That’s the idea,” she shouted back in a terse tone. “What?” “If the first lot of explosives fail, and they go for the boat, then we take the boat and them down. If we aren’t sailing away on her, then nobody is.” Her voice cut through the air like broken glass, sharp but fragile. She tied up the final wire and placed a hand on the side of the boat, pressing her palm against the grained wood. She held it for a second before she peeled herself away. “I’m going to go hide the bags in the woods and then take the long way up to you. I’ll see you in twenty, okay?” I signalled my understanding, and watched as Alessia walked off into the dense forest, immediately disappearing among the wall of green I set about tying the first of the wires to the detonator as the world returned to calm once more. I could hear the sound of the wind as it rustled past my ears and brushed against the thick branches of the trees. I watched as the waves lapped up on the thin beach. But otherwise, all was still. Half an hour later Alessia appeared from the forest and walked up the rest of the pathway to the top of the cliff. She kept low, being sure to keep herself out of eyeline from the sea. However, as she approached, she crept up to the edge of cliff, taking a peak over the side. “Well, here they come. Better get ready.” We lay down prone on the ledge, the detonator positioned just between us. A moment later we could see the boat pull into the cove, releasing its sail as it plowed into the sand further down the beach. I could see movement on the hull, as figures scurried across the deck, dropping down onto the beach on the far side. They stayed there for a minute or two - the beach, trees and sea poised, watching, waiting for the bloodshed to come. Eventually they appeared from the other side of the boat. Four of them in total. Two carried knives held out in front of them, the sunlight catching the glimmering metal surface. The other two carried thick machetes. The metal was dull, but the blade was wide and thick, enough to cause damage from impact alone. The retreating tide had left Alessia’s boat completely on dry land, and it had listed over to its port side, so that all the attackers could see was the hull. It seemed to make them cautious. Unsure of where the occupants were lurking. They skulked across the beach. Their knees crouched, their arms raised and ready to swing at a moment’s notice. But pace-by-pace they were walking towards the boat. “Come on…” Alessia muttered under her breath. “Another twenty paces, that’s all I need.” She reached out a hand, and placed it on the lever of the detonator. I could see the muscles in her forearm contract, tense, ready to be triggered. I watched the four men travel across the beach, my eyes pinpointed on where I knew the first explosive to be. As they approached the mark their pace crawled even slower. Their steps became small jittery movements, their feet dragging through the sand rather than walking across it. Their focus was consumed by the hull of the boat, waiting for it to make a move. My ears pricked briefly at the sound of rustling from the trees. At first I dismissed it as the air but the wind speed didn’t change. I turned my eyes briefly towards the top of the beach. For a moment, there was nothing. But then there was a scream, a violent roar. Men and women charged from the forest. Their skin was pale, blotchy and red, and all of it was on show. Their hair was long and messy. The men had large uncontrolled beards. Most importantly they carried in their hands, large, pointed stones. They ran at the four men. The pirates barely had time to turn before the naked attackers lunged at them. Knives and machetes were dropped from stunned arms as bodies landed on their backs against the sand. The forest people climbed on top of them, raising their hands to the air. “No, please, no!” one of the pirates screamed, as a rock came down, and snuffed out the plea, with a short thud. The rock raised once more, this time painted red, and came down again, and again. The beach was dyed with the blood of the pirates until all four were completely lifeless. In the space of less than a minute the beach had been transformed into an abattoir. The pirates I feared, now stains to be washed away by the turning tides. I looked at the corpses, the broken faces left on perfectly preserved bodies. Skulls smashed in. Eyes, noses, smiles nothing more than a pool of crimson melting into the sand. The attackers gathered around, poking the bodies, making well and truly sure they had completed their mission. Satisfied that all four victims were dead, they lifted down and picked up the bodies, slinging them over their shoulders. Then, with a relaxed walk, they carried the corpses off into the forest, the knives and machetes left behind. Once more they were cloaked by the trees. The last sign of them was some inaudible chatter among the attackers, and a joke that seemed to send a ripple of laughter through the group that bellowed from the forest.


Vincent had been confident in his abilities. He’d even trained in a private secondary school for promising mage candidates, with top marks in all subjects and an award of excellence in written conjurations. The examiners were all expecting a powerful familiar to appear before them, like a dragon, a unicorn, maybe even a powerful demon—frowned on but still not unheard of. So, as he stood over his immaculately drawn summoning circle, amber eyes squinting against the braziers billowing green smoke where moments ago, there had been roaring green and red flames, he was absolutely mortified by what had appeared in the center: a middle aged man in sweatpants and a baggy shirt, partially covered in small dark brown stains. He was squatting close the ground and smoking a cigarette that emitted an offensive, spicy odor. He took a long look around the gathering, stopping briefly on each of the examiners, scanning over the small crowd of other hopefuls, and eventually landing his gaze on Vincent. He blew an eye-watering cloud of spicy smoke at him. “Eh, yeah, alright. Why not?” He stood slowly and tamped the cigarette under his heavy boot. He ran a hand through his greasy black hair and shook out what appeared to be small bits of glass. He was shorter than Vincent and in spite of the currently shabby attire, you could imagine him working in a quiet corner shop somewhere. He had a laid-back air about him, but every mage there could sense the strain he put on the magic surrounding him. “Uhhh…” Vincent turned toward the examiners for help, but they were looking expectantly at him. He gathered himself up, squared his shoulders, and demanded imperiously, “Creature from beyond the veil, you are bound by my magic to render your services unto me. Speak your name and submit or be cast into the void!” He thought he sounded very professional there. The examiners were nodding approvingly. “Cool deal, buddy. I’m Chad. Pleased to render services unto whatever.” Chad looked around the well-kept lawn and large, white, popup pavilion. It reminded him of the sort you would see at an outdoor wedding in a picturesque field advertising rental availability for weddings and funerals. Unknown to him, but very know to the rest, after an especially large dragon summoning tore a hole in the covered amphitheater, they had moved the ceremony onto the front lawn. Past some lingering scorch marks on the grass, he could see a sign that read: Lestren University. Vincent pulled on his lapels and drew in a deep breath. He had worn his best blue suit for this. It had taken him hours to prepare, mentally and physically, for this entire ceremony. He had spent a considerable time getting his red hair to radiate just the right level of humility and confidence. “I require your full name, creature.” “Ooooh,” Chad turned back from the sign with a sneer. “I’m so sorry. How could I have been so impolite. Especially, when you have me in a…” He gestured down at the ring of runes, “magic anime circle.” He kicked at some of the sand used to draw the circle, but it didn’t budge. A dark reddish sludge coated the ground where he slid his foot. Vincent was staring furiously at this mystery man’s cocky grin, which is precisely why he didn’t notice the examiners slowly backing away. “Hmm. Neat sand,” Chad conceded. Vincent had just begun to demand his full name a second time, when Chad spoke over him, “Chadwick. Digsby.” He took out another cigarette and lit it up. “What service you looking for? Usually, people use the phone when they need some cleanup.” “You’re a janitor?” “Mmmm, sure.” He took a long drag and then let it all out suddenly with a cough. “It’s not a sex thing is it?” He waved his hands in disgust in front of him, leaving a glowing trail behind his spicy cigarette. “I don’t do that stuff—especially not for a…” He narrowed his eyes at Vincent. “How old are you?” “No! Ew! What?” Vincent’s composure dissolved for a moment. His ears started turning red and he glanced around at the examiners and his peers, now finally realizing the examiners had backed away a good twenty feet. He gritted his teeth and resolved to make it through this, ignoring the desire to wipe the sweat beading up on his brow. “No.” Chad let out a long plume of smoke. “Whoof. You had me worried there for a second.” He went back to his squatted position and closed his eyes. “I’m all ears, kiddo. How can I help?” Vincent rearranged his suit, cleared his throat, and put all his effort into ignoring everything other than “Chad” in front of him. “I require you to serve as my personal familiar, from now until the day I see fit to dismiss you in good faith.” Chad quietly smoked his cigarette and deliberated the request. He shifted his weight from one leg to the other, his jaw cocked at a perplexed angle. “Good faith…?” Vincent had thought about how he would phrase this for a long time. He didn’t want to get into anything complicated, like something that would tempt an ill-tempered familiar into looking for loopholes. Instead, he had opted for a simple command that hinged on phrasing that, he believed at least, was hard to misinterpret. Another drag of the repulsive cigarette as he mulled it over. He didn’t really know what being a familiar entailed, but… “Does this job come with free food and housing?” “Yes?” “Can I get a day off every week to relax?” “Two days, but on call?” While Chad was speaking to him, his eyes were on the examiners, now a considerable distance away. He saw one of them mouth, “What the fuck?” Ah, they figured out what kiddo had gotten himself into. He felt kind of bad for the kid but smiled at the group’s discomfort. He had a strong distaste for authority figures. “Sounds good to me, kiddo!” He clapped and smoke blew from his nose. “Yeah, don’t call me kiddo.” Vincent raised his hands, fingers tracing complicated sigils in the air, and with a flourish, completed the ceremony. “Chadwick Digsby, the binding is complete!” “Nice. Hey, I could use a shower and a new shirt, if that’s cool.” Chad looked down and gave the circle another kick. This time the lines scattered like normal sand. The ceremony finally over, Vincent could finally feel the strain it had put on him. He was drenched in sweat and wobbled back from his small personal circle. He rubbed at his eyes and muttered, “I feel sleepy.” Then, pitched over onto the grass, passed out. Chad cackled and some of the other potential students started running across the lawn in various directions. The examiners looked horrified, but they were now surrounded by powerful beings from realities far beyond this one. His favorite was the willowy looking one with a pixie. The whole effect was adorable, seething, but adorable. “You know, he didn’t say I had to let any of you live,” he growled, dramatically waving his cigarette around. They all stood there a moment, line of professional mages and a lone man in sweats. Then, Chad tossed his cigarette aside. “Naw, I’m just kidding.” He bent down and hefted up the kid. “Who wants to give us a tour?” He wiggled an unconscious Vincent mockingly at the lot of them. The one with the pixie stepped forward, muttering under her breath, “My salary isn’t high enough to deal with this kind of shit.” She gave him a venomous smile and waved her hand in the direction of the campus, “Let me show you to the dorms.” Then, abruptly turning away from him with a scowl, she stomped across the lawn. “Rad,” and he followed after, looking forward to the kid’s body count. He didn’t see any reason he would be there otherwise. He was a “cleaner” after all.


Legend tells of your ancestor, Modajo, who accidentally discovered chickens lay eggs and eggs will be delicious once fire is eventually invented so she became the first chicken subsistence farmer. Her neighbour Mike discovered likewise for cows, and for a while Modajo enjoyed her eggs and Mike enjoyed his milk since the concept of sharing was as foreign then as it is now. Watching Mike tending to his cows one day, Modajo realised cows aren't chickens therefore milk isn't egg and she caught the first ever case of curiosity. "Mike, has it occurred to you cows aren't chickens therefore milk isn't egg?" "Holy Cow!", Mike exclaimed, shocked by how he hadn't noticed this obvious fact until that moment. When he finally calmed down from bewilderment a full day later, Modajo continued. "I'll trade you a dozen eggs for a liter of milk." "What's dozen and liter?" "Random units of measurement I just made up." "I accept." And so the first barter took place, which continued each morning hence. A week later while out for a walk, Modajo happened upon a lady who had perfected the art of creating protective cocoons from leaves to wear on her feet while walking. She called them shoos for they shoo'd away painful foot blisters. Intrigued, Modajo made an offer. "Shoemaker, I’ll trade you 2 dozen eggs for a new pair of shoes." Shoemaker wasn’t impressed. "Firstly, there's something weird with how you're saying ‘shoo’ but I can't quite place it. Secondly, Papa had complications after eating eggs and I assume his condition runs in the family like our sensitive feet. We do enjoy milk though." Modajo foresaw the hassle of exchanging eggs for milk whenever she needed shoos - which would be every 2 days - so she gathered Mike, Shoemaker and several other locals for a meeting. "My People, we need something to represent the value of goods when said goods aren’t immediately available." They stared blankly at her as a cricket chirped away nearby. "This is Tito, a wholesaler," she continued, while pulling out a golden leaf. "He created these special leaves called money. One money is the equivalent of a half-dozen eggs. So Mike, a liter of milk is worth two money. And Shoemaker…" "Shoomaker," quipped Shoemaker. "Yes Shoemaker, a pair of your shoes is worth 4 money.” “Money is also the first noun in existence whose plural form is the same as its singular,” Tito added, much to the small crowd's amusement. Modajo continued explaining how she could, for example, exchange 6 dozen eggs for 12 golden leaves with Tito, spend 4 on shoes and have enough left over for two more pairs without ever involving Mike. Shoemaker could then exchange his leaves for goods of equal value with any other participant, notably Tito. The idea took off and soon the golden leaf became the standard unit of exchange. The town came to be known as Golden Leaf Village. Tito became the first wealthy person in existence. He had actually introduced himself to Modajo as a ‘hustler’ but she misheard him and he was too lazy to correct her. He stored the goods he acquired at a second home which became known as a 'store'. Unbeknownst to the others, he invented the golden leaf for nefarious reasons after discovering people like shiny things. “I’ll use this to trick people into giving me their possessions,” he thought while creating the leaves. “What’s theirs will be mine. All mine!" Hence he named the leaves ‘money’.


"How should we have it be?" The low murmur of voices closes in on us and I can feel the pressure of observance weighing down on me. The chap in front of me is grinning wide, stupid, and his eyes seem almost to push me away from him. Two guys behind him are staring me down just the same; every one is staring me down. I'm not wanted, I'm not welcome, I should just leave. "How should we have it be then?" The circle closes and here I am holding my spilt suds and a pool cue. From the back of the crowd is emanating a few obscenities, a few vulgarities, the likes of which I will not repeat now, and all the while still I sit holding my cue and suds feeling like a jerk. This brute in my front hasn't clued in yet that something inside of me is turning; something might soon explode.... I guess he'll have to figure it out throughst my willings. "How should we have it be then, eh?" The circle closes tighter and I can smell their thoughts, I can smell their sweat, it's oily and reeking of mechanic exhaust and fume. Inside my innards is welling a great beast. I am going to have it be my way I suppose, There's not any other way it can be. I will act only instinctually. I feel a muscle in my neck, I feel them all, running down my body; everything is so in tune. I am aware of even the most minute detail right now. I can process it all rationally... It would be nice if it would stay that way all night, but I can not help what I am. The Moon tonight, it will be so beautiful, I wish I was outside right now, outside away from the filthy air, outside under silver Luna's wonderful gaze. It's that time of the month for me, and it's happening now. The chap in front of me still wears that idiot's grin. The circle around me closes tighter. I am stuck. It is getting harder to keep myself composed... so why bother trying? I know I should stay away from the herd. I am supposed to protect the herd... but.... The Moon is up, I can smell it. The circle is spreading. There's a fly on the far wall, it just took flight. Oh how I feel right now! I feel wonderful, I am exuberant. Oh brothers, I feel hungry! I think this chap in front of me is going to pull the old sucker punch on Your Humble Narrator; his eyes have betrayed him, only for a second, and I can smell anxiety perfuming his alpha arrogance. He is nervous but he hasn't realized how afraid he should be yet. Slow and fumbling the bloak swings his soft wadded fist up at my teeth. I grab his hand in mine, mine is much larger and much, much harrier. His pudgy skin splits as his soft bones crumble under the bit of squeeze I put on his poor old hand and now this chap is screaming right good. I think the circle is starting to wizen up as to what's happening here. The Moon. Luna, Tulle, Salene, her many names ring in the jumbled cacophony in my head. I can feel her and hear her and smell her, the taste is burning in my throat. Oh how I want to run under her, my friend. I *woof* would love to see her... to feed under her. One of the chaps behind me is getting a little too close. I turn around to find he is holding a knife; a terrible metal *stick* it is. He doesn't stand a chance; I grab his forearm in my jaw. right easy the bone snaps, *the good stuff is in the middle of the bones.* I tear the flesh real messy, and the blood. I taste the sweet, coppery blood. It's hot. The Moon won't wait... I have to get out of here. The circle is scattering, nobody wants to watch a fight anymore. And by the way, that fly, it's on the bar, dipping it's probiscis into the *woof* beer spilt by Your Humble Narrator when that first wanker elbowed into me. There is something else too, I can smell it... like sick fire and oily smoke. It is a... gun! *WOOF*. There is a lot of yelling going on but I hear the click, like metals tapping against metals. I bolt to the sound and there's a man standing in front of me poised to shoot. As I jump my hears go deaf at the explosion from the end of the \**stick*\* and I smell the terrible cancerous fire, but my body is fine; the bullet missed me. I tear easily into his chest as I land on him, the blood is pouring out something wonderful like and covering my snout, it is beautiful, it is euphoric. The Moon is bloated in the waxing night outside and here I am in the pen killing the herd, I should be out there, out underneath Luna. It's just all the blood, it's everywhere, it smells so good hanging in the air, my friend *woof* in the air so thick I can taste it. The moon and the blood and the herd and The Hunger. *WOLF*. It's all getting too hard. Instincts are taking over *woof* my thoughts, everything is fading to gray-- *woof* \--scale. The smells in this place, it's making me dizzy, giving me a headache. And all the while here's the herd... this bloak in my front... this sheep running away... out the door. I have to get him. *WOLF*. I have to chase him under The Moon, *woof*, underneath Luna The circle is dead... the herd is murdered. *WOOF*. I am going to chase this last *WOOF* one; I'm going to wolf this little sheep down. A wolf wolfed down the whole *woof* herd! *WOLF*. He gets into his metal box and ties to drive away. But the wolf gets in and wolfs down the little sheep. The Moon is young in the night and Wolf is still hungry.


I’m going to write. “Star crossed.” Bleh! Gah! Gross! What a teenage cliché. Are you there John Green, it’s me, (insert name here). But still. I mean, it works, doesn’t it? As a description. The timing probably *could* have been worse, but it was pretty fucking bad. Who would have guessed that…after never connecting like this in my entire life, after deciding a long time ago to settle, after being more or less content, resigned to my stagnation, that someone like *you* would come into my life? It became addicting, the “what if?” What if we had met as kids? In high school? At camp? Randomly or unpredictably, before it would have been too late for both of us? I’m going to write. I tried pretty hard not to think about it at the time, to not let it sink it…just exactly what I was doing, what *we* were doing. I was just trying to live in the moment. It’s a bad (good) habit I developed in college, after struggling to pull myself out of a depression. I tried to stop living in the past or the future. I tried to just live. I even remember my friend Rev asking me about it. The change he noticed in me. I told him about Taoism. He knew what I meant before I explained it. I’m not describing this very well. But it’s not going to stop me from going on. Because: I’m going to write. Is it a good thing or a bad thing we live in different parts of the country? Probably both. Two extremes. Is it a good thing or a bad thing that we connected so deeply? Probably both as well. Actually, you know what…no. Fuck that. It WAS good. It IS good. To be seen like that. To see you like that. To have experienced it, to know that it is real, it is possible. I hope it leads to change for you. It seems like it did. It would be arrogant of me to claim to be the only catalyst for your change. But I’d like to humbly think that I played a part in it. I’m going to write. Because that’s what you were to me: a catalyst. It’s what you have to be. If I was stronger, I think we could be together. If I was weaker, I think we could be together. But I’m too damn balanced. The two extremes canceling each other out. Constant internal war breeds constant internal peace, right? Am I at peace? When we said goodbye, I was sobbing quietly in the bathroom, hoping my coworkers wouldn’t hear. It was the most emotion I have felt in years. I won’t let it be for nothing. It can’t have been nothing. It can’t have meant nothing. I know it didn’t. So: I’m going to write. I’m going to write because you saw my potential, because you wouldn’t want me to be shackled by self-doubt anymore, because you wouldn’t want me to give in to the creeping negativity gnawing at me even now. I’m going to write. And I’m not going to stop. And my first book will be dedicated to you. For Kitten. “And one fine morning…” Maybe it will happen. A book tour. A sea of faces. And there yours is. There you are. I can imagine it now. The way my heart would stop. The way my chest would tighten. I’m kidding myself. Or am I? Will the stars align again? I’m going to write. And I’m not going to stop.


When I was eleven, for a reason completely unbeknownst to me my family moved to Apopka, Florida. We lived there for one year, and then moved back to Minnesota within forty miles of Moorhead where we had lived previously. Obviously, some adult crisis or other had precipitated this bewildering experience. Whatever the problem was, Florida would surely fix it. How fitting that in the wake of my own adult crisis, I should accompany my parents on a vacation to the “Sunshine State”. When we arrived in Florida we picked up our modest rental sedan and navigated our way to my parents’ friends’ house, Dean and Cathy. As I walked into their house, the first thing I took notice of was a bottle of tequila tucked away in the corner of the kitchen. There it sat alone, unacknowledged by anyone but me, my crisis. The bottle resided in that spot for the duration of our stay, no one pulled it out, no drinks flowed. I could not tell if this was coincidental or if it was because our hosts had been made aware of my recent teetotalism, my move back into my parent’s house, my loss of my Trader Joes job, and my abandonment of my lease on my hipster coffeehouse apartment, nor did I care. Dean and Cathy had a daughter named Danielle. Danielle had been friends with my older sister fourteen years prior. Danielle was younger than my sister, she was a little chubby, she was kind of homely looking, and I believe she liked my sister more than my sister liked her. Time had been kind to Danielle as she had shed the weight and grown into her features, though her body looked as if it would easily regain the weight. This fact was also apparent by looking at her mother. We had rented a crummy townhome for the week. My bedroom lay directly beneath my parents’ bedroom, and my bed lay directly beneath my parents’ bed. That night as I lay awake, I could hear my parents above me, doing the very thing that brought me into this world twenty five years ago. In a moment like this, one turns inward "Twenty five years into this life and this is where I am?" Most of our time in the “Sunshine State” was spent indoors. Going outside would result in being broiled alive by the sun. After a few days of this stagnation, the parents decided it was time for the kids to go out on the town and arranged for us to meet up with a dating couple. I hopped into Danielle’s gray Ford Escort on the passenger’s side. Though I was not really into Danielle, being alone with her in her car seemed like a novel experience, and I worked hard to play it really cool. I had given little attention to the opposite sex over the last few years since they did not come in a bottle marked “80 proof”. We arrived at our destination, some establishment resembling an Applebee’s and met the other couple in the parking lot. I already knew the man of the couple, Russell. I had been friends with Russell as a child when we were twelve. He was the baby of the family and acted accordingly. Russell was the type of kid that always seemed to find himself in some strange disaster that left you watching incredulously. Once at a minor league baseball game, he got under a pop-fly ball and held his hands up to catch it. The ball slipped right through the diamond shaped hole of his thumbs and index fingers and broke its fall right on the tip of his pointy freckled nose, blood gushed everywhere. Time had done little to remedy Russell’s gawky appearance. He was a redhead with freckles, tall, and gangly. If you did not know of Russell’s families’ money, you may not understand why a highly attractive well-dressed woman was by his side. As the double date progressed, conversation was slow. The only time I was really engaged was when Russell’s date brought up a music video she had just seen on YouTube. As she detailed this video, I began to recognize her descriptions and interjected, “Are you talking about ‘Wuthering Heights’ by Kate Bush?” “Yes,” she replied with a shocked look on her face, “I really didn’t expect anyone to recognize such an obscure reference." Then for the next few moments we proceeded to wax poetic about Kate Bush and her unique artistic abilities. It had been a very long time since I had made this kind of connection with anyone, much less a beautiful woman. I pondered the unfortunate nature of this situation. Across from me sat a beautiful woman with whom I had made a connection. She should have been with me, but instead she was with this bore of a man. A man, that because of the umbra of my own crisis and the void of any measurable personal development, I had no chance of competing with. This of course did not stop me from fantasizing about our future life together in the moment of an instant that was just as soon discarded. For dessert, Russell took us to an Italian Ice Stand. Over half the night he had been trumpeting the deliciousness of these frozen treats. When we finally sat down with our Italian Ices, Russell was a bit disappointed that we did not seem to share his enthusiasm. He asked “What do you guys think? Are these great or what?” His date barely made a reply. "Who does this woman think she is?" I thought, "doesn’t she know that this is my childhood friend? She could be a little nicer to him." Trying to console my friend I embellished a little, “I give it an eleven out of ten.” “That’s the kind of enthusiasm I was looking for!" cheered Russell. That was the last night we spent in Florida. We boarded a plane and headed back to Minnesota: my parents, my crisis, and I. What led my parents to this place fourteen years ago I may never know, but I can't help believing that this is the wisdom they wished to impart: Problems cannot be outrun or left behind, but they can always be taken to the “Sunshine State.


Rain wasn’t odd for this time of year, or this particular time of day, but after a cloudless sky, it was disappointing to return damp to the party. The hazy glow of the lanterns strung about the gardens cast a demure orange beam up the fine gravel pathway, already lined with similarly hued festive gourds. From his office balcony overlooking the mossy grounds of their estate, Henry could see people mingling about in the fallen leaves. Although he couldn’t hear the crunch of them being crushed underfoot, the understanding of the inevitable permeated the misty air. He was still caught between socializing or bed, becoming more aware of the muted pressure of laughter slowly leaking into his head. He rubbed at his temple with a scowl, raising his hand to scratch at one of his straight horns only to discover it was still dripping wet. Their ridges had accommodatingly ringed themselves in small bands of water. He returned his hand to his forehead with a tired groan. Normally he would have little trouble with a gathering of this size, but Claudia had him out half the night fetching this codex from his most gratingly honorable lordship, Etwiff. He shook his head. He was done. He had no idea what its contents might be, but he fancied at least a brief look before he retired. “Well, now that I got you the codex, do you want me to give it a look?” His sister was leaning back in his chair with her feet on his office desk, manuscript in one hand, a scowl on her face, and a cigarette in the other. She glanced up from it to his expectant face as he turned away from their holiday gathering below. He had been awkwardly bent over the railing, ruminating. Being almost seven feet tall, the railing was as likely to save him as Claudia would be to catch him in a trust-fall. He noted her lip curling to the side as she took a drag. The silky, blue smoke slowly coiled out as she breathed, “No, I think I will hire a professional.” Henry narrowed his eyes, removing a pair of copper horn caps from his inner vest pocket. He carefully fitted them back on his long, straight, wickedly pointed horns, while walking slowly to his desk. He shook the dampness from his short blonde hair with one hand, flicking the residual droplets to the side. Claudia watched him fiddle about with his clothes. She closed the manuscript, placing it on his desk before slowly standing. The cigarette flared a neon blue as she drew in breath, stretching her arms above her head. She tapped at the point of one of her horns. They were much like his, but with the addition of a slight twist at their base. She had thought about capping her horns as well, but also enjoyed a good open threat. She re-tied her ponytail, and taking the cigarette between two thin fingers, tapped some ashes into a nearby white teacup rimmed with painted honeysuckles. She chuckled dark cerulean, “I don’t think we even need to know. The fact that it went missing should be enough.” Henry snorted, “This is why you failed out of university.” She barked a laugh at him, while grabbing up the codex. She tossed the rest of her cigarette in the cup and turned to leave. “Oh, wait, I wasn’t joking!” Henry stepped forward. “Do you want me to take a look?” “I wasn’t joking either.” She frowned down at the musty smelling pages. “I think I will hire a professional.” “I’m a professional.” She regarded Henry, pointing at himself with a polite, incredulous smile. It wasn’t that he couldn’t translate it… “I know, but I mean,” she rolled her tongue like she rolled the manuscript in her hand, “A *real* professional.” He stared at her in stunned silence. “I have a doctorate in historical linguistics!” His jaw was slack, but quickly tightened as he eyed her in suspicion. “What kind of professional are you going to hire?” “Not a linguist.” She grinned, wagging the manuscript at him. “That’s not funny.” He took a couple long steps toward her, but she darted back with astonishing speed. “When I stole th--” “Borrowed?” Henry cackled. “Oh, no. Not this time, sweet little sister.” She narrowed her eyes. “You mean, we can’t just return it tomorrow evening?” “You never told me I was bringing it back.” Amber eyes stared back at each other. A slow, insidious smile crept onto Henry’s face. He drawled out gleefully, “Have I heard correctly just now?” Claudia tossed the codex at him. Its wide pages slapped into him as he caught it. She reeled about, jerking open one of his desk drawers. He stepped to the side to relish in her panic. She bumped out the underside of a drawer, removing a small, sliding metal case and a short, spiraling glass quill. From another drawer, she pulled a single sheet of extremely thick, fabric-like paper. “Has my sister, the great *mastermind*, miscalculated something?” She leaned over the desk, hand on either side of the paper, brow knitted painfully. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and picked up the cigarette-size metal case with it. He leaned over the other side of the desk, sliding the case lid slightly open and wagging it before her. He gave a loud mocking gasp and held the codex to his mouth in surprise. “Young woman, are these,” he imitated their mother’s voice, “d-d-drugs?” “Yes.” She grabbed the tin from his hand as he started to roar with laughter. She dipped the tip of the stubby glass quill into the gelatinous fluid that quivered about inside, twirling a line of runny sparkling ooze up the spiraled nib’s length. Applying the ink-substitute to the pillowy paper, she painstakingly began scribing out her message. Henry did not often get to see Claudia like this, and especially not because of a fault of her own. He set the manuscript down and scratched at one horn. “You know, glitter ink at this age is--” “Shut the fuck up.” He grinned at her feverishly red face. She was writing quickly and accurately. After only a couple moments, the letter was done. She burned the residual ooze from the nib of the pen with her lighter. The air held onto the acrid metallic tang, but the smoke quickly dissipated. She collected the items hurriedly and stashed them away again. “How did you know where I kept that anyway?” “I know where you keep everything.” Henry winced, “I certainly hope not.” She blew on the faintly glimmering faux-ink, rolling the paper carefully once it was barely dry enough not to stick. Taking a small, fuzzy cloth bag from one of the many pockets of her long coat, she dug through multiple stamps before settling on one. “No, wait, hold on.” Henry rapidly pointed at the bag as it slipped into her coat again. “When did you get the Jesils crest? Did you nick that from his office?” She sneered at him. “Wouldn’t you love to know?” “I would, yah.” “Too bad.” She pulled some wax from the heated film on his desk, and pressed the paper closed with her chosen seal. She held it out to him. He stood straight, arms crossed, and grimaced darkly at her offering. “I’m going to miss my own party.” “I know.” He frowned at the letter. She shoved it up into his chest, glaring at him. Her panic had not subsided in the least. In fact, with how well he knew his sister, her panic might have started increasing after she penned the letter. “What did you have me steal?” “Something Nimet was going to pick up in a couple days.” His eyes widened, and arms slightly slacked. He laughed out a breathy wheeze. She took one of his hands and put the letter in it, giving him a prideful, but pleading stare. His smile twitched with a disbelieving chuckle, but he held onto the paper. “You had me steal something that belongs to the *queen?*” He looked down at the letter in his hand. “And now,” his laughter picked up, “you’re sending me back to drug the guy I took it from?” He shook his head. “I’m not following your logic this time.” “No!” She glared at him indignantly. “I’m sending you to Amelie.” “You’re sending me to drug your girlfriend?” She groaned in disgust, “Of course not! Just…” She grumbled to herself furiously. He scratched at a horn, grinning as she fumed. She looked down at his desk. Then, despairingly dropped back in his chair once again. “Just, tell Amelie what happened, and ask her to leave that on her mother’s vanity.” She looked longingly at the snuffed remains of her cigarette in the flower-rimmed teacup. “So,” he stared at her flatly, “You’re sending me to drug *the queen?*” “Of course not,” Claudia assessed the tattered remains, gauging how unseemly it might be. It was half a cig. She dug it out, straightened it, and relit it. She winced as she took a drag but exhaled watery wisps that dribbled from her mouth to the desk’s shiny, waxed surface. She waved the mangled cigarette at the paper in his hand. “Lord Etwiff is drugging the queen.


You'd tell me to relax. But not the way most people say it. Nothing you say seems to be the way most people say it. They mean calm down, chill out, disregard whatever it is. You'd mean it the way someone who understands the panic would say it. You'd mean breathe deeper, let go of anxiety, it will be... okay. You'd make me laugh. But not the way most people do. I'd laugh out of politeness, realizing I wasn't even paying attention enough to know what type of laugh to fake. Masks, and all that. But you'd make me laugh almost before I'd have time to process why what you said or did was funny. Like my body could react faster to you than my brain. Maybe because like recognizes like, before logic gets in the way. You'd make me hopeful. But not the way I usually am. Usually, it's hoping that I can change, fix all the little parts that piss people off. Always that look of disappointment, that dramatic sigh, and I'd think, hopefully, I can work on that. But now, I feel more hopeful that maybe it isn't me. Fix things that are broken, sure, but realizing puzzle pieces are't called broken when they don't fit. And eventually, there is a spot where they can drop right in. You'd make me angry. But not in the way most people see it. Most peoples problems feel silly, being negative about being negative. And I can get upset, feel bad for their magnified issues, sure. But you made me want to yell at people I've never met, slap faculty I'll never know. Because seeing you give up things that matter, not know you're so amazing at being amazing, drives me up a fucking wall. These negative thoughts you carry, each one makes my teeth grind. You'd say you understood. But not in the way most people would. There is always a caveat that ends up turning grief into another opportunity to fix myself. Sorry your family pulls at you so much, but you let them. Sorry you feel unsatisfied, but you want too much. But you didn't caveat things. You didn't say you understood as a way to give advice. You just said it because it's true. You'd understand. You'd be interesting. But not in a comedic, tragic way. Not interesting to watch because I already know something is going to turn out wrong, or interesting to learn more about because it sounds absurd. You are interesting in the way a child is fascinated when they first see the ocean. The wildness, the peacefulness. The feeling that this terrifying, insane, glorious thing also seems so real, so natural, so authentically true. So many new things that pull on these strings tied to my chest, strings that I never knew were there. You'd be my waking dream. But not in the way I usually daydream, alone and full of grandiose. Being the Avatar or running away to live in a shack by the ocean. No, it was more simple than that. Making you coffee, dropping off snacks during lunch, trying to like Gatsby, curled into you on my hard days, reading to you on yours. I could fill too many lines with all those thoughts. But the most different part was that this pretend world wasn't just occupied by me. At least, I like to think not. You'd make it difficult to be quiet. Most people will tell you, that has always been me. But they don’t know it’s because I don't care what their response will be. It won't... impact... (I guess I am not a good student) ... me because it doesn't matter to me, they're not inside my space. But you seemed to slowly step into me, and somehow I didn't pull away. All the sudden I could share things, be loud, and not worry about the response, even grow to look forward to it. That sincere lack of frustration that is only possible when communication is so... native, when comfort is so obvious. You'd make me safe. But not the way I usually feel that. I have become my own foundation, somehow. Things built on top of things that make up those very things. It's a painful contortion. But you'd say such small things that would start this process of undoing. Encouragement without an ounce of selfishness. You untangled me. You'd make me sad. But not the way I normally can get sad. Not sad because something went wrong, or I'm disappointed, or general melancholy. You made me feel sad the way you'd feel sad if you found out dragons existed, but the last one died yesterday. An irremediable type of grief. Consistent, annoyingly blinding liquid reminders of losing something I never had. An ideal cup of coffee spilled before you took your first sip. And I've had to wear glasses all day. You'd make me ramble. But not the way I usually do, out of anxiety, to fill the void. You'd make me ramble to stretch the time. To trick myself into living in that daydream for a bit longer, shut out the real world. "Pretending to not feel alone." I guess the same as I'm doing now. To stretch time. To remain here. You... you made me feel. And there is no comparison.


#Welcome to Serial Sunday! To those brand new to the feature and those returning from last week, welcome! Do you have a self-established universe you’ve been writing or planning to write in? Do you have an idea for a world that’s been itching to get out? This is the perfect place to explore that. Each week, I will post a single theme to inspire you. You have 850 words to tell the story. Feel free to jump in at any time if you feel inspired. Writing for previous weeks’ themes is not necessary in order to join.   *** #This week's theme is Storm! This week we’re going to explore the theme of ‘storm’. This can be a literal storm, be it with lightning, hail, tornadoes, or even snow. Or the storm can be metaphorical. People can cause quite the stir, their actions being akin to a storm in the damage it can do to themselves and the lives around them. Are these unintended consequences or is this intentional? How will this storm play out? How will it affect the world and the people in its path? This might be an opportunity for the make-or-break moment in your story; the catalyst, so to speak. The big bad could finally make their appearance. Or this could be the act that brings warring forces together, as allies. The possibilities are endless. These are just a few things to get you started. Remember, the theme should be present within the story in some way, but its interpretation is completely up to you. |   *** #Theme Schedule: I recognize that writing a serial can take a bit of planning. Each week, I release the following 2 weeks’ themes here in the Schedule section of the post. * October 17 - Storm (this week) * October 24 - Fear * October 31 - Adaptation   *** **Previous Themes:** | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | *** #How It Works: In the comments below, submit a story that is between 500 - 850 words in your own original universe, inspired by this week’s theme. This can be the beginning of a brand new serial or an installment in your in-progress serial. You have until 6pm EST the following Saturday to submit your story. Please make sure to read *all* of the rules before posting!   *** #The Rules: * **All top-level comments must be a story inspired by the theme (not using the theme is a disqualifier).** Use the stickied comment for off-topic discussion and questions you may have. * **Do not pre-write your serial.** You may do outlining and planning ahead of time, but you need to wait until the post is released to begin writing for the current week. Pre-written content or content written for another prompt/post is not allowed. * **Stories must be 500-850 words.** Use to check your word count. **You may include a *brief* recap at the top of your post each week if you like, and it will not count against the wordcount.** * **Stories must be posted by Saturday 6pm EST.** That is one hour before the beginning of Campfire. Stories submitted after the deadline will not be eligible for rankings and will not be read during campfire. * **Only one serial per author at a time.** This does not include serials written outside of Serial Sunday. * **Authors must leave at least 2 feedback comments on the thread (on two different stories, not two on one) to qualify for rankings every week.** The feedback should be actionable and **must** include at least one detail about what the author has done well. Failing to meet the 2 comment requirement will disqualify you from weekly rankings. (Verbal feedback does not count towards this requirement.) **Missing your feedback two consecutive weeks will exclude you from campfire readings and rankings the following week.** You have until the following Sunday at 12pm EST to fulfill your feedback requirements each week. * **Keep the content “vaguely family friendly”.** While content rules are more relaxed here at r/ShortStories, we’re going to roll with the loose guidelines of family friendly for now. If you’re ever unsure if your story would cross the line, please modmail and ask! * **Begin your post with the name of your serial between triangle brackets** (e.g. <My Awesome Serial>). This will allow our serial bot to track your parts and add your serial to the full catalogue. Please note: You **must** use the exact same name each week. This includes commas and apostrophes. If not, the bot won’t recognize your serial installments.   *** #Reminders: * **If you are continuing an in-progress serial, please include links to the prior installments on reddit.** * **Saturdays I host a Serial Campfire on the discord main voice lounge**. Join us to read your story aloud, hear other stories, and share your own thoughts on serial writing! We start at 7pm EST. You can even come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. Don’t worry about being late, just join! * **You can nominate your favorite stories each week**. Send me a message on discord or reddit and let me know by 12pm EST the following Sunday. You do not have to attend the campfire, or have read all of the stories, to make nominations. Making nominations awards both parties points (see point breakdown). * Authors who successfully finish a serial with at least 8 installments will be featured with a modpost recognizing their completion and a flair banner on the subreddit. Authors are eligible for this highlight post only if they have followed the 2 feedback comments per thread rule (and all other post rules). * There’s a Serial Sunday role on the Discord server, so make sure you grab that so you’re notified of all Serial Sunday related news!   *** #Last Week’s Rankings With another small week, we have just three top spots. But as always, everyone who wrote deserves a pat on the back! - - u/WorldOrphan   - - u/rainbow--penguin   - - u/GammaGames   - - u/nobodysgeese   *** #Ranking System There is a new point system! Note that you must use the theme each week to qualify for points! Here is the current breakdown: **Nominations (votes sent in by users):** - First place - 60 points - Second place - 50 points - Third place - 40 points - Fourth place - 30 points - Fifth place - 20 points - Sixth place - 10 points **Feedback:** - Written feedback (on the thread) - 5 points each (25 pt. cap) - Verbal feedback (during Campfire) - 5 points each (15 pt. cap) *Note: In order to be eligible for feedback points, you must complete your 2 required feedback comments. These are included in the max point value above.Your feedback must be **actionable**, listing at least one thing the author did well, to receive points. (“I liked it, great chapter” comments will not earn you points or credit.)* **Nominating Other Stories:** - Sending nominations for your favorite stories - 5 points (total)   *** ###Subreddit News - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday. Check out to learn more! - Sharpen your micro-fic skills by participating in our brand new feature, - Have you ever wanted to write a story with another writer? Check out our brand new weekly feature on r/WritingPrompts.


The family, large in numbers, sat in the living room that was illuminated by the TV. “Where’s Dale? Get Dale,” mom said to the family. “He’s in his room,” Linda said. Linda rushed up from the sofa with orders from her mother, and ran up the stairs to Dale's room. “Dale! Dale! Momma wants to talk to you,” Linda said as she banged on Dale’s scratched up bedroom door.” “About what!” Dale said. “I dunno, sumthin’ important, it’s about Auntie out in Arizona. They been talking to us all about it and you the only one not down there. C’mon.” Dale quickly snapped open his door and made his way down the stairs - his shoulders slumped - to the living room where the rest of his family was waiting in silence. Dale stepped over his toddler siblings and took a seat on the sofa with his sisters. “Dale…you know aunt Libby passed away last week.” “Ya ma’.” “And she was out in Arizona.” “Uh huh.” “And how we’re doing the funeral out here.” “Why not out in Arizona?” “We can’t afford to go out there.” “Ok,” Dale motioned to his younger brother to pass the Doritos. “Well we need someone to bring her back,” mom said as she looked clearly at him with a focused face. “Like...*her*. As in, her body?” “Her body.” “What?. I have an interview next week I can’t-” “If you had a job we’d find someone else but you don’t.” “What about Ella? She’s ain’t in school yet” “She starts next week, we don’t want her missing any time if anything happens.” “If anything happens? We can’t just have her cremated? I don’t mean to be crude...but...y’know it would make it a lot easier” “We can’t have her cremated after what happened with Gran Luna.” “And no one out in Arizona has a say? No one out there wants her buried out there?” “She ain’t got no one out there. Listen. We’ll explain how everything’s going to work and you won’t have any problems. But we need a decision by tomorrow. We can’t let this linger or we’ll have to have her cremated, which we don’t want. She didn’t want.” “Ok I’ll bring if Janey can come along. She can help,” Dale said while Janey made a wide smile and sat up tall. “Janey’s still 15, we can’t let her go.” “I ain’t even got my full license. I only started driving this *year*.” “If anyone gives you any problems we can work it out. I know it’s a big decision but just think it over tonight. We’ll talk tomorrow,” mom said as she grabbed her cup of bourbon and leaned back in her chair. Dale took on the confused look of someone who’d just been told they needed to drive their dead aunt from Arizona to Indiana. He left the sofa and Doritos, slowly making his way up to his room, scanning his mind for answers. He laid in his bed, looking at his phone and at the message from his friends inviting them to their baby shower this coming weekend. He decided he would go to get his aunt. The next morning he woke up early, and sat on the wraparound porch of their white clad home which sat in front of the dry and dusty cornfields of Indiana. His dad came out with coffee and joined him. His dad showed him down to the family car he would be taking, pointing out all the things he had planned for emergencies: license and registration and a first aid kit in the glove box, a tent and spare tire in the trunk. “You’re going to do fine. We’ve got almost everything planned out for you, we’ve thought of everything.” “And where should I stay? I won’t be able to afford much food, can you guys spot me some cash.” “We’ll give you enough money for food. And we’ve mapped out some places to stay along the way.” “You know, It’s a trip I’d love to do, but this situation changes everything and it’s really the last thing I want to do.” “We’ll do another proper trip after this one. I promise” Dale set out that afternoon after having lunch with his family, who had all been herded on to the front lawn to see him off as he backed the fully loaded family car down the dirt driveway, his youngest brothers chasing him all the way to the main road.


The Night Mare comes with the fog. I’d heard the story all my life, we all did. “Best be sleeping when the Night Mare comes. Just one glimpse and she’ll steal your soul and carry you to the mists!” So the Elders used to say by the hearth’s fading fire to scare wee ones to bed. As a child, I’d sometimes hear a horse squeal in the night, but I couldn’t tell you if it was one of ours or The Night Mare. Not until morning broke and some poor soul from the village lay dead in their bed. Everyone feared her until we became the elders scolding wee ones by firelight. After all, she was no more than a story. I coughed hard, my chest aching something fierce. The deep rattle had been my companion since last winter, one that worsened in the damp. “…will be… the death of me,” I laughed to Ulfrik, my youngest son. “This blasted weather.” He smiled but a twinkle of fear lay in his eyes. My cough, a wretched sound, must keep him awake at night but he was never one to complain. Like his father, a stoic thing. Comfortable grief massaged my heart. “You should get to finding a wife,” my frequent reminder coaxed a sigh from my son. “I won’t be for this world forever.” Ulfric frowned. “I think you’ll be with us for a while yet.” “What of Ragna? She’s handsome enough if a bit dim.” He tried to suppress his smirk. “There’s Ingun. A set of hips on her!” “Mother!” Ulfrik scowled but his lip dared to tremble with a laugh. “Lost your chance with that girl from Holmslond. Pretty one… what was her name?” My son focused on the fire, prodding it to keep from answering. “Grelod? Greiland?” “Gyrid,” he said softly with what only a mother could recognize as regret. “That’s it, Gyrid. Lovely girl, but I am glad to be spared her *dreadful* laugh. Like twigs snapping - *Hack hack hack!*” He could hide his guilty grin no more while I wore mine wide and proud. “You’ve better things to worry on than who I might take for a wife,” he said. “Like myself? Bah.” The girls haunting rattle-laugh found friends in my chest. The company of them made my breaths ragged. “You’re a good son, Ulfrik, to care for a mother so sour.” He stood from his stool by the hearth and passed me a warm blanket. “Gladder still that you’ve noticed my plight.” We laughed, lightly, and I coughed again. For a time, he held my hand as it was, wrinkled weather thing in his strong grip. The chill air slipped in through cracks unseen and cooled the room. Ulfrik took to bed easily while I lingered by the fading fire. A fearsome neigh cracked the air like a whip. For all my years, I had heard the Mare’s cries in the night but always turned back to my sheets and slept restlessly. I did not this night. With the blanket about my shoulders, I opened the door. The fog rolled from the trees urged by a chilling wind. From its waves, she danced in and out of the shadows, her shape glistening in the moonlight. A beast too tall for a man to break, she seemed like the night itself; powerful, brisk, and inevitable. She trotted in place and I felt bidden forth, leaving blanket and hearth at my back. Strange, though, for I did not feel the cold. With her steps, she wheeled the fog forward, her head high and proud. She nodded and knelt before me and my eager fingers slid into her silken mane softer than any fur. “It is my time then,” I whispered without fear and, as though she understood, the Night Mare snorted. At my age, it was no small thing to climb atop her bareback, but I somehow found the strength. As the Mare righted, the thick mists coiled around us and I breathed my first easy breath in almost a year. “He is a good son, my Ulfrik. He deserves a good wife,” I told her as we trotted from the hearth and light. “I just hope he finds one that’s just a wee bit sour.” The Night Mare whinnied as a laugh and retreated for the trees. With us, so followed the fog.


Sebille looked up at me from the isometric squares of grass. “Where to next, snowtiger327?” she said, waving her magical circle dagger so that it glistened with computer-generated sunlight. I pressed PgUp on my keyboard to zoom in on her, smiling as her familiar elven face with its long, sharp bone structure shot clearer into view. “I was thinking we should change gear before we kill Bishop Alexander,” I said. I opened her equipment inventory and clicked on her cloak. Her shirt disappeared and she laughed and summoned up a lightning bolt which flew straight at me through the screen. I flew backwards, hitting the back of my chair and making it topple over. My knee stung as it rammed against the edge of my desk. Downstairs my mom called, “Is everything okay?’ “Yes mom,” I yelled. “Just a box I knocked over.” I scrambled back to the desk and righted my chair and sat down, out of breath, my knee smarting. “Try that again and I’ll use Needle on you,” she purred, referring to her sharp prized dagger with a mischievous smile on her face. I’d bought "Divinity II: Original Sin" on Steam in the summer and first played it while high. On 50 mg of edibles, I didn’t think it was weird when my name first appeared in the dialogue box and she said, “We start our adventure to become Godwoken, snowtiger327." I thought the game had taken my username from Steam. But the next day she commented when I laughed out loud when she assassinated a pesky soldier right in the middle of the city, and no one noticed. “Justice is wrought, eh snowtiger327?” she said with a cat-like purr in her silky smooth voice. Then she laughed and turned towards the screen of her own accord. I was silent for a few minutes. “Wait, you can hear me?” I said. “Yes, I have heard you, Bodiless Voice,” she said. “And I have seen that certain actions here--how do I say--repeat themselves.” She pointed to the dead NPC disdainfully. I told her about my room and my life outside of Divinity, and she grew quiet and thoughtful. I wondered if she was realizing she didn’t have any free will in the grand scheme of things. Her actions and plot line of life were premeditated by some game developers out beyond. Over the next months, I chose the spells she learned, the armor she used. But the things she said, the jokes she cracked, her threats and sorrows seemed very much her own. I would tell her about school and how I was lonely and bullied a lot. She’d tell me about her past. How she used to be the slave of a lizard master, who made her assassinate her own kin by singing a magical tune that forced her hand. She showed me the mark of her past servitude, a scar upon her otherwise smooth cheek. “You’re beautiful,” I said one day. We were almost done with the main storyline, but I spent many more hours hunting with her and doing side quests. She listened patiently, didn’t judge, and had the bravery of a true warrior. One day I told her about Devin and the comment my bully had made about my shorts being as tacky as my face. "What are...shorts?" she asked. I explained and she nodded. “You should vanquish her,” she advised me. “How?” I asked. “You should take a dagger, and pierce it into her heart,” she said, taking Needle and demonstrating on an unfortunate Black Ring member. I laughed. It was a week from Christmas when she said she wanted us to finish the game. I sat back in my rolling chair, looking thoughtfully back at her. Her olive skin and black straight hair, her long limbs, her sharp almond eyes and silver armor. She was prettier than I’d ever be, with my short stumpy legs, pimply face, and dull, dry frizz of a hairdo. She could be young and fierce forever. And yet she was unhappy. “There’s nothing more for me to do,” she said. All the quests had been done for a while, save for the last battle with Dallis which would finish the game. I knew this, but still I hesitated. “Finish with me,” she said. “I am Divinity and I am meant to be played.” “How do I know you’ll still be there after?” I said. Soon after I’d discovered I could talk to her, I had tried downloading the game on my brother’s PC to see if her self-awareness was replicable. Sebille had not talked to me there. “I may not be there,” she said. “But this will be.” She started singing, a strange elven song that sounded like the rustling of trees on a quiet day in the forest. When she was done, I slowly emerged from my trance. In front of me, glittering on the keyboard, was Needle, her prized dagger. I opened my mouth. We’d tested all sorts of ways for her to teleport out to me, using all the available skill books and scrolls, but they hadn’t worked. How had she done this? “Wait,” I said. “Maybe there’s a way--” “I need to finish my story,” she said. "I need to see what lies beyond the fight for Divinity...if there's more to who I am than just this game." In her voice I heard her need, and I said no more. “Be brave, snowtiger327,” she said. I nodded and cried, even though she could not see me. Together, we headed through the gates of the cave and confronted Dallis. We won, of course. The game finished and I watched the credits with pride as I heard of Sebille ascending to become the next Divine, in charge of the destiny of Source in her world. I knew she'd do great. The next day, I confronted Devin with Needle. Needless to say, she never bothered me about my shorts or face again. As for the game, I've played it many times since, but never again has a character spoken to me. And yet, I can say that I once truly had a great friend named Sebille. She was alive, she was witty, she was brave, and I hope she finally found meaning beyond the ending that was scripted for her.


Luna drew the blade from Sir Fariah’s shoulders and wiped it on the tawny grass. He slumped onto the ground, heaving ragged, shallow breaths. “That thing is evil,” he said. She said nothing, walking to the dragon lying still against the stone. “He has killed many,” Fariah said. “He has stolen what is not his.” “I am his,” Luna said, climbing up the dragon’s haunches, “And he is mine.” The creature arched its fire-red back, stretched its wings, eclipsing the setting sun. Then it rose up into the sky unevenly, blood splattering from one side, and the last Sir Fariah saw was the girl with the silver hair disappearing into the stars with the dragon he had sworn to slain. As they flew, Luna’s thoughts wandered. “You can still go back,” the dragon said after an eternal silence. “You are not unimportant, Princess.” “I can not,” she said, hugging his neck, her eyes stinging in the thick mist and fog. Suddenly everything was clear. Above them bright stars hung like lamps in the night sky. She could see Mount Tarkan and the Two Weeping Ladies in the north, their tears streaming in great waterfalls down to join the Martyrs’ River which swept all the way south to join the sea. Yes, the sea was somewhere far back where she could not see, and beyond that, a castle where she had had warm roasts and fig puddings brought to her, and magnificent rooms in which she had hid from Tutor Mary with the thin voice and flute lessons and hands so spidery she had always shuddered when they suddenly clapped from behind upon her shoulders. “Quiet,” a voice echoed, “She’ll find us.” For a moment Luna was lost in a great long corridor with velvet curtains, the hand of the tutor’s son pressed in hers as they hid in the cupboard stifling giggles. She could almost feel the warmth of the fire behind her mother’s chair-- A blast of wind from the east rushed against her face and snagged the scarf from her head. Her shoulders were cold but she was not aware of this. She watched the bright orange reminder of her childhood flutter into the cloud down below, and then meander out of sight like a sad lost bird. In front of her loomed the Great Mountains, and beyond that, darkness. The dragon dipped over the snow-capped peaks and into the shadowed valley. He landed unevenly at the mouth of a cave, and slowly limped in, blood streaming from his side. As he reached the far side of the wall, he suddenly shuddered and collapsed, and Luna tumbled off onto the ground, on which hay lay scattered as a makeshift bed. She ran to the dragon and held his head in her arms. “Hold on a moment,” she said, “Stay with me.” He nodded slowly, with effort, and she tore a large strip from her dress and used it to bind hay to the wound. Then she pressed her body against the dragon’s side with all her might, until slowly the wound stopped bleeding, and the dragon and girl fell slowly asleep. In the morning, when the sun rose and filled the cave with its golden glory, the dragon shimmered and turned into a sleeping boy, who awoke and blinked in surprise. Luna smiled and kissed him.


I’m going to ask you a question. I’ve asked it before. “Are you happy?” No, you scoff at me, with that look in your eye, that tone in your voice. The one calling me an idiot without saying those words. How could I ask such a stupid question? OF COURSE you’re not happy. Haven’t I been listening? Work stresses you out. You hate the way you look. You hate your body. No one likes you. You hate it when I ask questions with obvious answers. When you get hurt and I ask, “are you okay?” No, you snap at me, with that look in your eye, that tone in your voice. OF COURSE you’re not okay. I’d sigh. I know you aren’t okay. I’m NOT an idiot. I’m just trying to show concern, to show you that I care. So, I’ve tried to work on that. Instead of “are you happy,” I ask, “what do you need? What will cheer you up? What can I do?” I don’t know. Nothing. Nothing. So, another wrong choice of words on my part. That’s why, last night, when you were telling me everything that is wrong, everything stressing you out, I didn’t say anything. I don’t know what to say anymore. But that was wrong too. And that counted as a “fight” to you. To me it was just a blip. If something registers to you as a fight, and to me as just more of the same, where does that leave us? I’m getting off topic. Back to my question. Are you happy? No. Obviously not. What will make you happy? What do you need? What can I do? I don’t know. Nothing. Nothing. And so I sign. How to break this cycle? How about this: Does it bother you? That you don’t know. That there’s nothing you need. That there’s nothing I can do. Because it bothers me. Another question. Do you want to be happy? So I used to ask stupid, obvious questions. Working on that. Then I tried to offer helpful suggestions. Work is stressing you out. Have you tried cutting yourself some slack? Have you tried using different techniques? Have you thought about talking to someone? Maybe a therapist can help (because I can’t). No (idiot), that wouldn’t work. No (idiot), I don’t need to see a shrink. In fact, you’re offended that I even suggest that. What, do I think you’re crazy? Okay. You hate the way you look. You hate your body. Your back is in constant pain. I tell you that I like the way you look. I try to be more physical, giving you words and touch of affirmation. And I tell you that you don’t need to be resigned to living a life of chronic pain. It’s not normal. Maybe we should go see a doctor? Maybe we should go to a chiropractor. You tell me you don’t believe me. You tell me you don’t want to be touched. You start to cry hysterically as you tell me you don’t need to go to a doctor, that they won’t do anything. Okay. So then, really think about that question. “Are you happy?” No. Obviously not. Then a follow up: is that a problem? Is that something you want to fix? Do you want to be constantly stressed out, constantly on edge, constantly in pain? And here’s the real kicker. Here’s the big question. The one I really want to ask: Why don’t you ever ask me if I’m happy? Are you afraid of the answer? I think you know it already. And for how much you don’t know how to be happy, I know that this is true too: You don’t know how to be alone. And I know it would break you to have to be.