“You spent $30,000 on those rare fish for your aquarium last month!” I exclaim.  “Don’t drag my fish into this, they are innocent,” my dad retorts. “Besides they actually have the chance of paying me back when they start popping out $5,000 babies.”  He doesn’t even care.  “You probably have $50,000 lost in the sofa!”  I notice how strange this idiom is as soon as it comes out of my mouth. Cash and coins hardly exist anymore… no one loses money in the sofa. “Dollar” is just a unit of measurement, not one specific currency. But I’m too angry to consider where exactly I pulled the reference from.  “You won’t keep your kid out of prison?” I continue.  “It’s the principle,” my dad says. He’s not yelling, he never yells.  “Dad! If you just pay 40 of the 70 thousand, they’ll let me work the rest off without confinement.”  He’s shaking his head slightly, and making that tucked-in-lip face; the one people make when they pass a stranger on the street.  “I’ll pay you back…” I try, exasperated. Nothing. “Don’t you have insurance to cover things like this?”  “We self insure for things like this. So imagine me as your insurance agent. I deny your claim for violating the terms of the agreement,” my dad says. “Remember how I told you that you should look into buying defense insurance for yourself? Maybe you could have got the renegade plan, or something, and they would cover things like this, I don’t know.”  He is not budging. Not even showing any emotion. That is what is so frustrating. If he was pissed-off I could work with it. Emotional responses cool down and things change. But my dad’s decision isn’t going to change. He’s not upset. There is nothing to cool down. He just made a logical decision.  I’m nothing like him.  “I’m going to prison! And you could stop it without even noticing!”  “You know this affects my business Dege. Who knows how much you cost us by insulting Francesco? He’s a big buyer.”  “Are you hearing me?! PRISON!” I pronounce the word with emphasis but I’m not quite yelling. “And all you care about is your business?!”  “Oh stop being so dramatic,” my dad says, breaking eye contact. He takes a sip of his drink.  “Dramatic,” I repeat indignantly. “Do you know what happens in prison?”  “Yeah, you learn some discipline,” he responds.  “No,” I say shaking my head, “You get raped! Is that what you want, for me to get raped?!”  “Rodigio, this isn’t 2000. Statistically, you’re more likely to get raped at those clubs you frequent.”  “Well it’s still two years on an island with all men.” I shoot back, “Don’t be surprised when your son comes home hanging off the bicep of Buff Jimmy, the reformed pirate.”  “We should be so lucky,” my dad scoffs. “A stern man is what you needed in your life all along. I blame myself. But anyway, there’s actually an island for female confines, and you all get to meet up twice a week. Haven’t you even checked out the website?”  I turn to my mom. “Is that what you want?” I say slow and serious. “For me to come home with a bull-dike-looking prison bitch named Ricky?”  “Oh you have such an imagination!” She says, “You’re such a natural storyteller, with your creative names and flare for drama. You should spend your extra time on the island writing stories! Or maybe work on your acting? You were always so good in those plays, you loved them.”  She’s serious too, not even trolling. She will always side with my dad. He convinced her a few years ago that she was an enabler of my “irresponsible behaviour.” This is just how she tries to stay positive.  My mom forces a smile, “Maybe it will be like camp,” she sort of laughs and shrugs.  I put my face in my hands realizing that my parents are about to abandon me to a prison island.  “I can’t believe you two are doing this to me!” I whimper.  “We aren’t doing this to you, Dege,” my dad says with candor, “We just aren’t bailing you out this time. It’s two years, less if you actually learn to do something people want to pay for.”  My mom is shaking her head in agreement, looking between my dad and me.  “It will be good for you sweetie. Don’t you want to learn a meaningful skill, go out on your own at some point?” Then she adds quickly, “Not that you’re not always welcome here!”  My heart is beating faster. It’s sinking in that I am about to go to a prison camp for two years. And that means missing New Year’s Eve in Barracuda. That means being separated from Majorie.  “Why do you both hate me!? If it was Raji you would pay it!” I am desperate and lashing out.  “You know what,” my dad says, “your attitude just proves all the more that it is high time you take a little responsibility for your actions.”  “Who buys a glass ball that costs more than I make in a year!? And I didn’t know his stupid statue would break.”  “Exactly. You didn’t know. But that didn’t stop you from doing something impulsive and destructive.”  “I was drunk!” I shout indignantly.  “That’s not an excuse,” he says, still infuriatingly calm.  “And that’s the other reason this will be good for you.” My mom adds. “They don’t allow alcohol on the island, and I think it will do you some good to stay sober for a while… clear your head.”  “You better get packing,” my dad says.  I’m back in my room. I still cannot accept it. I have one more thing I could try… I can ask Dean. But I don’t want to.  And yet, I make the call anyway.  “I can’t even believe you’re asking me this Rodigio.”  “Dude, I’ll pay it back with interest! I know you have the money!”  “Dege, it’s not like all my money is just sitting in a wallet somewhere. I do things with it. It’s invested all over, diversified. To give you that money would be an opportunity cost.”  “What?”  “If I give you that money, it means I can’t do something else with it.”  “So you care more about making more money than you do about your friend?”  “You know where the last $35 grand I threw down went? To a start-up bringing rule of law to the parts of the world that still have oppressive governments.”  “That’s just the last 35. I know you put at least that much in the virtual reality porn company!”  “I remember you being pretty excited about CyberNut at the time. But it still doesn’t matter Dege, because even CyberNut deserves the money more than you do. And I deserve to put my money in the places that I want, and make money back for my risk. What do I get risking that on you? Because please don’t try to tell me it’s not a risk…”  “I just thought maybe you wouldn’t want to see your friend in prison for two years. But I guess you think that’s what I deserve.”  He sighs. “Dege, I love you like a brother. But yes, you deserve to be held accountable for your actions. Me bailing you out wouldn’t help you in the long run.”  “Now you sound like my dad.”  “Well your dad is a smart guy Dege. Maybe it’s time you start listening to his advice. I mean you keep saying, two years, two years. Have you even considered the fact that you can make that much money in two months if you really wanted to?”  “Maybe you could…”  “I’m glad this conversation went this way. I’m now convinced that this will be good for you.”  We hang up. I am alone in my room.  I walk out on the balcony, overlooking the pool and tiers of grass that lead down to the white sandy beach, gently sloping into the ocean between large stone jetties.  It’s dark, but most of the palm trees and tropical ground cover are illuminated from hidden lights in the lava-rock-mulch.  I’ve lived here all my life. So accessible, always available just outside my back door. And suddenly I’m a visitor, just here for the night. So I might as well take advantage of it. I walk down to stroll through the pristine grounds.  I want to see Majorie but am not sure what to say. That’s what has kept me from messaging her. That and the stomach churning reality that I am going to prison.  A message comes in. Its from Majorie.  “Can I come over?”  Her drone lands about five minutes later. She walks down into the backyard garden and sits down next to me without saying a word. We look at each other and force a smile. And for a few minutes we just sit listening to the waves roll off the platform.  I sigh, “well apparently this place doesn’t have any alcohol. So… want a beer?”  “God yes.”  We grab a couple from the outdoor kitchen and sit at the tiki bar.  “I have to say… Your platform is way nicer than mine,” Majorie says.  “Well you’re closer to the center. And… you get to stay.”  “What are you going to do?” she asks.  “What can I do?”  “I mean to earn the money.”  “I guess I’ll keep working my bug catching job. Maybe if I put in enough hours I can cut it down to a year and a half.”  She looks down, “That’s a long time.”  Silence. Faint lapping of the ocean. Distant windchimes?  “I understand if you want to just forget about me and move on,” I blurt out. “I mean we just met anyway, I don’t expect you to…” I trail off.  Majorie takes a long swig of her beer. “We did just meet. Which is why this is so weird. Because I’m not just going to ditch you.”  “Look, it’s not your fault that I broke the statue. I don’t want you to feel attached to me out of guilt.”  “It’s not guilt. Definitely not guilt. It’s… well I don’t know what it is. It’s you, you’re different. I don’t know how yet, but I know a good thing when I see it.”  Now we’re staring into each other’s eyes. And it’s probably the only thing at this moment that can make me feel better. She’s right, there is something else going on here. I just hope the separation won’t ruin it.  We kiss across the bar. It feels so good to just enjoy each other’s company for a minute or two, sipping our beers.  Then I remember the burning question on my mind (when I’m not distracted by my impending incarceration).  “So what’s the deal with your job? You worked for Elijah Braze?” I ask.  “Well yeah sort of, but I barely knew him. Ben Rupert, his head of staff is–well was–my boss.” Majorie sighs, “But they already revoked all my permissions and sent an official severance notice so… looks like I’m a free agent.”  “What did you do for him?”  “Mostly data gathering.”  “You mean like marketing data for one of his businesses?”  “More like,” Majorie says slowly, formulating the right way to explain it, “Data gathering of a more personal nature.”  She only goes on after laughing at my blank expression.  “Sometimes it is digging into personal character, other times it’s confirming where someone lives or sniffing out conflicts of interest.”  “You’re a spy!?” I exclaim, only half joking.  “Well, I guess you could say that. Intelligence gathering.” She winks.  Suddenly an image of Majorie seducing a business contact to get some confidential pillow talk pops into my head. She seems to see the gears turning.  “It’s really not as exciting as it sounds,” she assures me. “Usually it’s pretty boring grunt work. The paid travel is nice… well at least it was.” Swig.  “Do you have other clients?”  “Yeah, but that was by far my largest chunk of income. I’m going to need to find something to replace it. All my other stuff is more routine digging. I can do most of it online.”  Another silence. It’s a wave of reality that keeps washing over me, anxiety about my fate tomorrow. I know Majorie can feel it too every time it hits.  “So when do you have to go?” Majorie asks.  “They pick me up at 9 tomorrow morning.”  She gives a sympathetic smile. “Any plans until then?”  I manage a laugh. “If you want to keep me up all night, I don’t mind arriving to prison a little groggy. Who do I have to impress there anyway?”  We spend the night laying in the grass, looking up at the stars, midnight skinny-dipping, and pre-dawn moonbathing. Majorie and I fall asleep in each other’s arms curled up on a large plush piece of patio furniture as the sun breaks over the horizon.


‘Come on, let’s go!’ Momma hurries me, waving absently at the luggage I’m still packing. ‘I know Momma, hang on.’ I tuck my favorite Teddy from when I was younger in with the clothes. I don’t remember when when Dad gave it to me. I know I always loved it since. I zip the suitcase shut, before slipping into a warmer hoodie. Momma is already downstairs, preparing to go. She’s got a gun on the table. I haven’t seen our gun in a while, since Dad taught me to shoot it. ‘Momma?’ I ask, with uncertainty. ‘It’ll be alright, hon. Let’s go.’ We take our paltry supplies to the car. Water for a few days, the rest of our food. Our medical kit, and sanitary supplies. As we get into the car, I notice the sun seems different. Colder. Maybe I just hadn’t looked at it enough. ‘Where are we going first momma?’ ‘The school I think. He is a teacher, hopefully he’s still there. We’ve been here.’ Momma looks like she doesn’t know. I don’t blame her. She turns onto the highway, and with no traffic in sight, she presses the pedal to the floor. I notice her knuckles on the steering wheel are white. We pass the time in silence. Momma watches the road while I watch everything else. I open the car door, taking in the empty surroundings. School should still be in session, but there’s nothing here. No lights or voices, or people. But we have to find Dad. I step out of the car, before pausing and leaning back in. Momma is making to get out too. ‘Momma –‘ my throat catches. ‘Ma, I got this. It’s okay. Just give me the knife. I’ll be alright. I gotta.’ She grimaces at me, not wanting to leave me alone here. I don’t blame her. ‘You still have the gun right?’ Momma pulls it from under her seat, and makes to hand it to me. ‘No ma, you need it more than I do.’ She settles back into the car. Unhappy. But it’s safer out here, at least, I think. I clutch the knife to me, feeling it rattle in its sheath. It’s the first sound I hear outside the car. There’s just a short path between the car and the doors. I push open the door on the left, and it swings itself closed behind me, awkwardly groaning before it latches into place. There are stairs to the right, and the office to the left. There are no lights there, and the door is closed. There’s no light downstairs at all. The light from the door gives way to black too soon. I decide not to go that way. The stairs are dusty, the railing cold, the concrete cracked. The air is old and unmoving. I reach the top of the stairs, and something is already wrong. There’s a child sitting in a seat in front of me, watching lines on a screen embedded in the wall. He isn’t moving, so I ask who he is. He doesn’t answer. I reach out with the knife still in its sheath, and tap him on the shoulder. Nothing. I go to his side, and to my relief he still has a face. A right face. He’s just not all there. To the right, barely two steps away is another door, solid wood. No light emanates from the crack beneath it. The boy will be no help, so I leave him. To the left is a normal classroom, the stairs might have been where the door was. A single light from what looks like a kitchen counter dimly projects into the room. I see two rows of chairs, and tablets at each desk. The windows along the wall are blacked out. I look up and realize the overhead fan still spins. It’s still spinning. That thought catches in my throat as I realize there’s no sound. I can’t hear my breathing. I can’t hear my single footstep back. All I feel is the pounding of my heart, as fear creeps into my vision. I turn to run, hoping I am not too late. The child looks at me quizzically as I turn, but I barely see him. Not four steps into the room, as I make to race down the steps back to the safety of the light I slam into nothing. I lose myself for a moment, staggering backwards into the wall of screens. Only the one is still on. But the child isn’t looking at it anymore. He’s looking at me. But his head hasn’t turned. Just his face. Surprised, I look back to the stairs. The door opens again. It shouldn’t have opened. Why is it opening? And there’s my mother. She closes it behind her, softly. The gun is in her hand. She makes the same short decision I did. I try to call out to her, but no sound will come from my anguished lips. She begins climbing the steps, and I know she must not make it to the top. He’s just looking at me. Only looking at me. I throw myself at the stairs, feeling my head thud against concrete, seeing nothing. I slam the knife against it, harder, and harder, until I feel something give way. Numbly I realize it is my hand. Momma is just a few steps away now. She stops at the last step. The gun is still in her hand. The last vestige of safety she has. Momma stops. I don’t know why. She stares at the wall, past me, at something else. She turns a pale white, and stumbles backwards down the stairs, gripping the railing. She nearly falls before turning and running down the stairs. She makes it outside, the door slowly creeping back into place. The light from outside fades into the black of the foyer. I am relieved. I sag into the invisible wall, feeling its uncapitulating smoothness. It’s hard to hold the knife. I settle with my back to the wall now, the child still looking at me. His eyes don’t move. When I look at him, nothing moves. He shouldn’t be able to look at me without turning his head. Then I hear an impossibly loud cracking as if reality had split itself open again. I fall backwards down the stairs. The last thing I see is a mirthless smile, before I manage to scramble to my feet, dropping the knife down the other side of the stairs in the process. Old dust clings to my pants, my shirt, and gets into my lungs. I hear myself cough as I scramble down the stairs. Adrenaline surges as I seek to be let out of my prison. I crash through the doors, throwing them open. My hand throbs. I take a few more steps before I am stopped again. This time it isn’t a wall. An ancient primal grief awakens inside me, and I scream. My mother sits slumped at the wheel, the gun awkwardly lopsided on the dashboard. Viscera clings to the windshield. I rush to the car, murmuring. ‘No.’ over and over. I yank the door open, hoping its another trick. It isn’t. I fall to my knees, feeling reality close in around me, my vision blurs. Tears fall on the concrete. I feel empty. A void grows inside me, and at the center of that void a white-hot rage builds against the tides. I scream upwards into the sky again, into the cold orange rays dying against the black of space. I bury her there. It takes me a while, though the sun no longer moves so I don’t know how long. The gun sits, holstered on my hip. I put a blanket on the car seat, and wipe away what I can on the windshield. I have to look for Dad.


It’s a funny thing, was you to look at me now, you’d see an old man, dried out by age; lined and scored. The kind of person to stare intently into the depths of the glowing hearth. The kind of man to shy away from grasping shadow. These aren’t uncommon traits among the agèd, however most come to this state of irrational, superstitious fear by way of a long life, and failing mind; and it is just that, which sets me apart, unlike my peers, I know to the day —and perhaps to the very moment— that I changed. So, here follows the story of just how I lost that handsome sense of youthful immortality.   It’s no complex story, more of a puzzle: the solution of which had eluded me for countless years, each more fleeting than the last. Now, conjure into your mind —if possible— the heath hills of Shropshire, around March, rocky, yew lined meadows dotted with sheep, I was walking down a long cart lane locally known as “Frogs Gutter”. To my right as I walked rose a long line of poldered trees, and to my left stretched the aforementioned countryside, broken only by small knots of bare trees, or the occasional spinney of fir. The sun was failing towards the gloaming and I was returning to my friends house (where I had wintered) after a long walk around the Bog and up through the Stiperstones and past old Devil’s Chair. I recall it had been an uncommon good day, crisp and cool. My only regret as I returned for my dinner was that I had neglected to take my camera along with me; the chair had looked wonderful that morning, all covered in frost that glistered and glinted in the pale morning light. But I digress. I was less than half way down the Gutter when it began to rain, as it had threatened to do all day. I cursed myself for having forgotten my umbrella and hurried my pace. Before I reached the lane’s end the rain had shifted into a forbidding and potentially deadly hail, and I was obliged to find some cover. The trees which should have shaded Frogs Gutter had recently been cut back, and so were of no use to me and I was forced into a field where I had spied a lonely linden tree, bare boughed, but with the expected broad spread, enough for shelter, thought I. I jumped the dry stone wall and with all the speed I could muster I charged through the knee high grass.   The tree left nothing to be desired in terms of shelter, though It was a wasted effort on my part, almost as soon as I had come under the eaves of the grand and solitary tree, the hail had shifted back into rain. I considered returning back to the road, but for my life, I couldn’t. There was something about that field that had drawn me in, something more than the hail. I considered for a moment, and wondered then why I had chosen this particular tree, from where I stood I could see several more suitable shelters on the other side of the road, and I had even passed a small cottage no great time ago. I looked around the field. I saw that on all sides (there were five) besides the one I had entered by, it was hedged in by yew. Not uncommon, or particularly strange, what did strike me was that there were no gates; just tall hedges and the wall, which was, I now saw, much higher on this side. I wandered around the border, looking for signs of an overgrown fence-gate, but I found nothing, I investigated the earth. Now, I can’t pretend that I know a great deal about farming, but the grass was green, and more tall in places than seemed at all right. I was completely lost as to why this plot of land perhaps less than an acre all told should have been so abandoned, no crops grown here, no animals set to graze. The only thing of significance here —so far as I could see— was the tree in the centre, which seemed to have grown in my mind since I had entered the field.   I returned to the wall, it was from the inside about as tall as I was, and only on my tiptoes could I see over the top and into the lane. The sun was sinking fast. I never was the most agile, and I had no intention of ruining my good tweed, so I decided that, before I would throw myself at the wall, I should take a look around. I returned to the linden its branches creaking ominously as I approached. Surprisingly enough there were few branches strewn on the ground about, in fact, there were none. I looked up, and saw that there were none hanging limp or loose, an odd thing in a tree of this size I thought. There was one thing in its limbs that caught my attention, the only thing of note in the tree was a ragged knot of rotting rope in one of the higher limbs. At first I believed it the remains of an old swing, but the more I reasoned the more I knew that it wasn’t. At the time I wasn’t a man easily frightened, nor was I a man taken by fancy, but even so, I had no desire to spend the night under a hangman’s lime. I made quickly for the old wall, but before I had taken a half dozen paces I fell, my foot caught in a root, I couldn’t see through the darkening light and the wretched grass, so I was left fumbling blindly hoping against hope to find the clasping root. Something in the earth cut me then, a nasty gash on my little finger, something that only added to my growing fear, and want for home. Again I applied myself to the root, finding it with my good hand and pulling with all the strength I could muster. I unearthed it, and found then that it wasn’t indeed a root, but a bone. Logically I should have thrown the thing away, and run for all the fear it put in me, but I couldn’t. I frantically patted the earth, searching for anything it might be attached to —though I really couldn’t say what possessed me to— and just as the sun sank behind the hills, abandoning me to the last vestiges of lingering light I found it: a very nearly skeletal hand, I ought have been repulsed, but I wasn’t. The hand was clenched shut. I opened it. Between the leather-clad, boney fingers was a stone, black as the night, flecked with silver, smooth; and in the center was a symbol or rune, one that despite my best efforts I’ve never seen since. It was in gold, shaped like a heraldic lozenge with a diagonal strike passing through it and underlined by a “zig-zag” shape with eleven high points and twelve low, that was the sign. On the reverse was a series of rough marks, almost like a talley, but they were too small and too many for me to ever count with success. Against my better judgement I took the stone, placed it in my pocket and made for the wall. A sharp wind gusted through the field, and the sound it made as it played through the top of the Devil’s Lindon can only be likened to a dusty creaking laughter. I mounted the wall, and looked back one last time, and there where the limbs had been bare and empty I now saw countless limp and lank shadows, swinging and twisting in the breeze. I couldn’t bear to look, so I closed fast my eyes and turned back to the lane, never again daring to look back on that field.   It has been over forty years since I took the stone, and in all that time it has never once left my person for more than a few minutes. But that’s not all: I have never been rid of the shadows, from the corner of my eye, in the reflections of glass’ I see their hanged forms. To begin I believed that it was the stone keeping them away, a sort of magical ward, preventing them from closing in on me and finishing me off. But recently I have come to believe that maybe they want it back. For the first time since, I have returned to Ratlinghope, I have etched my talley on the back of the stone and tomorrow, in the morning I will return it. The stone will be claimed or I will. If ever you pass down Frogs Gutter, look for the linden tree, but never approach it. Who knows, you may even see me there.


“Playing God has its consequences,” Nina said to Maggie. They were sitting at the kitchen table. “Name one.” “I’m not having this argument with you.” Maggie got up and went towards the refrigerator. “Told you,” she said. “I win.” “Me not wanting to go into an existential argument with you is not the same as you winning…” “Of course not… I’m out of soda… I think I have some in the garage. Do you want any?” Nina nodded. “Coke please.” Maggie went into the garage and after stepping over the massive amounts of clutter piled up, grabbed the soda and returned to the kitchen. To her surprise, a middle aged woman and her two children were sitting at the table eating soup. “Hello… Who are you? Where is Nina?” The woman looked up at Maggie confused. “Nina? Who is Nina? Do you not remember letting us in? It’s pouring rain outside and we had no place to stay.” “How is it pouring rain? I was outside not twenty minutes ago and it was bright and sunny.” “Momma what is she talking about?” one of the little girls said. “I don’t know baby. Just eat your soup…” “But I don’t like potatoes,” the other one said. “You don’t have to like it to eat it. It’s gunna make you big and strong,” the mother said. “Who made you soup?” Maggie asked. “What are you playing at? You are scaring my children.” “Woman. Listen. I’m sorry you don’t have a place to stay, but you can’t stay here.” “Momma…” “Go outside babies. I’ll call you back in soon.” The two children ran out the front door. “I don’t know who you are and why you are here? Where is Nina? Who let you in? And where the hell did you get soup from?” “You must have the memory of a mayfly. I came to your door soaking wet. You rushed me inside and handed me and the girls towels to dry off,” the woman said. She pointed to the couch behind her, where there were indeed three towels. “You were home alone. There was no one named Nina here. Then you asked us if we were hungry, so you made us soup. You left the rest of the soup on the stove. It’s obvious we are no longer welcome, so if you don’t mind, I’m going to finish my soup, then be on my way.” Maggie stared at the woman then slowly turned around to check the stove. Her big red pot sat on the back burner, full of potato soup. “This is not happening…” she said. She ran up the stairs and fell into her bed. “This is just a bad dream… If I go back downstairs Nina will be there and…Nina… Do I know a Nina?... Of course I know Nina…maybe...” Maggie tried convincing herself. She ran down the stairs in hopes of jogging her memory. The same woman sat at the table. “I’m sorry I yelled at you…” Maggie said to her. The woman looked at her confused. “I’m just very confused by what’s happening,” Maggie continued. “One minute I’m talking to… Suzy? Sarah? No. That doesn’t sound right.” “Are you alright? You don’t need to apologize. You never yelled at me.” “Mommy! What’s for dinner?” a little boy squealed, running from the bathroom. “And who is this little fella? Is this a friend of your daughters?” Maggie asked. She had accepted the situation as reality already, so questioning it was pointless. “Daughters? Have you lost your mind? I don’t have daughters,” she said. She got up from the table and took her son by the arm. “We aren’t having dinner here Nicky. Let’s go.” “But it’s so cold outside… I don’t like the snow.” Maggie pushed past the mother and son and ran through the front door. It was sunny outside. She stood on the balcony overlooking New York City. She took a deep breath of tobacco smoke and came back inside through the side door. “You good?” Trevor, Maggie’s boyfriend said. “I haven’t tripped that hard in years.


Liza laid awake next to her sleeping husband, James. She stared at the ceiling. All she could think of was the day she got married. "The happiest day of her life," or so she thought at the time. She remembered the tears of joy that ran down her smiling face as James said the words that meant he would love and care for Liza always. "What a load of crap," she whispered to herself as she glanced at the bright red numbers on her alarm clock. 6:28. In two minutes she would go back to her crummy excuse for a life, but now she would just lay in bed next to the monster that she married not one year ago and hate him. So that's what she did for the next two minutes. "BEEP, BEEP, BEEP," yelled her alarm clock. She quickly squeezed tears from her eyes and climbed out of bed. Grumbling and kicking off blankets, The Monster climbed out of bed and sluggishly walked over to Liza, who was choosing an outfit from her dresser. He gently grabbed her chin in his hand and turned her face to his. "Good morning," he said in that terrifyingly gentle tone that a mother uses to a child who keeps putting sugar cereal in the cart at the supermarket. A glint of fear escaped from the defiant stare she gave him. She wanted to ignore him. Well... no. She wanted to punch him in the nose, but, alas she was so afraid of what he would do to her. "Good morning," she mumbled. "What was that?" he said with a warning eyebrow raise. "Good morning!" She said, a bit louder, not looking him in the eye. As he leaned in to kiss her, she turned her head away. He harshly grabbed her small, delicate face, in his large, terrifying hands, squeezing so hard his knuckles went white. "I'm in no mood today, Elizabeth. Don't test me!" he spat with the blazing eyes of a dangerous snake. He looked into her fearful green eyes for one more second before shoving her away with such force, she stumbled back against the dresser. "Get up and make breakfast, brat," he growled, walking out of the room, not a hint of mercy in his voice. She did not get up. She sat, eyes wide, palms sweaty, her mind traveling to dark places. Darker and darker it got as she sat on the floor by the dresser, stunned. Finally, she snapped out of it. "Stand," she told herself. "Stand and make breakfast or you know what he'll do to you." She did as she was told and walked to the kitchen. James glared at her. "Don't bother with breakfast now. You were in our room feeling sorry for yourself too long! I have to leave for work!" He yelled, annoyed. Liza looked at the ground. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "That bruise on your eye makes you look horrible. I hope you have enough makeup to cover it," he added, his lips curled into a cruel smile. Liza felt her chest fill with anger. She began to raise her voice. "Well, that bruise wouldn't be there if you hadn't-" she began before James smacked her so hard she fell to the ground. "NO LIZA! THAT UGLY BRUISE WOULDN'T BE THERE IF YOU WOULD DO AS I SAY! THIS IS YOUR FAULT, ELIZABETH! YOUR'S!" he yelled, turning and stomping out the door. After he was gone Liza stood up, her eyes filled with tears, and walked to the medicine cabinet. She grabbed a bottle of pain meds she was prescribed a few years back when she tore her ACL. Between sobs, she dumbed the entire contents of the bottle into her sweaty palm. Her heart began to beat faster and faster, and her head began to spin. She stared at the pills, thinking of everything he had done to her from the time they got married. She walked over to the bathroom sink and filled a glass of water, closed her eyes, then sighed as she dumped it back out again. She lifted the toilet seat and dropped each pill into the toilet bowl. She sobbed on the bathroom floor for quite a while before wiping her tears and walking down the stairs to find her cellphone. She dialed the number of her sister, Jen, whom James had not allowed Liza to speak to since they got married. "Hello?" came her sister's familiar voice from the phone. "Hi, Jenny," Squeaked Liza in a shaky voice. Jen gasped. "Liza? Is that you? I haven't talked to you since the wedding! You never pick up when I call. I've been so hurt, El!" Jenny said in a desperate tone. "Jen... I need help," Liza breathed as the sobs began to return. She told Jenny everything. "Oh El! Why didn't you tell me sooner? Why haven't you gone to the police or filed a restraining order?" Jenny asked. "I...I...I was just scared! He would have found me no matter what," Liza sobbed harder. Jenny explained her plan. "Listen, Liza. I'm booking tickets for you to come to stay with me in Utah until we get this figured out. Get on the city bus and head to the airport. I'll handle everything else." Liza didn't know what to say. "El? Can you do that?" Jen insisted. "Yes. Yes! And Jen? Thank you. I've missed you so much." Liza hung up the phone as she slid to the floor. She beamed and closed her eyes as the tears of joy spilled over her eyelids, filled with gratitude, love, and hope.


Here, the powerful are now weak. Here, the rich are now poor. In Hell, you do what you always dreaded doing most: A criminal is an officer, a money-manager tends to the fields, and so on. Some people don’t suffer much from these changes. For example, those who used to be chefs are now servers. No big problem, right? Well, my career lead me to take a different path than most take here in the afterlife: A path that lead me to be on the Supreme Council of Torturers... I was never a nice person before I died, but I did a good job. I helped people for a living, but that doesn’t mean I was never a complete and total jerk. You see, since the age of 17 I have had but one job: To be a demonslayer. On Earth I would protect the innocent from the dark spirits that haunted them. Since I died, I’ve discovered that everyone has their own personal demon, each of which grows more and more powerful when their humans make bad decisions. When I was still alive I carried with me the Sword of Counterpunishment, a divine weapon designed to kill the evil. Each and every day I would fight the worst of the demons to death until the time when I won the fight and went back home to abuse my family. You do remember what I said about being a bad person, yes? Exactly. Now you understand. I was always disappointed by my ill-performing children and my resentful wife, so much so that I took it to the next level. That, readers, was how I got my ticket to Hell. Now I live in the metropolis of Hell, a dystopian city buried far under the ground, with fire, demons, and absolutely nobody who enjoys their jobs. My office is on the -47th floor of Satan’s Tower, and to be perfectly frank it is quite luxurious. I have numerous computers, my own personal coffee machine, and (thank goodness) pens that take practically an eternity to run out. My job is both simple and complicated. For the most part, it revolves around designing demons for the people of Earth, which should ideally be very talented at convincing their humans to make bad decisions. While the premise is simple, though, this office job is very hard to do, and even worse, it lasts 26 hours a day. I also hold a seat on the Supreme Council of Torturers, a group of nine high-ranking demons like me who dedicate their afterlives to making Hell, well, feel like Hell. My job is to design the demons, one guy causes natural disasters... You get it. Every day is a nightmare as I need to make the decisions about how to treat people worst. One particular day, though, was worse than all the rest. I clicked the Pen of Counterpunishment over and over as I stared at my computer screen. You see, I only need to design people’s demons after they commit their first sin, usually at age one or two. And this kid wasn’t any different— but there was something about her that I just couldn’t shake. The freckles, the shoulder-length light brown hair, the big hazel eyes with the little green specks... This girl looked exactly like my young daughter on Earth. “Cynthia...” I whispered, feeling a wave of regret over everything I had done to her back when I was still alive. I instantly had a flashback to when I was beating her that one time, and I told her to let her daddy do what he needed to... And she whispered “You aren’t... You aren’t my daddy”. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t design a demon for her, even though I knew I’d be tortured if I didn’t. She was so kind, so beautiful, so pure... How could I put her through such pain again? How? I sat there for a good half hour and closed my eyes, thinking about when she said I wasn’t her father, but I continued to beat her some more... After she said that, after I was told to make a demon for her... Neither of us opened our eyes ever again after those incidents.


The steps sprawled out before me without ever promising to end. As each set finished another waited around the bend. My breathing became shallow, as I struggled to keep up my pace, and I silently cursed the apartment building for not possessing an elevator. Somewhere else in that endless stairwell, another pair of shoes clattered upwards with alarming speed. Despite its fervent pounding, my heartbeat no longer drowned out the sound. Just a little faster, just a little further, I told myself. I willed my legs to propel me forward, past the fiery strain in my calves. The foreign footsteps had a steady cadence, a clapping of soles on steps followed by the softer shuffling between floors. The rhythm grew deeper as the distance between the two of us dissolved and soon the sound of another person panting matched my own urgent gasps. I fumbled in my coat pocket for the small blade I usually carried, careful not to catch my foot on the steps as I searched. As my fingers closed securely on the handle, I caught a flash of movement between the slits in the bannister. Disembodied dark jeans and Nikes ascending. The blade was free from my pocket now, my grip tightened around it in nervous anticipation. I stumbled onto the final floor and there he was, furiously twisting a key into the door immediately to the left of the staircase. His head jerked towards me and he quickly appraised the knife in my hand. His eyes went wide with panic, and with his empty hands outstretched towards me he began to protest. “Don’t-” but I had already lunged towards him. The man closed his arms around himself. I had underestimated the distance between us and the knife glanced off the right sleeve of his hoodie, snagging the fabric. He had fallen backwards into a juxtaposed wall, but my failed attack emboldened him, and now he struck back at me with his left hand , at the very moment I had reared back the knife to try again. The force of his fist upside my head was enough to unsteady me. Seeing further opportunity, the man attempted to wrestle the knife from my hand with both arms, bringing me to the ground in the process. As we fell together, I managed to kick over a wooden umbrella stand, sending it and a single umbrella skidding across the floor. My coherent thoughts fell away and I was nothing more than the rage and fear pulsing through me. I pushed against him, swinging wildly with my free hand, but I was overpowered. Sprawled on the ground, I stretched my arm as far above my head as possible. I knew if he got hold of the knife I would die here, on this floor. Pinned down and desperate, when he leaned over me to dislodge the blade from my fingers, I sunk my teeth into his side. Instinctively, he slammed his fist into my temple, and the shock of it sent the knife from my fingers and through the bannister. In my daze, I barely registered the thud of it settling onto a step out of reach before his hands were on my throat. With one hand clawing at his in vain, I blindly pawed at the ground with the other before my fingers found the umbrella stand, and swung it solidly at his head. His grip loosened from my throat and I swung again. His face erupted, spattering me with blood. I swung once more and he slumped sideways, relieving me of his weight and allowing me to scramble free. He was still now, startlingly so, given how powerful he had seemed in the previous moment. I hastily dug my hand into the pocket of his hoodie and fished out my stolen cellphone, still ready with the umbrella stand in case he regained consciousness. I pocketed my cell phone and turned to flee down that abhorrent staircase. As I began my descent, I heard the man groan, and from above me I heard him mutter in contempt. “Crazy Bitch.” I snatched up my blade from a step towards the bottom of the first set of stairs, and did not pause to look back. This time no footsteps echoed after mine.


“Hi Dad,” I whispered in my father’s ear. His eyes opened. He blinked a couple times, turned his head weakly towards mine, and gave a slight smile. “Hi Michael,” he replied, and started coughing. After the coughing fit subsided, he looked up at the hospital ceiling. There was silence for a while, which I eventually broke. “How have the nurses been treating you?” I asked, hoping it would start a conversation. He turned his eyes back towards me. His pale blue eyes had little life in them, and no longer had a sparkle like they did when he was younger. “They’ve been good,” he said. Silence again. I knew what was on his mind, because it was on mine, too. He was going to die. I was all the family he had left. My mother had died a couple years earlier, and I was his only child. We were close many years ago, but as time passed, we talked less and less, and we had reunited only when he became very sick. I visited him every day since he was admitted to the hospital, but our conversations and visits were very brief. I wanted to be closer to my father, but I felt like I didn’t have the time. Which I knew was a stupid reason; I could always make time for my father. I just didn’t. Nurses tended to my father while we both sat in silence. It was awkward for both of us, but I knew my father needed company, so I stayed. After the nurses left, I got up from my chair to leave. “Michael,” my father feebly said from his bed. I turned around. My father had tears in his eyes, and they were falling down his cheeks. I quickly rushed over to him. “What is it, Dad?” I asked, concerned that something was seriously wrong. My father continued to cry. I wiped away his tears. “I love you,” he said. I felt as though I had been hit with a ton of bricks. I realized just how dumb I had been to ignore my father, how dumb I had been to never have the courage to say what he said. I could feel the tears well up in my eyes, and our eyes met. “I love you too, Dad,” I whispered. My father smiled, and I smiled too. Suddenly, my father’s breathing became irregular. He clutched at his chest, and his eyes grew wide. I understood exactly what was happening, despite him not saying a word. I ran outside the room, screaming for a nurse. Nurses rushed into his room, frantically trying to assist him. I dropped to my knees outside the room, crying, begging God to let my dad live. The beeping of his heart monitor grew faster and faster, until eventually it flatlined. I wanted to scream, but nothing came out. There was only silence except for the heart monitor. I fainted. Despite seeing my father die, I feel at peace. I got to finally unite with him, even if it was only for a few minutes. There’s still a part of me that feels guilt for not spending more time with him, and I fear I’ll feel that for a very long time. But at least I got to see him one last time.


It happens every year, almost like a ritual, when my family, friends, and ex-colleagues gather together to enjoy the most special day for me—my birthday. But this time it wasn't like my ordinary birthday, instead it was—I think—my last day on Earth. I am laying on my white bed inside a white room where I can hear the beep sounds of the EKG machine, the cotton is very smooth and very comfortable in my skin. My son is sitting on my side and holding my hands and looking at me with sadness. I can see his eyes, his grey eyes, that is telling me that I deserve his pity. Why do I feel like this? Is this what it feels like to be in this situation? To be in your death bed? When I was a kid, my friends always ask me, why do I always use my pencil to color my works? I could not tell them the truth. I always pretend that I know much more, but when I am wrong they always pick on me. I just want to get out of that hell hole. I envy normal people because they are normal, I envy them because they know things. All I ever dreamed about was to go out in the world and see the beauty of everything but it never happened, and time passed by, it just became clear to me that it would never happen. I heard the door crankled and I saw the most beautiful woman I have ever seen in my life, along with my youngest child and a few of my relatives. I can see her tears in her eyes flowing down like a raindrop on a window pane. I can feel her sadness inside her and I want to remove it from her heart because I do not want her to feel that way. She is holding this paper bag that is covered with what it seems to be a "Happy birthday!" design. I can not even smile no more. My wife is smiling even though she is crying inside, all of my relatives are singing the happy birthday song but all I am thinking about is to when am I going to die. I do not want them to suffer anymore. All I am asking God is to take me away and not make it hard for them anymore. As they were done singing the song, I see my wife taking something inside the paper bag, it is a medium-sized box, covered with a white paper. "Are you ready, my dear?" She said, while she is wiping her tears and smiling at the same time. She removed the paper of the box and put it in my bed. I saw the box in it and I think the box is very light as how my wife lifts it. She opens the box very slow, and took something inside it. It was a small elongated rectangle case. It looks like a case for glasses. Why would they give me glasses? I can see all my relatives faces smiling like my favorite 1970's comedy film. My wife is so excited and you can see that the smile on her face is genuine and it really came from her heart. She walks up to me, on my side, opened the case and said, "Come on now my dear, let us try your new glasses. I am very, very sure you will like it." It was a simple glasses, its rim is black and the color of the lenses is—I think—transluscent and I wonder why they are so excited about this. As my wife put it gently in my eyes, I saw a new world. The world that I have been looking for ever since I was a child. I feel so mesmerized and I can not believe what I am seeing right now. I burst into tears and I can feel the excitement inside me. I want to scream and shout but I can not, instead I asked my wife softly, "Honey, can you please open up the curtains?" As my wife nodded, I can see all of the people inside the room crying and wiping their tears with smiles on their faces. The moment my wife look at me in the eyes before opening the curtains, is the moment that I could finally see the color of her eyes and I can see my whole world inside those eyes. I am very lucky to have a woman like her. The time has come, I am near to rest, the moment they opened the curtains, made me burst more into tears and the beauty of the world punched me hard in the face. I can clearly see how beautiful the world is with colors in it. The leaves are green, the sunflowers are yellow and the all-knowing heaven is white and blue. And before I close my eyes, I grabbed and gripped my wife's hands and look at her with gratitude and saw her messy black eye liner because of her bucket of tears while saying "Thank you!" silently, in her red lips. She kissed me in the forehead and I smiled at her when I took my last breath.


Quite some time ago… when the world was still fresh and new, there lived a massive black ox whose name was Burden. Horns of iron and ash, skin tougher than railroad tracks, his coarse wooly fur a shade of black so dark that he looked like a hole in the Earth. Burden was born fully grown with a massive saddle bag strapped across his hulking back. His sole purpose was to carry the weight of our worries and troubles and fears, carry them right to the edge of the world and do away with them. The load was always incredibly heavy but Burden was the strongest Ox in this galaxy and the next, and Burden did his duty without so much as a word or a grumbling. And so, the weight of our worries would drift away and the world was a much happier place because of it. Burden would travel from village to village with his pack and the villagers would come throw every bad bone they could pick inside. Once his bag was full he would start his journey to the ends of the world. Through fire, through brimstone, through the deepest darkest, over towering mountains, and into the abyss. Burden would carry his bag of bones to the very last patch of dirt and ashen rock, right to the edge of the globe. He would empty them out and every bone and bad dream the people had bestowed upon him would fall into the great wide nothing and fade into patches of the night sky. He never asked why, he never complained. Burden knew it was his purpose and he kept his head low as if he was perpetually bowing to Mother Earth. In the beginning, the people of Earth were grateful. They would bring him baskets of lush greens to eat and fresh water to drink and thank him for his cumbersome sacrifice. However, as time went on the people became so accustomed to Burden’s service that it was no longer celebrated and lauded, it was expected and greatly unappreciated. They did not bring him food or water, they no longer gave thanks, they did not await his arrival with bated breath. Now they were impatient and listless. They unloaded their bones into his bag with disdain, as if it were a chore. Some even yelled at him to “Hurry up!” Still, Burden never batted an eye. He kept his head low and carried out his commitment without a second thought as he really didn’t have many thoughts at all. He did what he was made to do and nothing more. Nothing less. The way he always had, the way he always would. Or rather, he would have, if it were not for one particularly mettlesome crow. **CHAOS.** Chaos the crow lived high in the trees and ruled over the sky. Chaos was rather large for a bird, sleek and black… so much so that it almost looked as if he was always moving, even when sitting completely still. Chaos has existed since Burden began to walk the Earth, though they are both quite the opposite. Chaos is loud and obnoxious, unpredictable and seemingly everywhere at once (which allowed him to stick his beak in all the places that it did not belong.) Chaos always watched Burden carefully, he was jealous of his uniformity and consistency. He didn’t understand his mission or why he was obligated to help the humans that he served, the humans Chaos so detested. So every year, he would try and thwart Burden’s journey. He would come up with new and inventive ways to try and stop the ox but Burden never gave way, he carried right along moving the weight of the world on his shoulders. Year after year he tried, and every year Chaos failed. Not to be undone, Chaos had a spirit just as indomitable as the beast and after a while he began to admire and gain a great deal of respect for his immovable adversary. But when Chaos saw how those he served had begun to treat Burden, he became enraged. He could not begin to fathom how or why these mortals could take such a magnificent deity for granted. Chaos landed in the town square and started squawking madly at the villagers, “This magnificent ox is a creature of the Gods as am I and we shall be exalted as such! You fools should be groveling at his feet! Yet you dare to slight him? You dare gaze upon this gift from the heavens begrudgingly? For shame!” Chaos flapped his wings and thunderous black clouds unfurled out from under them and into the sky. Thunder rumbled as he took in heaving breaths, eyes darting from face to face of the crowd that had started to gather. And then, the people simply dispersed. They shrugged their shoulders, they rolled their eyes, they couldn’t be bothered to care. Chaos spent days and nights trying to think of a plan to make the humans see the error in their ways and pay Burden the respect he was due. The villagers knew Chaos was a thief and a trickster, he couldn’t talk to them himself. He knew there was no talking to the ox, let alone stopping him, it would be like preaching caution to a speeding boulder rolling down a mountain. Fruitless. Hopeless. “What to do, what to do!” He cawed frantically as he hopped back and forth on his perch and plucked at his own feathers, “I haven’t a clue, what one could possibly do… I’m shedding, I’m molting, I’m out of my head… I haven’t a clue, I’m losing the… thread!” Chaos stood absolutely still for possibly the first time in his entire existence. His black eyes gleamed with cunning and pride. “That’s it. One little thread. It’s all that I need.” **BONES.** And so, with his ever watchful and incredibly accurate eye, Chaos waited and watched until he finally spotted what he wanted. One tiny strand of thread dangling from the bottom of Burden’s bag. Chaos smirked to himself and waited some more. He waited until every last bone had been thrown apathetically into Burdens bag, he waited until Burden was well out of town and deep into the forest. There, Chaos plopped down only about a foot behind the meandering missionary and hopped along keeping perfect pace. Every couple of feet, he would pull at the strand with his beak. Little by little… a small tear began to unravel at the bottom of the bag. More and more until the tear became a hole. Chaos poked at the hole with his beak, carefully so as not to disturb the beast but with just the right amount of force to make the hole just big enough for the little nit picky bones of the villagers to tumble out, one by one. And as each bone fell Chaos picked up each and every one and flew them back to the village, carefully making little nests of bones and dread, right outside the homes of each of their respective owners. As each nest appeared, all the fear and worry and terror came rushing back to the world. It was a very new and very strange, terrible feeling for the people. Chaos was brimming with glee when he saw the woe on their faces, a look he thought to himself that was beyond well deserved. He saw the expression on every single one and drank it in like a fine wine. What Chaos did not see however, was what happened to his ill-fated adversary. As each bone had dropped from Burden’s bounty, his load became lighter and lighter. Burden was not used to having such little weight to carry at this part in his journey and so he thought surely he still had a ways to go, and yet he was three steps from the end of the Earth… in four steps, Burden was gone. Burden fell to the stars, returned to the sky, and was dispersed in tiny morsels back to the humans who in turn digested their pain and now carried the weight of their own personal burden… and Chaos reigned forever more.


Do you know what he would have thought? Do you? Today I see you flourishing. Your grass, long thick and emerald green bathing in the sunlight. Would he now look upon you and smile? I glance down to my feet, which are naked and free. Free but I can still see where the chain held its grip, a snaking trench ingrained into my soft skin. You and I are alike, in these days we heal but our scars run deep. I know they stripped you bare also, and took you as property when neither of us could be possessed. We cried out, in our different ways, for them to stop. Stop! Stop! Stop! But they didn't. No-one stopped. They squandered all we had to offer, cut through our flesh, poisoned our bodies until we had nothing left. Then they asked for more. What would he have thought? Was my question now, as I gaze across you in this new world. A world that bloomed in green where the cold, concrete walls once stood. Would he believe the past was unforgivable? I miss him. Sometimes I cry out in my sleep, ‘Jack, come back!’ and I wait for an answer between my whimpers. Of course, there is no answer. I miss him and his smile of positive optimism. An optimism that Jack held to his last breath, when he held his head back and smiled into the sky. 'Lulu' he said, 'hold tight, change is coming'. He was right, he was always right, the change did come. But it was too late, as the change came once he was gone. I felt his life gently leave his body. His heart stammering to its last beat, and his arm went limp, falling into my lap. My tears bubbled up with my despair, spilling down onto his skin, tracing small streams of white through the dirt. Jack is gone, as are so many, and our new city is haunted by their silence. So I come here, to your meadow plains that wrap around the city’s circumference. Meadows of grass, buttercups, and meadowsweet. I belong here, with you. For your sweet earthy smells and your birds, beetles, and bugs. From the meadows, I can gaze across our green city. A city in a wild garden is what we call it. This new city has no greedy towers. No vehicles feasting on carbon, beeping in anger and impatience. And they have gone, those who lived in denial, as the truth was not prosperous for their wallets. They did not care for us. It was only when you fought back, whipped out your final scream of anger and agony. No more could be taken, your balance had been shattered and you could no longer give. When you fought back, our cities crumbled. Our economy meant nothing. Paper notes rip easily in hurricane winds. Paper notes do nothing for the starving seared people that begged in the dry, cracked earth. Paper notes do nothing for the homes drowning under a rising sea. But it was the wars which smote us. People destroying people, the reasons lost somewhere with each bullet. Desperate people do desperate things you know. I was in that place, a place with no reason or time, in an existence that I could not define as ‘’living’’. It was because of the wars that I watched those I loved vanish from my life. I was taken, beaten and poisoned. The ‘Dringo’ tribe took me, along with so many, and they said ‘fight!’ as the needle pierced my skin. With clouded minds, we fought. I look at my hands now and I think ‘are these the hands of a murderer?’ I never knew I could kill. Jack never knew he could kill, or would be killed. You fought back, and so we fought, dragging you further down with us. You wouldn’t think so, as I stand here today in your peace and beauty. Jack saved me with his hope of change. His optimism pushed me onwards, and he was right. When all was lost, a new wind blew and today’s world was built. A few of us remained, like embers glowing in the dark. We came together and ignited change, rebuilding our lives to include you, nature, our green cities now working with you and not against you. I try to bury my scars deep as you do, and I embrace this new life as we slowly heal. You fought back, nature, and we did eventually listen.


“It's really no big deal… I’ve only been trapped in this elevator for… 3 hours.” Gina kept waiting. Her phone had no reception but she was still able to play that weird JRPG with the cute sprite-graphics. She was pretty sure the primary romance plot revolved around a mother and a son who were into each other while they sought to dethrone a dragon-king... Which, you know, yikes obviously. It was fun until her phone ran out of batteries at hour marker number seven. And then an uncomfortable question popped up. She had drained two full cups of coffee this morning before leaving home and she definitely had to pee. Hell, she had to pee seven hours ago when this started but she was so close to being home that she had just held it as she got on the elevator instead of using the lobby bathroom. How long would she have to hold this? Gina alternated the next hour between holding the “Emergency Call” button on the elevator panel and screaming for help. Panic was setting in. What if she peed in the corner right now and then the elevator started working again? That would be pretty embarrassing, right? she didn’t want to be known as “Peed in the elevator girl”, that would be so hurtful. And if she peed in here, what next? How much longer would she wait if she had to number two? No, unacceptable, she wouldn’t, she mustn’t. Those thoughts carried her through the next thirty-seven minutes. And then she fucking peed in the elevator. The one silver lining was that the elevator didn’t immediately start working after she peed. If that had happened, Gina would have cried foul at what had surely been some sort of cruel “Youtube social experiment”. Three hours ago she had this random thought that maybe she shouldn’t have eaten the Chinese food she was bringing home in the first hour. But she had, she had eaten the Chinese food she was bringing home, in the first hour. Now she was nine hours in and she was getting hungry again. Gina frantically dug through her backpack until she found one lone granola bar. It wasn’t even one of the filling and nutritious granola bars, no this one came proudly with chocolate chips. Should she eat it now? No… It would have to wait. Half in a couple of hours and then the second half a couple of hours after that. She was glad that she had been carrying her water bottle which was still about half full. “Yeah, I’m a fucking survivalist badass! You can’t fuck me up, stupid elevator!” She shouted in defiance. Gina was not a “fucking survivalist badass”, Gina was a 32 year old that played laser tag every weekend with her two twin nieces who were both 14. Gina was a financial analyst for a mid-tier electronics distributor. Gina was someone that had seen every episode of The Knick with Clive Owen because she was JUST THAT INTO Steven Soderbergh. **[2] Trapped** In just 37 hours Gina had begun hallucinating some very vivid delusions. “Ggggggina! Gina-wina, you have to get out of here or you’re going to die.” “Shut up, Mister Triangle, I don’t even want to move… my head hurts and I… I know that you can’t be real.” “I am not real, Gina, but you have to get out of here!” Mr. Triangle insisted his voice was high-pitched and raspy but not without joy. Under any other circumstances, Mr. Triangle might be a delight. Gina was laying on the elevator floor with her legs resting vertically along the wall, like she was sitting but the wrong way. The pee smell had gone away at the expense of something… well, something generating a smell not better than pee. Lock a person in a box for two days, no matter what, it doesn't smell great. "I just… I don't think we can get out, Mr. Triangle… I honestly think I might die in this elevator…" Mr. Triangle, the red triangle, about the size of a beach ball, with arms and legs, looked back at her with his dopey, cartoonish grin. "Gina! You need to trust yourself more, you’re so smart! You’re a survivalist badass, remember?" "Don't listen to him Gina… That oaf doesn't know how badly you hurt. How much easier it would be to just end it all by giving up." Laughed a cruel voice. Gina's eyes focused on the new figure in the elevator with them… He was a yellow circle, about the size of a frisbee, with a cold smile on his face. He hadn’t been sitting in ‘Number 2 Corner’ a minute ago and yet there he was now. "Who… who the… what the shit? How many people are in this elevator?” Gina said, her breathing picked up, borderline hyperventilating. “Still just you!” Mr. Triangle. “Oh… right.” Gina said, realizing that she was, in fact, still alone. “But, to answer your earlier question, my dear, I am Smiley-Sun.” The yellow circle said, with his voice which was deep molasses. Slow, dripping, and bitter. “And I think we can both be honest. No matter what this red idiot says, you’re going to die in here.” “Don’t listen to him Gina, you can’t give up, you can still get out of here!” Mr. Triangle persisted. “Stop it, you fool, you’re being an idiot! Shut up!” Smiley-Sun shouted, suddenly and aggressively. The outburst was surprising to Gina who fumbled to sit upright. She looked from Mr. Triangle to Smiley-Sun and she saw that the yellow circle was pointing a gun at Mr. Triangle. “Woah, guys, can we please de-escalate this situation? There is no need to ge-” BANG! The gunshot interrupted her mid-sentence and the sound of it echoed over and over infinitely in the small elevator. Her ears ringing as she forced herself to her feet. “MISTER TRIANGLE!” Gina shouted as her friend clutched at his side and toppled, face down, onto the floor of the elevator. She rushed over and flung herself in front of Mr. Triangle, flipping him over so that she could see her friend. He was gasping for breath, shaky. “You gotta stop him, Gina, he’s gonna kill us both!” Gina rounded on Smiley-Sun, his smile dropped the second he saw her balled up fists. In that moment, he dropped the gun and voided his bladder at the same time. Gina threw herself at him. Gina had never been violent with anyone before in her entire life but she pummeled into that stupid, yellow idiot with both of her hands. She repeatedly slammed fist after fist into Smiley-Sun, knocking out teeth, swelling shut and eye, until she finally began to hear bones splintering in his face. Her hands were bruised and bloodied by the time she got off of Smiley-Sun, he could barely muster breaths into the pulp of his face. “Fuck you, Gina, you’re going to die in her-” BANG Gina had picked up Smiley-Sun’s gun and had returned the favor for Mr. Triangle, putting one round right in between Smiley’s eyes. Smiley-Sun never talked again. He had never actually talked before either, technically. “Mr. Triangle, tell me you’re ok buddy!” Gina said as she spun back to her friend, dropping the gun. He did not look ok. By human standards or triangle standards. He was missing a huge chunk from his side and a spider-web pattern of cracks spun itself out from that missing chunk. He had lost his vibrant red coloring and was beginning to look a sickly pink. But he was still alive. He coughed a couple of times and spat some blood on the ground as he smiled at Gina. “You did it Gina, now you gotta save yourself… It's too late for me but you can still make it!” “Mr. Triangle, we’ve been over this… There is no way out of here!” “Gina…” Mr Triangle paused to have a coughing fit in which a disturbing amount of blood came out. “You’ve seen every single Steven Soderbergh movie and yet you’ve forgotten his best one. Ocean’s Eleven. These elevators always have panels in the ceilings, you just need to climb up and out through that. Then you just climb up to the nearest door and pry it open.” Gina paused for a moment. Of course. So dumb, how could she have forgotten? “Of fuck… I just remembered, I don’t think that was Ocean’s Eleven at all… Just… Just go and be free Gina!” And with that, Mr. Triangle breathed his last breath. Gina looked up, her hands were still shaky and still covered in blood and bruises but she had resolve now. She could do this. The ceiling of the elevator looked to be a paneled drywall sub-ceiling, she was able to lift the panels up and expose the actual metal chassis of the elevator above them. After the second panel she finally found the service hatch. She tried the handle and it was locked, of course. But it wasn’t indestructible. Balancing precariously on the rails along the wall of the inside the elevator Gina was able to get the height and leverage she needed to beat the service hatch with her hands. She pounded on the thing until her hands hurt, painfully aware of how little food and water she’d had in the last two day. She kept punching the door and eventually she felt the hinges give against the frame. After an hour and a half, almost 40 total hours spent in the elevator, Gina finally tasted fresh air. Well, relatively fresh. It was still just the elevator shaft but she was able to lift herself up and out of the elevator after what felt like an eternity. She looked back down to Mr. Triangle one last time and was surprised to see he wasn’t there anymore. And then she remembered that he never really was there anyway. Mr. Triangle and Smiley-Sun had just been hallucinations. She shrugged after realizing that the catharsis was kind of diminished with two-thirds of her elevator party never really actually existing. **[3] Prologue** Gina made it up to her apartment, called 911 and promptly fainted at her own door. She was hospitalized for several days as her family retained an attorney to sue the building owners for never hooking up the emergency call button to any sort of responder service and then sending the property manager away on a holiday weekend without any backup. Other tenants had just taken the stairs, thinking that the elevator was out of service, never even aware that just feet away from them a woman was suffering. Gina suffered no long term health problems from the malnourishment but a psychologist gleefully diagnosed her with a brand-new type of PTSD after she told them about Mr. Triangle and Smiley-Sun. Medical journals actually featured her story and she was a minor celebrity for a while on top of winning the settlement against her building owners. Everything ended up being just fine for Gina. She lived, mostly, happily ever after.


"Christ alive, it's a busy one today" "Yep. I guess all those sick bastards have to come somewhere, right?" "So let's see what we have today. 412 rapists, 982 thieves, 636 killers, and 290 animal abusers. and that's just the morning batch!" "Dave. We're literally in hell. Why do you sound so surprised? Were you expecting priests?" "We actually have a few of those too" "Funny. Just hurry up and process them. We can't have the reception area too full, for long - we need to keep this shit going smoothly. Satan is on my ass. Why am I even telling you this? You've been doing this for 10,000 years. You should know the drill by now. Anyway, I need to head to management. There's been a mix up in torture routines. 300 liars got castrated and 200 rapists got their tongues ripped out. It's a fucking shit-show. Loads of paperwork. Get these bastards processed and to their torture chambers ASAP." "Yeah, yeah I'll see you later." Bob snapped his fingers and was reduced to ashes in an instant. Dave stood there for a moment, reluctant to begin the task set before him. He groggily made his way back to his desk and collapsed onto the chair. In front of him, was a line of human beings that stretched as far as his eye could see. Dave sighed. "NEXT" He shouted. A man approached Dave's desk. He was middle-aged, short, fat and balding with a tragic comb-over. He wore a blood-stained suit and was genuinely looking a little shaken. "Full name and Date of birth please," Dave said in a monotone voice. "r..r..r..ryan a..adams" 12th of the 3rd 1969." "hmm.. ryan.... ryran...Ah! Ryan! Here we go. First-degree murder of your wife. Sin-date 23rd of 2nd 1997. Place your left hand here on the outline." Dave gestured to the outline of a hand on the left corner of the desk. "Please..wait.. you don't understand.. I was drunk.. I caught her chea-" Dave interrupted. "Place your hand HERE" Dave pointed firmly again to the outline of a hand on the desk. Ryan sheepishly lifted his arm up and slowly placed his left hand on the desk, while looking ever so squeamish. Dave opened the draw and selected the appropriate branding iron. He took it out the drawer and slammed the burning hot end onto Ryan's hand, with a great force. Ryan tried to pull back but a strange force was keeping his hand stuck to the table. He released the loudest screech Dave had ever heard, and within seconds, vanished into nothing. "He'll love it here." Dave thought. "..NEXT..." It had been 96 hours. Dave was tired and practically falling asleep. He had gotten through 1048 candidates. "NEXT" He shouted. Only this time, no one moved. "NEXT!" Dave shouted even louder. Again, the line remained the same and no one moved. "HELLO? I SAID NEXT! WHY AREN'T YOU MOVING FORWARD?" Sat from his desk, he made eye contact with the person next in line. "What's going on!? Hello?? Why aren't you moving forward?" Dave questioned. He could see the human looking visibly confused. Dave sat there for a moment wondering what the actual hell was going on. "Hello? I'm talking to you? Do you understand?" Dave was more confused than angry. The individual at the front of the line seemed to only get more anxious and kept nervously looking away. Dave was absolutely stumped. He grew angry. As he opened his mouth and drew breath to shout his next word, he heard a strange sound. He stopped and remained silent for a moment, waiting to hear if the noise repeated itself. "Meow" Dave froze. He sat in his chair, mind racing. A sound he hasn't heard in over 7000 years seemed to be coming from right in front of him. Dave slowly stood up and by Satan as his witness, there it was. A small black cat, licking its paws less than half a meter from his desk. He had almost forgotten what a cat looked like. The only thing he could think of; "This isn't possible. Animals are forbidden from entering hell. Yet here one was?" Without breaking his gaze from the feline, he felt for the contact switch on the underside of his desk and flipped it. Seconds later, a booming voice echoed from the fiery skies. "Dave, you fucking moron, what is it? This better be good!" Bob was known to be a dick. "Bob. I don't really know how to say this. So I'll just be direct. There's a cat at the front of the line." There was silence. "So you really think I have time to play these stupid games with you." Replied bob in an aggressive manner. "Bob, there's a fucking cat down here. It's looking right at me. It's sat at the front of the line. Can you please get down here right now." This time bob sensed the desperate tone in Dave's voice. The echoing voice disappeared and in an instant appeared Bob, from a fiery ball of ash. Dave and Bob, stood next to each other dumbfounded. Both of them were speechless. None of them could believe what they were seeing. After 10 minutes of staring Bob finally mustered up the energy to speak. "It's a cat. An actual fucking cat. Here. In Hell? No animal has ever been sent to hell. It's forbidden.. Just... how..? I've been here for almost 450 thousand years. I...I don't know what to do.." "Maybe it can talk? Shall we ask it something? Maybe it's some sort of super demon?" suggested Dave. He was knew he was grasping at straws here. They both had no clue. With his heart pounding Dave moved a little closer to the small animal, who was currently cleaning its crotch. "w..w..w..who..are.. y....y..you? whimpered Dave. The cat stopped. Looked up at Dave. The feline nimbly jumped up onto the desk and regained direct eye contact. It opened it's mouth and said; "Well, I thought you'd never ask.


It was always so peaceful in the tub. I’m not sure how or why but it was like clockwork – get in the steaming bathtub and suddenly, the mood was perfect. The sun would lay low in the sky and cast long drawn-out shadows along the floor tiles, there were never any sounds from the outside world, just me and the bubbles. Today was no different. As I slowly lowered myself into the water, it was like the surface cleansed my very soul with every inch I submerged. It was glorious. It was exactly what I needed. I let out a deep sigh and closed my eyes. It didn’t matter how many times I did it, soaking in warm water was always the answer to everything. I don’t know how long I was there for but the warm summer sun was still up; couldn’t have been long. When I opened my eyes, I saw my bruised and scratched legs. They weren’t bleeding anymore but they were still tender. There were covered in large, angry purple bruises. One look and I started to sob, not from the injuries – I’d been numb to them for a long time – but from the sadness and emptiness I felt. I cried and cried. Hot tears poured from my eyes into the hot water. My whole body heaved with every gasping breath. I wailed and wept until the moon was high in the night sky. It watched as my eyes dried up and I could cry no more. I sniffed and composed myself. I gathered water in my palms and rinsed my puffy face. Crying was never pretty but I could make myself feel better. The water had gone cold but I didn’t want to get out. I felt safe in the water and didn’t want to leave the embrace of the still fragrant liquids. I stirred it with a finger and, for a second, I thought it had started to warm up again, to recapture the energy that had been lost. How stupid of me. How could I think that *anything* would ever come back? Years of coming and going and this was where it all ended. Or where it would all begin. Who knew? I just knew I was going to have to figure out a way to make this work; I was going to be here for a while, after all. I gingerly raised myself out of the water and looked out to the old world with new eyes. Yup, this was my home now and I was going to have to learn to love it. I stepped out of the water and stretched. Aches and pains screamed out all over my back, begging me not to move, but this was just the first of many trials I was going to face, and physical pain would be the least of my problems. I walked into the bedroom and up to the mirror, naked as the day I was born. I stared at my battle-scarred body in the bright light of the full moon. It was impressive. Lithe, long, slim limbs held strong arms and legs that had been shaped by centuries of fighting. It was almost perfect. But one thing stood out, something that I’d lived with my whole life. The emptiness screamed at me. I reached out and traced arches over the shoulders of my reflection. Although they were no longer there, I could still see my wings. It would take some time but I would eventually forget that I no longer had their familiar weight on my back. I stepped back and faced the night sky. I would never soar among the stars again. I would never plummet to the earth and catch the wind beneath me at the very last second just for thrills. But that was the old me. The new me was going to fight a different battle. The new me was going to win. I’d lost and already paid the ultimate price; life as a human for eternity. I made a promise there - if this was what I was going to be, then I was going to do it on my terms.


It began with an old friend. A message on social media out of the blue, then a meet up. He seemed well. A good job and girlfriend; a house just outside the city in a new housing development aimed at solving the housing crisis. Can’t recall its name. I remember however that as soon as he mentioned it, I could picture it in my head. Well-tended gardens and uniform white houses. A blue sky up above, always blue. At the time this meant nothing. He invited me over, I accepted. We met at the train station in town, travelled there together. Lots of catching up on the train, old in-jokes and mannerisms manifesting once again. He was reserved, and I was always the first to fill the silence, and so I steered the conversation towards his life. My existence is not particularly eventful, and though I am not embarrassed by this I did not really want to talk about it. We spent the day sitting in his kitchen, a spacious and sparsely decorated room looking out into a well-tended garden. He insisted on keeping the lights off and the curtains drawn, and though the room was a little dark I didn’t complain. At one point his girlfriend appeared, but he barely registered her presence. I could not help but notice that she seemed scared. Of him, perhaps, or of something else. She did her best to avoid him and was soon gone. When the day came to an end, he walked me back to the station. Little was said on that walk back, though I am mainly at fault for that. As we walked through the development, submerged in the deep shadows of that autumn evening, he became more cheerful and talkative than earlier, while the sun was still up. He tried his best to elicit conversation, but I was tired; quickly losing interested in what I saw as a strained relationship. Childhood friendship doesn’t necessarily carry over into adulthood. We waited quietly at the train station. We smoked. When the train arrived, I was somewhat glad to be gone, and quickly made my way to the closest carriage. As I stepped onto the train, I had the sudden urge to turn and look back at him. He was standing there alone on the platform, looking directly at me, and his eyes bore into me like black suns. He said something then, but as the train doors were closing, I struggled to hear them. My work requires a lot of travel, lots of driving across bland countryside. In and out of identical cities, past fields of crops or livestock. I tend to zone out, to run on autopilot across those long empty hours. The whole world bleeds into one long road, deserted apart from me, with no destination. I find comfort in this. It was some weeks after my visit that I found out that my old friend and his girlfriend had died. Murder-suicide. Shot her and then himself; neighbours heard the noise. His death, coupled with resurfaced memories of that development, awoke something in me. A strange alertness, an inability to simply shut off. I began to leave the light off all day, inexplicably comforted by shadow. I avoided going outside when I could, for it was a warm spring, and the clear cloudless sky unnerved me. Sleep became a struggle, and in my dreams, I saw rows and rows of a white houses, freshly mown lawns, and a big blue sky. Yet, I still had to travel. Work seemed to take the edge off, to distract me what I can only call my everyday horror. However, the restless nights took their toll, and more and more often I needed to stop and nap. Coffee would not help, and soon my tired mind began to wonder from the road in front of me and towards those final unheard words my friend has spoken that night, standing alone on the platform. I could not help but feel they were significant, somehow related to his suicide. Was he warning me of something? Is this what happened to him? I began to see them just off the motorway. Empty countryside sprung up with new developments, malign uniformity manifested as if directly from my dreams. Possessed with a desire I could not define, I sometimes stopped to look. One I found had no road leading into it, and once I broke through by foot, I found it consisted of endless cul-de-sacs. Colourful cars and friendly faces ensnared in a maze-like nightmare. Days later, a mile on from the maze of cul-de-sacs, I found a development that seemed indistinct and however much I looked at it from the hard shoulder of the motorway, I could not focus on it. I tried getting to it, and I must have walked for hours but I never came close to that hazy line of houses stamped upon the horizon. Yet another appeared completely populated with marionettes; marionettes sitting in front of televisions. Marionettes watering well-tended plants, standing on freshly mown lawns. Forever trapped in this oneiric motion, their strings stretching up into the clear blue sky. One morning, after yet another night of fitful sleep, I awoke to rain and a cloudy sky. My relief was palpable, and I positively rushed to my car to return to the featureless comfort of before. The motorways were quiet, the fields empty of life. On my return, however, I noticed something. Just off the hard shoulder to my left was a field much like the rest, but though the tall unkempt grass and weeds that swayed in the faint wind were odd shapes. I pulled over, and after vaulting the barrier rushed into the field. What I found before me, framed by the tall grass, was a small clearing that consisted of card-board cut outs. Cut outs of houses, of lawns, of cars and people. All were roughly coloured in as though borne from the hands and mind of a child. Above them all, held up by rickety stilts, was a light blue cardboard sky devoid of clouds. I simply stared at the scene before me. Who had done this, I wondered? Did they know something? But I think I knew the answer already, must have already suspected. I did not notice the clouds dissipate, and barely felt the sharp rays of the sun upon my pallid skin, for I could only watch in stunned silence as the truth unfolded before me The card-board cut outs began to swell, to grow into definition. The faint blotches of white became windows glinting with the glare of the sun. The tendrils of green became lawns. The stickmen became marionettes, going about their days in a somnambulistic stiffness. The light blue card-board sky stretched out above me, worming its way into the clouds and dissolving them until nothing was left but that uniform blue. I turned and fled - and it was only later, as the familiar hum of the motorway once again rushed over me, that I understood that it all transpired in complete silence. I drove home, oblivious to the world around me. Now the echo of those soundless words reverberates through my mind, my friend’s final words, and I know their meaning. I look through the drawn curtains from my dark room upon the marionettes whose strings glisten in the summer sun. I shirk away from the glare of that star, from its cloak of malevolent blue, and know that the earth will never wake up from this dream, and that whatever is left will consist of rows of white houses, of well-tended lawns, and of a wide clear cardboard sky.