Breathe in Breathe out The smell of earth after a rain was magnificent, the dirt so rich and full of minerals, like when coffee is freshly brewed. The colors of all living things were vibrant and luscious. It mesmerized the eye, like a thousand jewels in the sun. It was almost intoxicating to all the senses, the beauty of the land we stood on. It’s a day of celebration, and it was as if the world has freshly showered for the occasion. The symbolism of rain was significant; we had all cleansed ourselves in it, both soul and body, with the tears of the sky. Although the wood had to be covered for the great fire that would occur later that night, all other activities resumed as usual. In the center of the field, a pole was placed in the ground, its gold color shimmering like a beacon of light that attracted the young spirits like moths to a flame. Soon, each child would have a brightly colored ribbon in their hand to wrap around the pole with speed and precision, only to unravel it and start again. Woven baskets held an abundance of fresh flowers, their long stems would allow gentle hands to bind one to the next. An infinite circle of brightly scented petals to be crowned on the heads of all, for today we let in the light and shoo away the dark. Spring had come and blessed us with the wondrous joys of life, but summer was here, marked with the equinox and the heat of the sun. The entrance was lined with fire, another cleansing process. Burning away any dark spirits contaminating our souls. More torches would be lit the closer the night came, only to be blown out again for the single uniting flame. On the far side of the field, a stage had been prepared for the theatrics of the story of the Green Man and the May Queen.

All of this was so familiar to me. I have lived it for 26 years now, since childhood. Nurtured into religion by my parents. Guided to the love of my life by the stars. I found myself here in memory, the time of our courtship and joining of lives. The day was similar to this one with damp earth and burning flames, it was truly a celebration. I relish in the feeling once more, receiving my delicate crown and sprinting around the pole till my legs could no longer. Rolling down the grass hills, filled with so much life. Now the night was ascending upon us, and more torches were lit, appearing as glowing orbs against the darkening sky. It was nearing time, one that formed a knot in my stomach, lolling around like a heavy stone. The joy of summer had lifted my spirits, but the agonizing darkness still held me down, not quite letting me float from land in a blissful stupor. The reality check that I was still alone. My pang of grief strangled my heart. I watched as they started the fire games. They dodged between sticks of it, juggled it, danced around it, and ran through it, purifying and healing themselves by it. I stood from afar, watching. Disassociating. We were supposed to be together. We were supposed to be doing this together. I’m alone. I thought I had washed away those twisted sorrows in the rain; cleansed my soul and my mind from this funk within. The fears hauntingly resurfaced without permission, blazing in my head like the small torches of fire spread out before me. These feelings were so violently bright, it burned to look and touch them; singeing my soul into the pits of hell. I shoved my emotions down my throat, but it made it hard to breathe and become lodged next to my heart. It ached; my chest. Dropping to my knees, I ask the earth for strength and the full moon for guidance. Asking it to rid me of my love for this man, even if it makes me void of feeling at all. Suddenly the world was very dark, illuminated by the shine of the silver goddess in the sky. I could breathe; my soul felt restored into my body. I realized that the torches had been snuffed out, and the final ceremony was commencing; The Great Fire.

It was huge; the outline alone appeared to tower the nearest treeline silhouette, like a mountain. Wood was collected for a year for this massive fire, and it could burn all night. A single match was used, and that was all it took for the entire entity to be engulfed in waves of orange and red. The immense heat radiated, even to me from this distance, and subconsciously I reached for my face to ensure my eyebrows were still intact. My flesh was dewed after many tears had escaped my leaking eyes from my earlier episode. I felt entranced, lingering between the feelings of loss and awe of the sight of the fire. Trapped between enjoying the warmth and wanting to incinerate my being. I found myself standing at the base of the fire. The lump in my throat became increasingly uncomfortable, it itched and burned, My palms sweat, possibly from the heat or the anxiety in my veins, and it made it difficult to retrieve the only thing I brought from my pocket. The picture was crumpled, and I carefully straightened the edges. It was a photo of us, from this day 4 years ago. I brought it to burn it, but his face was so captivating. The softness of his hair and the scent of his skin still lingered in my mind. The large fire was meant to be unifying, yet I feel so alien. I realized I didn’t know what I was doing here. I came here to celebrate. Celebrate what? My own self-pity? That I have no one? This was ridiculous. I thought I could move past this pain, but it gripped me at the core. I’m not ready to move on. I can’t be here. I feel the eyes of the others surrounding the fire, waiting to see what I will do next, but even I don’t know what I will do. I just knew that this was not the place, not the time. I wanted so desperately to move on only to reach the summit and realize I can’t. I chickened out.  It was too much for my heart, still freshly riddled with injury, oozing blood outside my veins. This was not my happy Beltane. I’ll try again next year.


Jesus Nieves word count:2793 jnieves6556@gmail.com DRAW WHAT YOU SEE BY JESUS NIEVES It's 3 am and Trevor can't sleep. He sits in his drawing-room; thinking of what to draw, for his next graphic novel. Trevor turns on his TV, hoping to get inspiration. He watches a documentary about serial killers. A light bulb goes off in his head, what if he created a character who is a serial killer. This killer is an artist, his art does the killing for him instead of using his bare hands.

The killer draws out the murder scene of how he imagines killing his victims. Trevor runs to his drawing-room. He plans out the character’s look and motives for killing. Trevor decides to base the killer on him, a comic artist who struggles with life. A New Yorker who struggles to pay his bills. He has a boss who looks for any reason to fire him, and a landlord who harasses him about the rent.

His girlfriend cheated on him with his brother on his birthday. The character has all the motives he needs. The next day, Trevor sits at his desk. A coffee cup slams right in front of him. He looks up, it’s his boss, Jake. Trevor wipes clean the coffee splats on his drawing board. Jake chews his donut, spitting chunks of it on Trevor, “nothing new I see” Jake says.

Trevor, annoyed by Jake's very existence, replies “actually, I do”. Jake is in shock, “oh, what is it?” He says. Trevor spills the details. Jake loves it, pushing it because he has his bosses wanting new content that sells. “Go home, come back Friday morning with my issue,” he says. The pressure is on, Trevor has to finish a comic in three days.

It’s 2:57 am, it’s pouring, only the sounds of rain kept him up. Trevor questions who he would kill as his character, Trent. He uses Jake as a character, who is killed in his office by drinking coffee mixed with hydrofluoric acid. It was easy, Jake would always carry his plastic tumbler. The setup would be Jake going to the bathroom, the killer will pour acid into the cup, letting Jake kill himself. Trevor, excited that he finally has the motivation, titles the graphic novel “one cup too many”.

He finally gets to sleep when he hears knocking at his door, he opens the door groggy from being up late. It's Richard, the landlord, who always nags about rent but never kept the building livable or safe. Richard looked like the building itself, disgusting and unbearable. Trevor holds his breath from not swallowing the horrible stench that radiates from the man. Richard smiles, “two weeks and no rent, where’s my money?” He says. Trevor hated the fact that he had no heat and the bathtub is clogged for more than a month. He couldn’t stand his landlord, “you’ll get your money Friday, I promise” he says.

Richard peeks in past Trevor, looking around the apartment. “In A space like this, I could get more than what you're paying for” he hints. Trevor restrains himself from saying what he really felt, “understood, I don’t want any trouble, you will have your money” he says. Richard takes a moment to think, “make it double… for making me wait” he says mockingly. Trevor wanted to burst in rage, the nerve of this man wanting and not fixing anything. He knew he had to suck it up because he had no other place to go. “Fine, … double,” he says.

Richard loved the power of threatening someone's livelihood, and Trevor knew it. Richard leaves, Trevor slams his door shut. Trevor now has the second victim for his character, his landlord. He finds it perfect, what person doesn’t fantasize about ridding the world of slumlords. Trevor sits in his room, drawing the next victim for his character. He draws the landlord watching TV in his basement apartment. The landlord hears a knock on his door. He gets up to answer, noticing water rushing into the apartment.

The landlord, alarmed, goes to check where the water is coming from. The landlord notices a pipe cracked letting the water run, filling the hallway with water almost knee-high. He turns the water off from the main switch. He returns to his apartment to grab his tool belt, but is shocked to see a man wearing tall rubber boots. The landlord also notices the man wearing a black trench coat, hooded and wearing a Guy Fawkes mask. The outfit didn’t strike fear in the landlord’s heart, it was the fact that the man had his TV in hand.

The landlord tries to run wearing flip-flops. He falls to the ground, soaking his whole body. The killer didn’t give him a chance, he smashes the TV on the ground next to the landlord. Instantly, the landlord is fried by the electrical current from the TV. Trevor is spooked when he sees his lights flicker, but continues to finish his issue. Falling asleep on his desk, Trevor wakes to a loud knocking on his door.

He opens the door, groggy from working late. Now wide awake, he sees two detectives standing in front of him. The detectives introduce themselves as Santiago and Davis. The two looked intense, like all work and no play. Santiago pulls out a notepad, he reads “you are Trevor miller, right?”, Trevor nods his head. Davis scoffs, “is that a yes or no?” he says. Trevor replies, “yes, what’s going on?”.

The detectives look at each other, Santiago says, “did you notice or hear anything last night?”. Trevor replies, “no, I was drawing all night”. The two detectives chuckle, Davis says, “drawing?”. Trevor replies, “yes, am a comic artist…why?”. Santiago says, “it’s about your landlord… he was found dead by his apartment, one of your neighbors found him lifeless in a puddle of water”. Trevor feels his heart dropping to his feet, he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. The detectives wait for Trevor to get himself together, Davis says, “if you remember anything or notice anything odd, give us a call”, he hands Trevor a card.

The detectives leave Trevor to think about what they said. Trevor closes his door in disbelief that his landlord died the same way he illustrated in his issue. He runs to the bathroom, throwing up last night’s Chef Boyardee. Trevor rinses his face, trying to calm the anxiety he was feeling. He took a moment to look at himself in the mirror, but something in him felt different, his reflection was not him, instead, it was Trent, the killer looking back at him. The reflection smiled at him, Trevor knew what it meant.  They are the same person, Trevor can kill and get away with it. At that moment, he didn’t feel bad for Richard. It was like a heavy weight lifted off his shoulders, knowing that Richard couldn't harass him anymore, made him feel powerful. Trevor’s phone buzzes, he answers it. His co-worker gives him the news of Jake being murdered at the office. Trevor gives his best performance, pretending he was devastated.  The co-worker also tells him he is taking Jake's place until the board can make it final. Trevor's life has changed in two days, he doesn't have to worry about rent for the time being and is promoted with better pay. It's Friday morning, Trevor now sits in his office, which was previously occupied by Jake. Suddenly, he begins getting an intense headache. Trevor's mind shoots flashes of Jake and Richard dying. He snaps out of it to see on the wall a mirror, the killer is the reflection, looking back at him with the mask on.

The killer removes the mask revealing Trent is Trevor, he can see the killer walking out of the mirror standing right in front of him. The two look each other up and down, mimicking each other's actions. They lock eyes, Trevor can see the darkness in Trent. The two smile at each other in a chilling, sinister kind of way, coming into the realization of becoming one. Trevor is interrupted by an employee, “sir, are you ok?” Trevor turns to look at the employee. He could see the man in fear by the way Trevor looked at him, and he loved every second of it, “yes?” He says. “The head honchos love the samples you sent, they want you to finish the issue,” the employee timidly says.

Trevor could hear the voice of Trent, “let the terror begin” Trent says. Trevor sits in his office, he notices detectives Santiago and Davis questioning the employees. He felt confident to inquire about their visit. “ Detectives, what brings you here?” he says. The detectives look at each other, shocked to see Trevor in Jake’s office, “I thought you were just a comic artist?” Davis says sarcastically. Trevor sparingly smiles, not intimidated by the detectives. “I was promoted due to the tragic passing of Jake, as you already know,” he says.

The detectives can see that Trevor didn't seem sympathetic about the death. “You seem unaffected by two deaths close to you, and now a promotion…looks like death has blessed you,” Santiago says. Trevor replies, “Death affects us all, good or bad, detective”. Santiago reads his notepad, “when was the last time you spoke with Jake?” He says. Trevor, knowing that he could never be caught, answers, “we spoke about a new graphic novel that had to be done by today, which explains my promotion” he says. Davis chuckles, “what a coincidence that your comic book is called one cup too many, odd, almost a reference,” he says.

Trevor and Davis stare at each other for a moment, Trevor chuckles, “what are you trying to say?, Death by comic book, that sounds insane, detective” he says sarcastically. Davis, not liking the sarcasm, moves forward to strike Trevor but is stopped by Santiago. Santiago whispers in his partner's ear, telling him to walk away. Trevor in full confidence has seen enough cop shows to know what comes next. Santiago approaches Trevor, “Mr. Miller, we will stay in touch,” he says. Trevor nods his head, as Santiago walks away, he says “I hope you catch your guy!”. Santiago replies, “you can bet on it, Mr. Miller”. Trevor sits in his drawing-room trying to come up with new ideas for the closing of his issue. He paces back and forth, thinking of what to draw next. Trevor looks through his desk drawer for inspiration. He finds an old photo, in it was Trevor, his ex-girlfriend, and best friend. He is reminded of painful memories. Rapid Flashes of his girlfriend Ashley cheating on him with his friend Barry. Trevor starts throwing things, filled with rage. He smashes his coffee mug at a mirror he uses for reference, to see Trent staring back at him. Trevor knew what Trent was telling him, that look meant that Ashley and Barry are next. Detectives Santiago and Davis sit in a room with a computer tech who reviews CCTV footage for crime scenes. The tech says, “well guys, your killer is either stupid or crazy”. Santiago and Davis are puzzled, “why do you say that?” Santiago says. The tech types in keys to access footage of Jake's office, “here the killer is masked until he reaches the staircase, although no cameras by the stairs, you can see the killer removing his mask before the door closes shut”. The tech can see he has their attention, “what about the landlord who was murdered?” Davis says. The tech chuckles, “that was easy, even though there's no camera in a basement apartment, I figured why not pull up footage from across the street, which a corner bodega has a Camera'' he says. The footage shows the killer walking up steps from the basement apartment, removing his mask, then entering the building. The detectives watch the footage with their eyes wide, confirming their number one suspect. Santiago grabs a phone nearby, he dials and lets it ring, “captain, we're gonna need a warrant, asap” he says.

Trevor begins illustrating the climax to his graphic novel, fighting off an excruciating headache. He knows how his character will kill next. He met his ex through Liz, she works with him and happens to be Ashley’s best friend. Trevor overheard Liz talk about Ashley and Barry celebrating their anniversary this weekend. Liz avoided talking about them, but couldn't help herself gush over their romance. She mentioned Ashley wanting Liz to pick up a cake for the occasion. Liz arrives, she knocks on the couple's door. Ashley, stuck in the kitchen, yells to Barry, “babe, could you get the door?” She shouts. Barry comes out of the bedroom, “I got it!” He says. Barry looks through the peephole and sees Liz with the cake. He opens the door, “let me help you with that” he says. Barry's eyes bulge out, looking down at his stomach to see he's been stabbed. He realizes the killer was hiding behind Liz's dead body, stabbing him from under her arms. The killer drops Liz, then stabs Barry several times. Barry falls to the floor, trying to warn Ashley, but dies before uttering a word. The pasta is ready, Ashley walks to grab a strainer, she drops it when she sees the killer standing over Barry's body. Ashley cries out in horror, noticing he killed Liz too. She runs to the bedroom, locking herself in, she tries dialing 911 but panics when there's no dial tone. She pauses when hearing her name, confused by the familiar voice, “tre-trevor?” She says. The killer yells, “Ashley, I’m here to celebrate your anniversary,” he says. Paralyzed in fear, “why?! Why did you kill them!?” She says hysterically.

All is silent, Ashley panting, “Trevor?” She says. The door bursts open, she sees the killer with his mask. He removes the mask revealing Trevor's face, sunken eyes with dark circles. “Am here now, to make it go away” he whispers. Ashley can see Trevor kept rubbing his head as if he had a bad migraine. Ashley’s heart drops, seeing him walking towards her. Trevor grabs her by the neck, he tightens his grip, causing her to fight for air. “With this knife, I've drawn out a better life, and I can give you that second chance,” he says. Ashley, unable to speak, knows that she is going to die like Barry and Liz. Ashley closes her eyes, accepting what comes next. Santiago and Davis have done their research. The detectives know who their killer is, so they looked into the next possible victims. They knew Trevor would come for Ashley and Barry, Liz told them that Trevor went through a horrible breakup due to Ashley’s infidelity. The detectives exit the elevator leading to Ashley's apartment. They notice Liz dead, quickly drawing their weapons. The detectives enter the apartment, noticing Barry in a pool of blood, lying lifeless. Davis checks for a pulse, with his hand, gestures that Barry is gone. Trevor sits his weight on Ashley with one hand choking her. He gestures as of drawing over Ashley with his knife, “now I finish my graphic novel” he says. Trevor, with the knife, raises his hand to kill Ashley. Trevor faces the doorway, he stops when he sees Santiago and Davis, with their guns drawn on him. He snickers, “detectives, you're here to finish my graphic novel,” he says. Santiago and Davis inch closer, “we got you, cameras got you, nowhere to run,” Davis says.

Santiago could see Ashley looking seconds away from dying, “if she dies, you have five murders, there’s no way out of this. Let us help you, Trevor” he says. “Help? I helped myself draw the life I always wanted… to draw what I see” Trevor says. Davis knows in his gut Trevor is going for the kill, “he's gonna do it, he's gonna kill her” Davis says. Santiago locks his eyes on Trevor, seeing that he is far gone. He gestures his head nodding no to Trevor, “don't do it, Trevor” he says.

Trevor smiles in a chilling manner, “actually, call me Trent” he says. He goes for the kill, “no, no, no!” Santiago yells. Not having any other choice, The detectives load Trevor with bullets, causing Trevor to crash through a window behind him. Davis runs to Ashley, she gasps for air, coughing violently. “Are you ok?” He says, she nods her head, yes, holding her tender neck. Santiago checks to see where Trevor fell. Trevor lies dead, impaled by the sharp-edged front gate. Santiago looks back at his partner, “it’s over?” Davis says. Santiago replies, “death by comic book, the story ends”.


1 I don’t know what it was that caused me to wake without reason at three-sixteen in the morning on the morning of December twenty fifth. Sure enough, however, by three-seventeen I am standing at the foot of my bed wide awake. This is highly unusual as it is unheard of to find me out from beneath my sheets before noon. I stand at the foot of my full sized mattress in my tiny eight by eight foot bedroom, hands on my hips, listening. Listening for… for anything, really. Surely it had not been solely random that my eyes peeled opened at such a ripe hour and instinctively, I rose from the warmth of my heated blanket to stand at the foot of my bed without cause. After a minute of silence, I scoff at myself for such foolish behavior. I turn back towards the heat and comfort of my rectangular safe haven, when all of a sudden, I hear what awoke me in the first place; yes, it had to be the initial cause for this unusual situation.

From outside my bedroom window, I hear a suspicious rustling. I look to my bedside digital clock sitting upon my nightstand, three-eighteen. I stand there pondering for a moment and then decide it’s much too late for myself to get involved in anything less than an alien invasion. I fluff my pillow and grab hold of the sheets and then… I hear an ever so faint crash; like a child dropping their rubix cube upon the hardwood floor as they sneak to the kitchen for a snack past bedtime, alerting their parents of the mini-heist. I groan quietly as I pull back from the bed and turn in the direction of my bedroom window. It really is much too late to concern myself in the affairs of another but I suppose there’s no harm in a quick peek. It was, after all, much too late for innocence down in the alley.

I step to the window and pull back the shade just an inch so I may peer out over the alley that separates my apartment building from Ms. Flannery’s bakery. At first glance, I don’t notice anything out of the regular and relief takes place of the itsy-bitsy bit of anxiety that may have moved into my lower belly. With an exhale of relief, I release the shade but at the last second, my eye catches something odd. I peer back into the alley and anxiety takes its rightful place back in my lower belly. I notice the emergency exit on the bakery’s alley side exterior wall is just the slightest bit ajar; so slight that I think to myself, there’s no way I should have been able to notice.

My anxiety escalates as I think the situation over; Ms. Flannery only uses that door for one purpose and that is to receive deliveries. The current problem, if it needs any evaluation at all, is that there is no food truck in sight and I waved goodbye to Ms. Flannery five and a half hours ago as she locked up to go home for the night. She or one of her part time bakers may have returned after realizing they forgot something but why so late and why use the alleyway door? I almost decided it’s not suspicious enough and to just get back in bed. Then I remember assuring Ms. Flannery I would keep an eye on her place of business while she’s not around. After all, she does always hook me up with amazing pastries that don't sell by the end of the day, and she makes the best pastries I’ve ever tasted in my life. I always ask her how she does it but I’m reminded each time of her very secret ingredient .

My pondering of the situation is interrupted by a beam of light moving around inside the bakery; a flashlight, I presume, and that settles it. I reach for my jacket and keys and step out into the narrow hallway. As I make my way down the stairs toward the alleyway exit of the apartment building, I decide to send Ms. Flannery a text message, “I think one of your employees forgot something, alleyway exit ajar and someone moving around inside. Going to check it out.” I click my cell phone off and slide it into my jacket’s interior pocket as I reach the exit leading into the alleyway I was just watching from above. 2 I gently push in the crash bar mechanism of the old metal door, that hasn’t had a working alarm in the last 15 years, so that I don’t make much noise. I quietly push the door open just enough so that I may slip out into the night, and then let the door fall closed as I apply enough resistance to the handle so it shuts without a sound. I look toward the bakery exit and find it still slightly ajar but I no longer hear any rustling inside; maybe, I think to myself, they heard my footsteps coming down the stairs and bolted outta there. I cling to hope that this is the case so I may lock up for Ms. Flannery and return to the comfort of my worn out mattress.

I relax my nerves convincing myself that the perpetrator is gone but the retreat of my anxiety is short lived. I hear a voice come from the other side of the ajar door; a deep but quiet voice sounding like that of a monster in your closet, “Come on, where is it? I know she keeps it around here, somewhere, I know it.” My eyes widen and my heart begins beating painfully in my chest. Someone really has broken into Ms. Flannery’s bakery and they’re looking for something.

I reach into my jacket pocket and very slowly pull my phone back out, trying desperately not to make any noise. I type out a new message to Ms. Flannery, “Not an employee. Somebody looking for something. Break-In. Not a joke.” I press send and then I hear the voice from inside again, “Ah-Ha! Oh Flannery, you’re a sly fox without doubt but I've always known I’d find you.” I close my eyes and silently groan to myself; whoever’s in there has found what they’re looking for and it won’t be long before they come out of there. As I evaluate the situation and think of the best possible course of action, my cell phone pings loudly. I squinch my eyes tightly realizing

I forgot to put my cell phone on silent!

I hear a gasp from inside and a loud sound of impact as if whoever’s inside stumbled against a big piece of cooking machinery in surprise. Silence follows as I look down at my phone and see the message from Ms. Flannery, “You’ve got to stop them. They’re after my very secret ingredient that’s immensely special to my bakery. Don’t let them leave!” The silence is interrupted by the voice from inside, “Who’s out there?” The voice is now harsh and threatening like a momma bear and her cubs backed into a corner by hunters.

Restricted by shock and anxiety, I open my mouth to respond but I’m unable to find my voice. Another text from Ms. Flannery, “Whatever you do, you can’t let them leave. On my way.” The ping from the second text seemed to come from an air horn and echo through the alleyway and into the bakery. The voice inside grows desperate now and sounds slightly fearful, “I’m not someone who’s known for playing games, okay! You’ve got your hand dangerously close to a furnace, my friend, and if you’re wise you’ll pull that hand back.” Ms. Flannery’s text message plays back over and over again in my head, “can’t let them leave.”

Finally, enough anxiety stands aside allowing me to find my voice, “Look, I don’t know what you came here for but it’s no concern of mine. I don’t care who you are but I can’t let you leave here with anything.” With those words, I prepare myself mentally and physically, fully expecting the monster from the closet to come running out those doors clawing and gnashing away at me. Instead, there’s another moment of silence, and then a sudden crashing sound erupts as if whoever’s inside just sent baking utensils soaring across the floor.

Before I can piece together what’s playing out inside, one of the bakery windows on the far side of the alley swings open and a slim shadowy figure leaps outside. A tall outline of a man turns and stares through me with silver moon-like eyes that could pierce steel. All I am able to see of the man in the darkness are those two silver eyes with black slits down the middle, the brim of a fedora style hat, and a long overcoat that runs the length of his tall body. Hovering at his waist, but undoubtedly held in one of his unseen hands, is a brown sack that’s tied at the mouth by a skinny sliver of rope. The bag glows brightly and emits an intense purple aura. My brain is screaming at my legs to advance on the perpetrator but my instincts and anxiety force them to stay put.

I do the only thing I can think to do, “H..H..Hey! W..Wa..Wait right there!” My eyes unconsciously continue drifting back to the glowing brown sack in his hand. What in the world could be in there making it glow that way, I think to myself. And that aura that surrounds the bag, that’s not normal, is it? A monstrous voice bellows through the alley from the shadowy figure, “You’ll be smart to go back upstairs, go to sleep, and pretend this was all a bad nightmare.” The dark outline turns from me, those moonlight eyes disappearing, and runs with intensity and speed I’ve never even seen on olympics television. He turns the corner at the end of the alley, where the front of the bakery and my apartment building face the street, and disappears like a twinkle in the night sky.

3 My phone pings a third time and I bring it before my eyes again. Another message from Ms. Flannery, “Pulling up now.” I glance at the time on my cell phone screen, three-twenty-six. Amazing the things you can experience in only ten minutes. I see headlights run across the face of the alleyway from in front of the bakery and then a car door opens and slams shut. I hear Ms. Flannery’s frantic low voice, “Please still be inside, oh please please please.” Disappointment floods my conscience as I realize I must go tell the sweet bakery owner that I let the burglar get away with her special ingredient, whatever that may be.

I make my way to the front of the shop as I hear keys jingle and then find their way into the locking mechanism with a click and a turn. “Alright you slimy crook, just go ahead and show yourself and I won’t make this too ugly,” Ms. Flannery’s voice echoes harshly throughout the bakery. I stop in my tracks and my eyes widen profusely at the sound of her threatening demeanor. Never in my life have I heard Ms. Flannery speak in any other tone than sweet and loving, different circumstances I suppose. I turn the shop corner and enter the bakery through the open front doors only to be taken back, yet again, by the small loving middle aged baker. In Ms. Flannery’s sturdy hands, exists a large colorful spaceship looking gadget that resembles a pistol shooter.

She waves the end of the gadget from side to side searching for the intruder and continues to yell out threateningly, “I don’t know how you finally found me but I’m not letting you walk out of here with what’s mine!” She apparently doesn’t hear me walk in and turns on me defensively as I accidentally kick a rolling pin across the floor. She faces me now with the barrel of her gadget locked on me and I see rage in her face for the first time in my life. I raise my arms to show her my hands are free from any potential threats and cry out, “Ms. Flannery, please, it’s only me!”

Her eyes squint and adjust on me in the darkness. “Oh my good lord, I’m so sorry,” she apologizes sincerely. “But… if you’re here then where’s the Griever?”

“The… Griever?” “I’m sorry, hun. The dark figure with the silver eyes. That’s what they’re called, Grievers. Where did it go?”

I peer at her in the darkness bewildered. “I’m sorry, Ms. Flannery. I’m not exactly sure what you’re talking about. The burglar ran out of here right before you pulled up. We were out in the alleyway and he took off at a speed I didn’t know was even possible.” I see disappointment flood through her as the alien looking weapon she’s holding falls to her side. “Well then he’s probably made it back to the other side with my secret ingredient by now.” I interrupt her loathing in a concerned manner, “Ms. Flannery, what are you talking about? What other side?” She leans against one of her pastry display counters and gestures for me to take a seat on a nearby stool. “Have a seat, please. I need to explain some things to you.” I do as instructed and all prior thoughts or intentions of getting back to bed fade away.

“That ‘man’ was no man at all. Not even a human, that is. That thing was a Griever, a dangerous being from an alternate dimension. One who came here the same way I got to where it lives and then eventually got back.”

“You’ve completely lost me Ms. Flannery. I’m not in a weird dream am I? Would I know if I were?” “You’re not in any dream, sugar, I promise. Just, try to stay with me, okay? Years and years ago, when I first opened this bakery, I found a way to travel to an alternate dimension in search of a secret ingredient that would revolutionize baked goods. I searched different dimensions for years until I finally found the one I was looking for, Oshanna. Oshanna is a universe that harbors a precious ingredient that I use in all my pastries. The secret ingredient that makes my pastries unlike any other bakeries in this universe.”

Regret begins to set in my lower belly mixing with its original destructive tenant and intensifying my anxiety twenty times. I can’t really be hearing what I’m hearing can I?

“Hey,” Ms. Flannery snaps at me. “Are you still with me?” I nod my head and she continues on with her story.

“I found the ingredient I had been searching for in this universe. I found it in great bulk as matter of fact, literally growing in large fields. The only problem was Oshannans are an extremely greedy bunch; taking immense pride in what’s theirs and not willing to share with anyone else. So I stole what I needed and I returned home through a time warp.”

“A time warp?”

“Yes, a rip in the time continuum; allowing you to hop between dimensions and time periods. Anyway, I made it back and swore to never return because I knew they would kill me if they ever saw me again. I never imagined they’d make it here and find me, though.”

I look back to the weapon at her side and ask, “That gadget you have, what is it?” “It’s a weapon I took from their dimension in case they ever did find me. It’s the only thing that can kill a Griever.”

“Well we don’t have to worry about that, I imagine he’s long gone, like you said. “I agree, and that’s the problem.” “The problem? I’m glad that thing is long gone.” “Yes, a big problem. It got away with my special ingredient. You and I know my bakery won’t hold up much longer without it.”

“I don’t believe that’s true, you’re an amazing baker. Surely you don’t need whatever that stuff is to keep selling your pastries.” “You’ve never had anything I’ve made that hasn’t had that ingredient. And I’d bet you’ve never had any pastries in your life better than mine, am I right?” I nod my head in agreement.

“You’re right.” “Listen, I know it’s late and I just hit you with a lot of information. However, I need that ingredient and I won’t make it there and back, alone. I know it’s a lot to ask but…” “I’m in.” “Really? Just like that, huh?” “Well, I’ve always wanted to be an astronaut since I was a kid, go see space and all that. How different can this be?” “Oh honey… you have no idea.”

“Alright, let's do it then.” Ms. Flannery gives me a great big smile and takes my hand in hers. She gives me a big hug before leading me out the doors and into her sedan parked out front.

“Wait a second, where exactly are we going from here,” I ask. She smiles mischievously and answers, “We’re going to where that Griever crossed over.”


There is a tortoise walking through blackberry bramble. Her name is Genesis. She’s wondering when the world will change. She’s been here since the beginning, wandering through time content, serene. Genesis is pleased with her role and happy with her lot. She’s seen trees live and die, empires rise and fall, species come and go. Through it all, she’s wandered the borders of now and never , here and there , life and death . She’s guided many travelers along their way. Genesis is patient and calm and loves eating Etoi plants, which grow in tall stalks from the ground and sprout leafy greens above her head. No matter where she goes, some things remain the same—the Etoi are one of them. It’s a good thing, too, because Genesis knows how difficult it can be to find nutritious food these days, given the losing trajectory of the war against the weeds. The blackberry bushes are strangling her food source. This is another constant. Yesterday, Genesis went to a small spiral of stones that served as her Gateway and found them blue and cooling, choked by the inky purple juice of blackberries. Blackberries are not native to this island. Genesis was saddened by the death of her Gateway, but she knew the Way of the Traveler, so she meandered away and carried onward. Genesis spends most of her time on the island sanctuary, cloistered behind a shiny metal fence and buffeted by greenery and plenty. She misses her run of the earth, but it’s safer here; it won’t always be, but it is now. Ahead, there’s another traveler in the thicket. Genesis can feel the inexorable pull of the search drawing them together; its lull is mesmerizing. She travels forward, pushing her way through thorny bushes and into another patch of weeds that rub uncomfortably against the thick skin of her legs and neck. She pushes on, contemplating the subtleties of desire as she does. She hums to herself: This is the nature of being: to love and to lose and to live, seek, destroy, and build. This is the life I have chosen. This is the Traveler’s Way. When the seeker finally emerges, stumbling and crashing into the clearing with Genesis, the tortoise is startled. She’s had several companions along her journey and escorted many more to their destinations—she’s even shuttled a particularly curious pterodactyl to the Fairy Realm at his unrelenting request—but this being catches her off guard. Most seekers are wise, confident, curious, and often more than a little lost, but the human child unscrupulously scratching its itch strikes Genesis as none of those things. He seems irritable, in a sweet sort of way, and his unusually large ears make him look scrawnier than he probably is. Freckles have overtaken most of his coltish features, and Genesis can see them encroaching on his neck from his face, licking their tiny-freckle-lips greedily at the soft, peachy skin peeking through his tattered shirt. Genesis squints at the boy and considers retracting into her shell but then thinks better of it. This child is here for her, after all. The small boy approaches curiously, scratching an abnormally large ear with his left hand while reaching tentatively out toward Genesis with his right. He’s never seen a tortoise. He’s never even been past the fence of his blackberry-covered nursery. This is a whole new world. Genesis stays very still, not wanting to startle the strange creature. As he approaches, she can see faint scratches and tiny purple stains clotted and clustered around his wrists and thighs and neck. The closer he gets, the more smudged his features become, smearing into one another and then into the thicket behind him. By the time the boy gets close enough to touch her, his face is nothing more than the trace of a smile and the hint of something teary. Genesis knows where to lead him. She turns; her motions are slow, languid, strange to the creature who, even now, continues to jump. Genesis begins her next journey, the fiendish ghost of a boy in tow. She murmurs: This is the nature of being: to love and to lose and to live, seek, destroy, and build. This is the life I have chosen. This is the Traveler’s Way. The boy follows suit and picks up the mantra, and they travel as a group of three: a tortoise as old as the world, a boy as young as a dream, a verse more fleeting than time. It’s a long journey, and the child is getting antsier by the moment. His scratching has moved from his ear, down his neck, and onto his wrists. But his furious nails leave no mark. Instead, his supple joints are covered in remnants of bramble, stained purple and swollen. He can’t feel them. Genesis doesn’t rush—she never does—and maintains her pace as they slip through a hole in the gate of the sanctuary and into a scion reserved for younger tortoises, ones too small to remember when blackberries were enjoyed as a treat. Genesis used to love blackberries. Now they make her sick, churn her stomach and bring up all her nutritious Etoi with them. Genesis is startled out of thought by a soft, strangled cry, and her breath hitches. She hisses, blowing air out of her lungs as she retracts into her shell. The cry comes again, and Genesis realizes she’s lost her small companion. Reluctantly, she ventures out of her shell and begins to backtrack. The child can’t be far. She’s right, he isn’t, and when Genesis finds him, another pang grips her chest. There is her coltish companion, wrapped up and choking in vines. Blackberries encircle his wrists and cling to his neck and thighs and lips and teeth. He’s crying out, pleading, wishing he isn’t here, dreaming of a someplace better. Only, he’s already found that place. What clings to his faceless being aren’t blackberries—they’re too blurry and smeared, like a painter’s bowl of brush water dropped on a watercolor masterpiece. Everything bleeds together: the boy’s freckles, his ears, all purpling as the blackberry juices pick up his own peachy hue. Genesis sighs and moves to a nearby rock. She rests her head on the ground and waits. There’s nothing else to do when it’s a memory. It looks like he was snagged by a stray bramble and sent spiraling into the past. In several minutes, the boy calms and recovers enough to brush off the stray vine that had encircled his ankle to begin with and triggered the memory. He’s shaken, but grounded, and Genesis decides it’s time to move on. The pair continues for a while longer and arrives at a pond with murky blue water and green goop creeping up the sides. The boy stares. “What now?” he asks, tentatively dipping a purple hand into the water. The water doesn’t respond or ripple, glisten or reflect. It ignores him very rudely and very completely. Genesis shrugs and settles herself comfortably under the shade of a nearby stalk of Etoi. The boy tugs on his over-large ears. He twitches and jolts, all jitters and expectations. Genesis quietly contemplates the best means for him to reach the other side. Though the pool of water is small, the boy will need to travel further than that distance to find his way. A boat, perhaps, or a barge. Yes, either of those would do. The boy seems to have an idea and begins fumbling his shredded pockets, looking for something important. At last, he finds it, and his featureless-face lights up. Genesis’s heart lifts. Clutched in the boy’s hand is a tiny wooden boat. It has a red stripe painted along the side, and its perfect little sails are crisp and white, free from the stains of any lingering berry juice. The boy places the boat in the pond and waits. Nothing happens. He looks questioningly to Genesis, who blinks encouragingly, and daintily sets a pinky finger on the prow. Still, nothing happens. The boy picks the boat back up and examines it. The tiny mermaid masthead laughs at him. The boat goes back in the water, and the boy focuses all his intention, all his purpose onto getting on board and moving beyond the confines of figure . The boy steps onto the boat. The earth follows suit. Genesis smiles her ancient tortoise smile. A man is coming now, clomping through trees and hacking at blackberry vines with his machete. He wears a draping dark cap that hides his face from the sun and sandals that gives his toes ample space to breathe. He reaches the putrid shore of the pond and pushes the cap out of his face and back onto his neck. He nods to the figure on the boat, who has begun making its way across the pond and into another place, another time, another dream. Genesis looks away respectfully. She’ll only see those eyes once. When she finally raises her head, both the man and the boat are gone, and she sits alone in the clearing. She dips her head and takes a sip of reeking water. She’ll need to replenish before her next journey. It’s lonely but peaceful. Genesis travels onward. She’s wondering when the world will change, singing: This is the nature of being: to love and to lose and to live, seek, destroy, and build. This is the life I have chosen. This is the Traveler’s Way.


It was a warm and sunny day, I was sitting on the porch swing with Jane. Jane was talking about her new cookie exchange, and how her parents were on a five day trip to Toledo. I had no idea what was coming next.  We walked to school together. It was a normal day, we went to math, science, women’s studies, then lunch.

 After school I went to Jane's house to make the cookies. “Why is the cookie dough red?” I said. I had a hint of suspicion in my voice.  “We make this friendship work by trusting each other, don’t question me.” Jane said, with annoyance creeping up on her. “Ok, ok” I said. I could not have known about the the sleeping drugs in the cookies, or what Jane really planning.  We set the cookie sheet in the oven at 350° for 20 minutes. Then we play scrabble, it’s my favorite game. After we finish our fourth game I walk to the door. Jane stops me at the door. Before I can tell her to move, an evil smile crosses her face, she looks right in my eyes.

 “Bye, bye Betty.” Jane says wickedly.

Next thing I know everything is black. I wake up in Jane’s crawl space. How did I get here?

“Hello Betty” I hear Jane say on the other side of the wall.

“Why are you doing this to me?” I say “Because Betty, you were on to me” Jane sighs, “me and my cookie operation.”

“What operation?” I ask, “Is this a joke? Let me out!” I yell at the wall.

 “Sorry Betty, I can’t do that.” Jane says.  Then she stops talking. White gas fills the room, and I black out.  About a day later I wake with a start. I see my teacher in the crawlspace with me, her name is Ms. Ashton.

“Why are you here?” I say sleepily.

“Jane wanted to get a project approved, and she invited me over for cookies” Ms. Ashton says, “next thing I know I’m tied up here with you.”  “When did she capture you?“ I ask  “On the 20th.” Ms. Ashton replies. “Ok, grab the knife in my back pocket, I don’t think she took that” I say.  “Alright. Wait, why did you have a knife on school property?” Ms. Ashton says.  “That’s beside the point, just do it!’’ I snap.  “Fine. But after we get out of here I’m going to have a chat with your parents” Ms. Ashton says.

She pulls the knife out, and cuts the rope that ties us both to the wall.  “Ok, on the count of 3, we run like hell, 1,2,3 go go go!”I say.

Me and Ms. Ashton run out of Jane’s crawl space. We sprint down her stairs, and into Jane's living room. We see other people!  “Alice, Susan and Cheryl what are you all doing here!” I yell.

“We’re here for the cookie exchange” Alice says.  “What is Ms. Ashton doing here?” Asks Cheryl.

“Ok, so Jane is trying to kill me to put me into cookies!” I say “What?!” Cheryl, Alice, and Susan say in unison.

“Ladies, Betty is clearly having a mental breakdown, let’s just eat” Jane says. “Now that I think about it, the cookie dough was red, so Jane, you’re a serial killer!” Cheryl says.

Jane picks up a knife and lunges toward me. I run at her, Jane throws the knife at me. It touches my cheek. I use my whole body to tackle her. We both fall to the ground, and I fight to get my pocket knife. Jane gets it and stabs me in the stomach. Blood is everywhere. I take off my boot, and hit her in the head. Then I bite her in the hand. The knife drops and I grab it, and slit her throat. Susan runs over checks her pulse  “She’s going to die, her pulse is week” says Susan with a whimper.

“Jane, Mr. Schneider mysteriously disappeared from the school, did you kill him?” I ask.

“Yes” says Jane with a week breath.  “Why?” I say.

“I was killed him because you hated him, same with Ms. Ashton. I love you Betty.” says Jane.  “Then why were you going to kill me?” I say.

“Have you ever herd the story of Romeo and Juliet, Betty?” She asks, “It’s about two people consumed by love, so much they commit suicide to be together forever” Jane says.

“So you were going to kill me then yourself?” I say.

“Yes” she says with her last breath.

I fall to the floor clutching my stomach. Ms. Ashton turns me on my back.  “Betty, it’s going to be ok, Betty. Susan, get me rubbing alcohol and bandages. Cheryl, push on Betty’s wound. Alice turn on the stove and heat up a knife, then give it to me.”  “Ok” all say in unison.

 First Ms. Ashton pours rubbing alcohol on me, and I scream. Than she takes the heated knife and applies it to my wound, also while I scream. I get bandaged up. Then I pass out and a few hours later I wake up. I hear Ms. Ashton, Cheryl, Alice, and Susan in the kitchen. I can hear what they’re saying  “What do we do with Jane’s corpse, and what do we do if Betty never wakes up?” Alice says, she’s breathing hard, “I can’t go to prison.” Alice says followed with the sound of bile on the floor. I stand, it hurts like hell, and I involuntarily scream.  “Well, look who’s up” Cheryl says sarcastically.

“I heard your conversation. Get Jane’s corpse into the bath tub. She definitely has powerful chemicals to dissolve dead bodies in the basement, Alice and Susan get those. Ms. Ashton, you’re a teacher, so you know Jane’s handwriting. You should write a note to her parents saying she ran away.”

“Ok.” Everyone says in the unison.  I’m standing in the bathroom over Jane’s corpse with gloves on, a hair net, and a big bucket of chemicals. I sit on the cold tile and start to cut the flesh off of her bones. I don’t want to, but it’s the only way I can dissolve her body to leave no trace of her. I stop a couple of times to throw up, but I get it done in about four hours or so.

Then I go down the stairs and see how the others are doing. I look out the window and it’s the night still.

“Ms. Ashton what day and time is it?” I ask. “Its the 21st and it’s midnight.” Ms. Ashton responded. “We need to burn some of her clothes, food, toothbrush, and hairbrush” I say.

“Why?” Ms. Ashton, Susan, Cheryl, and Alice say back.

“Because if she ran away she would take her clothes, food, toothbrush, and a hairbrush with her.” I say.

“Ok I will start a fire out back” says Ms. Ashton. “Ok” Susan, Cheryl, and Alice say in unison. We go out back, and start a fire. We burn her clothes, food, toothbrush, and a hairbrush. After we’re done I put out the fire. I take what’s left of her body after it’s dissolved and dump it down the drain. Then me, Cheryl, Susan, Alice, and Ms. Ashton get in Ms.Ashton's car with what’s left of Jane’s bones. We drive deep into woods, and dig a very deep hole, and stick Jane’s bones into them. Then we cover it with the rest of the dirt.

After that night we went our separate ways. We didn’t speak or acknowledge each other at school unless it was necessary. No one ever questioned what happened to Jane, everything simply went back to normal. We never spoke of the night Jane was murdered.


Amari had been four when she had been taken in. The person who’d found her and then offered her a life of luxury and greatness had had really smooth skin. Not a single wrinkle, like a canvas stretched too thinly on flesh. She listened when he told her how powerful she could become, but was wary to go with him. Strangers were dangerous. But really, could someone cause her more hurt than she already had? She wanted out.

She knew she should have waited, given more thought to it, checked if he was reliable, but when the man offered his hand to her, she took it, and told herself it was just to see if his skin felt as smooth as it looked.

—— “What’s

your

name?” Amari asked. She was standing with the smooth-skinned man inside what seemed to be a mansion, her hands fisted at her sides. She might’ve come with him, willingly, but she could still be careful. Her eyes were pieces of coal set aflame.

The man grinned. “Call me the Magister.” “Can I sleep now, Magister?” The Magister ruffled her hair. “Of course, you can. Come with me, I’ll show you your room.” He took her hand in his, and pulled her up an endless flight of stairs, past torch lit hallways and stopped in front of a huge oak door. He pushed the door open, picking Amari up and plopping her on the four-poster bed.

“Lie down. You can sleep here.”

Amari spread a wary hand over the silk covers, searching for harm in the bed or his words. Finding none, she lay her head down on the pillows, slipping inside the duvet. The Magister sat himself down beside her. He watched as the fire in her eyes lessened, reducing slowly but surely until finally she mouthed a silent “g’night” and the flames were put to rest.

Long after, when the Magister shut the door behind him, he smiled to himself. He had found her. He had found her.

—— The Magister laughed when she asked to be taught how to make herself invisible first, but she pouted and didn’t move. Eyebrow raised, he asked her why she wanted to hide herself. Was there something she didn’t want the Magister to know? Before she could reply, however, he laughed it off and agreed.

Then he walked a few steps forward before turning back and looking her in the eye. He knelt down to reach her height. Assuming he wanted a hug, like he had many times before, claiming it was for his own sake and not hers, she went forward and put her tiny arms around him. As she leaned in, suddenly a shock went through the tip of her ears where they grazed the Magister’s skin. A string of broken sentences flowed into her mind - a few more years and... incredible power the likes of which no one has seen before... I’ll make her a... she’ll be my pawn-

but just as quickly as they’d come, the flurry of thought cut off.

She jerked back out of his grasp, and stared at him, eyes wide. The Magister slowly raised his hands to the side of his head, his eyebrows furrowing.

Before the Magister could figure out what happened, Amari had already disappeared to some far corner of the mansion. —— When she was seven, the Magister tested her. Said that he needed to evaluate if what she had learnt for three years could pay off or not. She remembered climbing over mountains, crawling through the jungle, summoning that deep blue power inside her, like she was reaching into the depths of an ocean, and seeing his face as he beheld the yellow rays that then burst out of her hands, like the rays of sunlight that pierced the darkest ocean. The Magister had asked her then,

You see what you’re capable of?

She thought of the dark, shadowy area beneath the stairs, where she invariably found her way to every day, hiding and using the golden wisps that sprouted from her fingertips to overhear conversations in the grand hall.

The Magister often talked with his friends there. They talked a lot. The Magister talked a lot to her, too, but always about simple things. About how she was feeling and what she would like to have for dinner.

With his friends, however, he did not mention food. He spoke about battles and wars and revolutions. Of magic and peace and love. He spoke about how Amari would be the key to everything, the piece that would tip the scales in their balance.

Amari heard, but she could not say anything. Not even when they were alone again, and he was asking her if the bed was comfortable enough for her.

Every time she thought about voicing her own opinion, she was hit by a painful reminder. She’d been on the streets, scrapes on her hands and knees from falling over at every stray pebble, little feet struggling to, but unable to do more take a few more stumbling steps forward. The leftover food she’d scavenged from dumpsters always left that bitter taste in her mouth, like she was being abandoned on the road all over again, wrapped in a measly blanket, not understanding that no one would come for her no matter how much she cried. She had been weak. Pitifully weak. Unable to fend for herself. Yes, she had been weak, but now? Now she wasn’t. She wouldn’t ever be if she simply continued to listen to the Magister. Whatever he told her, she would do, because he had saved her.

So, when the Magister asked her, even though some part wanted to tell him she didn’t truly wish to take part in all the things he talked about, she simply said,

I see. —— Amari was the most powerful mage in the world. That’s what the Magister always said, that’s what his friends all believed. Amari believed it too.

With a flick of her fingers, she could slice the mountains she had climbed up, panting, just a few years ago. She could clap her hands, entwine her fingers, and the same mountains would stitch themselves back together, as if nothing had torn them apart in the first place.

She thought of herself as those mountains. Always appearing calm and stoic, both unstoppable force and immovable object, when in reality, she could be torn apart just as easily as-

She jerked her head, a sharp movement. How did it matter if she could or could not?  She’d just stitch herself back up again. —— “Sixteen thousand of them,” one of the people in the hall gleefully started. Amari was 11, in her spot under the stairs, with extra shields and wards placed over herself to avoid detection. The numbers the speaker quoted sent a chill down her spine, and she wondered if it was possible the numbers did not mean what she thought they did. “Sixteen thousand of them eliminated in one attack! It was definitely a good idea to use her,” they finished.

When the speaker cast a glance at the ceiling, right at the area where Amari’s room would be, she realized they meant her. And then realized that her worst fears had been answered. She immediately cut off further sound. Something threatened to regurgitate up her throat, like her stomach was turning itself inside out.

She had been told to collapse a building, and she’d done it without feeling, assuming it was one of the many exercises she performed every day to strengthen her power. She had not stopped to think that there might be people inside.

No.

No.

She had to be true to at least herself. Although she had not known at that time that she was committing a crime, she

had  suspected that sooner or later they would instruct her to do something like this. She had been negligent, not checking whether she could sense life forces inside, wanting to get through the task as soon as possible.

“Sixteen thousand people,” she whispered to herself, wondering if the gold strands she weaved in the air weren’t actually cruel, dark black. “I’ve killed sixteen thousand people.” She felt herself begin to come apart. She wondered if it was actually possible to stitch back humans just like she could stitch back mountains. She wondered if she had any reason to not do what she really wanted to anymore.

—— The Magister found her, like he always did. “You were listening, weren’t you?” “How did you know?” Amari asked, her voice hollow.

The Magister smiled, “You forgot to hide the traces.” So, she had. In her revulsion over what had happened, she had carelessly forgotten to hide the traces of her magic after muting the voices off. “I’ll be more careful next time.” That was supposed to be the end of the conversation, but the Magister lowered himself on the bed she was curled up on. A distant memory flickered through Amari’s mind, one where the Magister had given her a bed to sleep on for the first time, and sat on its edge, the comforting weight beside her lulling her to sleep. Even now, his presence soothed back the edges of her that had begun to fray.

She felt something inside her calm down considerably. She knew he knew that she calmed down in his presence.

She hated it. She hoped that one day she would be able to escape from here. From him.

—— It wasn’t a whole sixteen thousand the next few times. It was two, maybe three people, a group of travellers, a family living in the outskirts. No, not even a thousandth of it, but it felt much heavier. She wondered if Atlas, holding the sky felt the same weight on his shoulders. She thought holding the sky would be easier.

—— She did wonder, sometimes. All the time, really. She wondered about herself and her magic and what if she had never been born and why the world was as it was but mostly, she wondered about the Magister.

She wondered if he thought of her as a daughter. Probably not. Maybe he did. Why else would he care for her? She thought about him as a father- or at least the closest equivalent. Or maybe he simply wanted to ensure she was happy and healthy, all the better to use her as a weapon later. As his pawn.

She wondered. She wondered if she could leave him and go away, just as her biological parents had once. Would that be the tearing apart event? She wondered.

—— She toppled mountains over a valley. There seemed to be a caravan traveling there then. She saw it too late.

That night she dreamt of her golden magic turning black, an ink that spread through everywhere, staining the world. She couldn’t see anything but herself, and the darkness left by her own hand. When she woke up, she found that the black had seeped into reality. When she flicked her fingers, she found she controlled the shadows.

And the shadows were easy enough to work with.

—— The seventh time, it worked. When the Magister came to her, she felt only disgust. A little bit of fear. A wave of fury that threatened to spill out of her and seize him.

He stepped forward. She stepped back.

He took a larger step forward. She moved quickly and stepped forward too. Before he could understand what was going on, she slapped two hands to the sides of his head.

(A/n: “Before he could understand what was going on, she slapped two pieces of bread to the sides of his head.” WHAT ARE YOU? AN IDIOT SANDWICH.) —— It hadn’t taken long to send the black wisps into his mind. She found a few barriers, a few walls to keep powers like hers away. For those few seconds it took, she saw his eyes widen, something akin to panic course through them. So, he had suspected, she thought. He had suspected that she would try reaching it to his mind one day- to do what, who knows? But the few seconds passed and she found easy access to his memories, to his knowledge, everything that ever passed through his mind.

She could take her time, for he was in limbo and she could go through the contents of his brain leisurely.

She paused.

Should she? What was she hoping to find? Did she want to confirm that the Magister had had paternal feelings towards her? What if he didn’t? What if he did? Would that mean she would be willing to go ahead with whatever he told her to do? Did she really want to know what was in the mind of someone who not only condoned but encouraged killing?

She thought for a while.

And then she decided. No. Even if she did find something, was able to look at their conversations and interactions through the Magister’s point of view, it wouldn’t change anything. She didn’t want to be the cause of death of anyone anymore, and she didn’t want an excuse for her past actions. She would accept it as it was. And that was the end of the matter. She reached further with her power, found the connections in his mind with the other mages, his friends who believed with him that she would be their pawn to achieve whatever they wished to. Laughing silently, because she was using her powers to do something, she was sure they would be awed at, she erased their memories. She erased everyone’s memories who had ever seen her, heard of her, used her.

And so, she ceased to exist in their lives, a weapon that had decided that it was better off not being used like so. —— Amari lived on the streets. She didn’t have a home, or a set of clothes. She didn’t have somewhere she could cook or go to find food. She worked hard to conjure up sustenance and homes for everyone else- they were the families, the ones like the people she had killed. This was her way of making peace with them. She never let herself rest, even if it meant looking at the dark black spill from her fingers all the time. It made her sick, yes, but in spite of all of that, she was happy. Because just the other day, she had found just a little bit of the golden slip back into her magic.


August 4, 1892 Dear diary, I have awoken this morning with the very same cold that has haunted me for nearly a week now, and I am starting to wonder if I have brought this unending ailment upon myself through my own hubris. The light cuts through the shades and stabs my eyes with a precision I long thought improbable of nature alone. How could this illness possibly prove the result of a weak constitution when my heart always beat so strong? For a while, I was convinced that my suffering could only be the result of a man’s meddling, though who the man behind the meddling might be, to this day I could not say. But I have always known my sheer determination to see me through any trial of nature, so the only possibility that seemed to remain was that of an attacker intent on concealing himself among friends. But now I think to myself, has the world not proven itself a force beyond measure? Nature has taken down many a soul far kinder and more generous than myself. Perhaps this sickness is not the vengeance of a man wronged by my family, but of a vindictive light snuffed when I let myself walk into the darkness.

Did I let myself wander into the dark? Have I grown weak hiding from the light for too long? Am I now suffering for my grave misdeeds? I am no longer sure of my conviction. My pain continues, and the light will not relent. I’ve danced with the devil for some time now, I suppose. I can no longer deny the truth of the matter. Every penny in the bank, every prayer around the table, I’ve descended further and further from the nature of who I was intended to be. The light embraces those who rejoice in the natural order, and yet I continue to stand by my family that finds fortune in their artificial shade. Perhaps I let my hope for the material surpass the nature of the immaterial that dictates this world. I could have walked away. But I let the dim become my new norm. I believe it is too late for me to turn back the wheels of fate. Though I write with an energy I’ve not felt since my illness began, I am further convinced with each passing day that I will never recover. Just as the sun never ceases to shine, the world will not let up it’s torment of my shaded, jaded heart.

Yes, I feel that my end is near. I fear that my soul shall never find justice or peace. It’s far too late for that now. If I am doomed for eternity, though, let it not be said that I let my fear diminish my final moments of solace. I will bask not in the light that burns me so, but in the life that I have chosen for myself. Family, friendship and fortune are my comforts. I could not have ever pursued another path. My child is here now, and she brings with her a reminder of why I’ve let my soul wander from its nature - as she draws the shades closed and blocks out the sun, I know I would sooner die in the embrace of love than live a spinster life without. The short time with my family was worth any torment that might lay ahead of me now. I wonder what will become of my dearest kin when I am long gone and buried beneath a growing collection of moments past. My love always promised that, without me, he could not go on another day; the words now seem a threat if these are, in fact, my final hours. I fear that he will prove himself to be a man of his word come day’s end. But will the children grow healthy and strong when I am no longer able to demonstrate those very same qualities? They have endured loss before, and I’ve no doubt they’ll endure again. Still, I wonder if these days they have shared with my doomed soul will bring them in turn to the dark. Will they overcome the shadow that my imminent demise is sure to cast on their future? No one is ever free of their past. Not entirely. Try as I might, I know I have never come close to healing their hurts. I know, going forward, my fate will always have a hold over their hearts. I hope that, with time, they will find a way to fill this space I am destined to leave in their home with laughter, with love, and with all the gifts I’ve been lucky enough to find in them. Might they even find their way back to the light to overcome the shadows of legacy and legend. The past will always be there, but I must believe that they can thrive nonetheless. I am beginning to feel drowsy once again - perhaps that is how it feels to come to terms with one’s own mortality - but my child continues to tend to me in my weakened state. I am certain now that I am richer than any of those living in their mansions, flaunting their toys for all to admire. She does not know the illness of a soul corrupt; she could be in the garden, planting and playing and savoring in the sunlight. But she stays by my side. She says she would rather be by my side. I think that she knows my death is at hand as well. If walking in the darkness has brought me to my deathbed, then I am grateful it has not brought me here alone. How strange it is to be here like this, though - for the longest time, I did not even know if she wanted me in her life; now, it is she that tends to me in my loneliest hour. These quiet moments of togetherness make my long descent from grace worthwhile. Even Icarus would have welcomed the fall if she had waited below with arms wide. She is stronger than I had thought she would be. Not a single tear escapes from those ghostly gray eyes as I scribble my final ruminations, and for that I am grateful. I know she will not be broken by my passing - a girl that strong is certain to overcome all of the odds. She will leave her mark on the world. Even nature itself will learn my sweet Lizbeth’s name. But for now, her strength is intended for me and me alone. I hope that, when the end does come, she might find it in her heart to extend to her father that very same strength she’s shown me.

Heaven knows that this family will need it when darkness strikes them down once again. From your truly, Abby Bor-


My Dearest Bethany,

  I have loved you from the very first moment I saw you walk into the malt shop, I know we still are very young and my parents say that we should wait until we finish high school before we make any lasting commitment. The waiting is torturing me, I love you with every fibre of my being and know that I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I have a plan for us to be married before I go off to war, I know that I am too young to enlist but I have a plan for that as well, I know how you feel about me leaving for such a long time but it is the best way I know to make a life for us and our child. If you except my hand in marriage please met me outside the malt shop at 7:00pm tonight, I have a friend that can marry us immediately.                                                             All my love                                                                    Roger

“You and grandpa were married at fifteen, I am not even aloud to date yet.” I handed the letter back to my grandma. For the longest time she sat in silence with a smile on her face as if she was lost in a memory. She finally put down her coffee cup and looked up, my grandfather sat down beside her and held her hand.

“You see Candice things were much different back then, we were pregnant with your mother and you grandmother and I knew times would be difficult, marriage was the best thing for both of us. Don’t get me wrong I planned on marrying you grandmother anyway just not until we had both finished high school.” He got up and poured us another cup of coffee, my grandmother still had the letter in her hand holding it close to her heart.

“Your grandfather is right, it was a very different time but it didn’t change the fact that my parents where very disappointed when Roger and broke the news to them that night. My father was the preacher of our church and my mother was just as equally evolved and for months afterwards his sermons consisted of the dangers of premarital sex. So you see dear, they is a very good reason your parents won’t let you date at fifteen years old.” She handed her cup to my grandfather who just sat back down at the table. He just shook his head and and got back up, he told me that it would probably be a good idea not to mention the fact that my grandparents let me have coffee.

“So what happened next?” I took another sip of my coffee, I didn’t like the taste but it made me feel grown up.

“Well, that night I snuck out and met you grandfather at the malt shop and we went off to met up with the man that was going to marry us. I was a little apprehensive of being married by a stranger behind a malt shop but the marriage was legal, well you know what happened that night. My parents discovered that I wasn’t in my room and caught us trying to sneak into the basement window, I thought my father was going to murder your grandfather after we told him that we were married and with child, instead we were the subject of his sermons but you knew that already. Your grandfather stayed, my parents as well as his would not allow him to run off to war and leave his pregnant wife. Eight months later your mother was born, just weeks after my sixteenth birthday. We moved into a one bedroom apartment and I worked nights while Roger took care of your mother. And it was like that until your mother got older and was able to stay home alone on her own. There was plenty of arguments over money, because you grandfather and I didn’t finish high school we were not very many jobs open to two uneducated teenagers, we were lucky that great-grandfather gave Roger a job right after we were married.” “Where did you work grandma? You mentioned that you worked nights so that grandpa could take care of my mom while you worked.” “I cleaned office buildings for a $1.50 an hour, there were times we didn’t eat just so that baby could. Your grandfather and worked very hard for everything we had but we did it together, we may have not been able to give your mother every thing she has ever wanted but she certainly gave her everything she needed. Candice I know that it’s hard understand where your mother is coming from I used to have the same fights with her about boys and dating, even though I love your grandfather very much I wish that we would have waited before we let our relationship go any farther then just holding hands if you get my drift. Now go collect your things your mother will be here any moment now.” I just rolled my eyes and pushed my chair back from the table, I know my grandparents weren’t tell me the whole story, there had to be more to it then that. My grandmother never mentioned her other children at all, maybe it was because she was much older when she had them. There is a sixteen year difference between my mother and her older brother Mark, which is strange because my grandmother is only sixteen years older then my mother. The other two, the twins  died at child birth I think it was because my grandmother became pregnant with them within months of my mother being born. I only know this because I here my mother talk about them sometimes to my uncle Mark, I thought about asking my grandmother but I knew it was a sensitive subject. I heard my mother talking to my grandparents while I was packing my overnight bag. My mother sound very relieved that they had been able to get through to me the tough lessons that she herself was trying to teach me but failed in doing so. I sheepishly walked into the kitchen and wrapped my arms tightly around my mother. I cried as I apologized for causing her so much pain and that I should have listened more when she told me about the hard times her parents went through trying to raise a child when they where children themselves. My mother wiped away my tears and she told me that she loved me, she always apologized for being so hard on me and that just because I showed an interest in boys that didn’t mean I would make the same mistakes her and her parents did, that just like my grandparents she loved my father very much but wished she was older and wiser before she decided to bring a child into the world.

My grandparents love for each other was stronger then any obstacle they had to face, I still have found memories of the times we spend drinking coffee and listening to the tales of their youth. Even though my grandparents have been gone for many years now, the lessons they taught me about love will stay with me forever, it is one that I passed on to my children and hopefully they pass on to theirs.


Suitcase in hand, you head to the station. You walk quickly through the dark night streets. Your feet a mere whisper on the cobblestone. The early morning air is cold and a dense fog envelops the streets that are eerily empty at this hour. You jump at every noise knowing at any time he could appear. Shadows seem to be lurking at every corner, cast by the dull yellow glow of the street lamps. Your breath comes faster as you pick up the pace to the train station. Still several miles in the distance. You're not sure if your nerves can become any more frayed.

You near the end of the thatch roof houses. The rest of the way is just a gravel path through the hilly countryside. No one to hear or see you from here. It starts to rain. It is not long before the road becomes slick and your vision more scarce.The only thing helping you is the pale misty glow of moonlight overhead. A cold fear trickles down your spine. You sense him. You clutch the suitcase tighter as you lose your footing and start to slide down one of the large rocky hills. You try to catch yourself. Your hands grasping desperately into the crisp dark air. You find nothing. You tumble down the steep hillside. When you come to a stop at the bottom the suitcase is gone. Your heart quickens. You search desperately, blindly in the darkness. Tripping and falling through the bramble. Suddenly you see a small glint of light shining from the metal of the case a few feet away. You scramble up off the ground to grab it and get back on the gravel path. Suddenly you stop. You hear heavy footsteps crunch over the gravel. They’re coming in your direction. You look around. There’s nowhere to hide except for the tall grass growing along the side of the road. As quickly and quietly as possible, you lay down in the grass, out of sight. Clutching the suitcase tightly to your body, you peer out through the overgrowth. A body is visible in the distance. As he nears you feel your heart begin to pound against your chest. So loud in your own ears you know it must surely be heard by the approaching figure. He is right in front of you when the moonlight illuminates his face. Your hand covers your mouth as a small whimper escapes your lips. It’s him. He doesn’t seem to hear the sound you have made. He continues. You wait until he is over the hill and his footsteps are receding into the distance opposite you before emerging from the grass. You hurry on. You are chilled and shivering when you arrive at the station. You let yourself relax slightly. You have made it. Alive. As you enter you look around. You know he is still trailing you. You spot him watching you from the corner. Hastily you look away and head to the counter to buy a one way ticket out as fast as you can. All you hope is that the clerk keeps his voice low enough that you are not overheard. You cannot take the risk of him following you once more. You pay and look back at the corner. No one is there. Your heart starts pounding again. The hair on the back of your neck stands on end. You feel as if you are still being watched. You fight a rising panic. All you have to do now is wait for the train. Just stay alert. The train should be here soon. Just stay alive.

Your eyes scan the station again. You don’t see him. You know you have to stay where there are people. You look around again. The station is nearly empty. It’s 3 o’clock in the morning. You decide to stay close to the cashier window until the train comes. Just stay alert. Just stay alive. You are so focused on your surroundings and inspecting every person you do not hear the train arrive. The horn blares. You jump so violently you topple the brochure stand behind you. You don’t have time to pick it up. You cannot turn your back. You cannot lose your focus. You rush to the train and get in line with the few others who are boarding with you. You take one last look around. There he is, slowly walking alongside the train towards you. You feel yourself start to panic. He is inching nearer. You need the conductor to hurry. At last you hand him your ticket and

promptly climb aboard.

Once inside you dash down the passageway with rapid strides until you find an empty cabin. Hastily you step inside and close the door behind you. You sit back in your seat breathing heavily. You can see him still standing outside the train in the station. He’s staring in your direction. As if he knows exactly where you are. You slide down out of sight and close your eyes. Willing the train to start moving. After one last blast of the horn you feel the train lurch and start to roll forward. When you know the station is a safe distance behind. You take a breath and sit up. Your hands, cold and clammy. You pull the suitcase you have been carrying close to you and open it. The documents are still there. They are still safe, just as you will be soon. You just need to deliver them to their rightful owner. Suddenly the door slides open. You jump and shut the suitcase. A tall man walks in. He’s wearing a dingy suit. Weatherbeaten and torn. His dark hat sits low on his forehead. Engulfing his face in shadows. Immediately you feel the color drain from your face. Fear coursing through your veins. The man gives a slight nod and sits down across from you.

You both ride in silence most of the way. Staring out into the darkness. You are just one stop away from your destination. As a small thin light starts to form on the horizon the man shifts in his seat. Slowly you grip the suitcase tight and rise up from your seat. You only have one chance. You throw yourself towards the door. Your hand grazes the handle just as he grabs you from behind. Violently he turns you around to face him. You can now see the full view of his face. Your body feels numb. Your worst suspicions confirmed. He has caught up with you. Your eyes wild with terror. You glance at the door of the cabin once again. You try to jerk away from his tight grasp, but he is too strong. He pulls out a sweet smelling cloth and covers your face. You try to fight him. You try to scream. But you can’t. You feel the room start to sway. Your body lightens and for a moment everything is tranquil. Almost calm. The man grabs the suitcase and makes to exit the room. He turns one last time to look at you. He puts one finger to his lips and slides the door closed. You hear his footsteps echo down the aisle… He is gone.

Everything fades to black.