“I dare you to…” Dare? What does the word mean? Challenge, risk, taunt, all explanations of a solicited action, but how does it apply to us? What if we comply with the inference it makes? What if we do not? We are being asked to perform an act we agree with, or one which we cannot condone. Bullying is a good example. It asks us to endorse an action we may not condone, but allow, because we are not the recipient of the force behind the request. We in fact become complicit by doing or saying nothing, and yet the practice and the acceptance occur daily. When was the last time you were coerced, dared, to do something constructive? Requests are normally reserved for an effort to reinforce a need to justify an action. Turn off the lights, turn on the sprinkler, be quiet, all efforts to enforce a need. What would happen if we were asked to become kinder, more observant, forgiving? Would we react with the same mechanical response we provided when challenged to turn on the light? Is it possible to dare ourselves to do better, be better? I believe it is possible, if we are reminded to do so. It is not a condition we take to readily as it deviates from a normalcy we find comforting. Comfort is difficult to relinquish, because it provides the immediate gratification we so desperately seek. Do we dare ourselves, to be comfortable? Probably not.

We should learn to dare ourselves to do many more things, than we normally consider. We don’t, because we find the idea of stimulating ourselves to do something new, different, frightening, abnormal. It requires for most of us, the impetus of another asking us to change. Change, like a dare, is challenging, because it requires a self-determined process for improvement. The majority of us never think of improvement as being essential to evolving as a person, but it is. We tend to change slowly, so as not to frighten ourselves. Rarely do we throw down the gauntlet and say, “I am going to improve the way I perform my duties, live my life.”  We tend to take a negative route, “I quit!” It is far easier than to contemplate change. Let us consider the risk and allure of a dare. We are being asked to do something we would not normally do, or we are asking another to do something they would not normally do. Why? We do not adapt well to change, therefore accepting a dare or requesting one is asking that we step outside our normalcy and attempt to be someone we are not. So why do we consider it? Challenges invoke a response in us that is reminiscent of a person lifting a car to free someone trapped beneath. It is normally not a consideration, but when confronted by a problem that we have given no logical thought to, we act on emotion, adrenalin, a spirit we are unaware of, and simply react. We have not considered the why or how, but only of the task at hand. We have triggered a response to a dare we did not recognize as such, until afterwards. We did not challenge or dare ourselves to do something we would normally not even consider. Something inside us did that for us.

Would it be possible to dare ourselves to capture the power and strength of that unused resource, to improve our lives? Does our reserve of supernatural power become activated only when fear is present. Our instinct to survive is strong, but is it instinct alone activated by fear, that we have access to. Sports figures, have addressed this issue on many occasions when asked how they rose to the occasion, allowing their team to capture victory. The answer is always the same. It is a mental attitude that transfers its power to the physical realm, allowing extraordinary feats that appear to surpass the normal physical abilities of a person.

So, is it possible to challenge ourselves to be more than we believe we are capable of? The evidence suggests that it is possible to be more than we assume. Our potential is stifled only by our lack of will or imagination.

We of course are limited by the physical aspects of being human. Pain, suffering, fatigue, all are a constant reminder of our fallibility, but also are shown to have been overcome by our minds ability to demand more of our bodies, than normally we would ask. The majority of our experience with dares, grapples with being asked to do something we normally would not do. We have self-imposed restrictions we have placed on ourselves for one reason or another.  They are responsible for us not crossing a line we believe leads to being uncomfortable or possibly illegal. We associate the word dare with an action that is abnormal. We don’t usually taunt someone to do something we know is not acceptable, or uncomfortable, but we do allow others to propagate injustice and say nothing, do nothing. Does that make us complicit, or simply indifferent. I can’t help but wonder if it is possible to reverse the process of intimidation by daring people to be different. Would it be possible for us to become tolerant, inclusive, even forgiving, if we challenged ourselves to be. If we dared ourselves to be more than we believe we are.

If a two-hundred-pound man can pick up a two-thousand-pound vehicle, isn’t it possible that we are capable of challenging our own beliefs and become more accepting of others, their customs, attitudes, dreams. We are after all capable of refusing to participate in wars, apartheid, crimes against humanity, shouldn’t we be able to accept tolerance and understanding as a means to accepting a dare we all share, life. I believe it necessary to dare ourselves to be personally involved in the injustice in our world by recognizing the intent of the dare. Should we be lulled into accepting prejudice and hate as normal or challenge ourselves to expect more. Dare ourselves to be better than we believe possible, and expect the same of others.

When we are dared to look the other way when we see injustice, we are dared to be complicit in advocating challenges only of a negative nature, and abandon our ability or desire to expect better from ourselves, and others.


“Are you coming tonight?” you wanted to know.

I wasn’t, or I hadn’t been planning to. But I heard myself answer, “yes, I’d love to!” It wasn’t until you’d kissed me goodbye and were halfway to your car that I asked myself why I said that.

The last thing I felt like doing that night was participating in our town’s version of a carnival . You know they do this every summer. I’ve never liked it. I’d been looking forward to being by myself, maybe ordering in and watching movies. I said yes, I realized, because Evan was going to be there ! I said yes because long experience told me my heart should have sped up with excitement when you asked me to go.

It hadn’t, though. And now that I was thinking about it, I couldn’t remember the last time it had. It must have been years. I remembered the way just thinking of you used to make me feel, and felt nothing except a mild nostalgic twinge that I suspect was more for our middle school days when we started dating than for you yourself.

Not that there was anything wrong with you, Evan. I can only imagine what you must feel towards me now (actually, I can’t imagine it), but if it means anything to you, I want you to know that this was not your fault. It wasn’t anything you did.

I guess you were probably going to propose sometime soon, now that we’ve finished college and are looking for jobs. Not student jobs or summer jobs but job jobs. Rest-of-our-lives jobs. Maybe you weren’t, but I felt pretty confident and I still do. We’d been together for ten years, after all, almost half our lives. It sounds crazy now that I’m typing it out. How many people marry their seventh grade boyfriends? I would have been one of an elite few, if you hadn’t asked me to that carnival when and how you did.

Or maybe not, if I’m wrong and you weren’t going to propose, or if I’d had my revelation some other moment some other way. Who knows? Personally, though, I think that was what did it, because when it hit me how easily and unthinkingly I’d lied to you, I realized it was because of how natural it had become for me to lie to both of us.

Once you were my best friend in the world, Evan. I don’t know when I fell out of love with you, but I know it was a long, long time ago. I also don’t know if that’s when I fell out of love with my whole life. All I know is that the night of the carnival, I suddenly knew something with absolute certainty, which was an unfamiliar feeling. So I walked downstairs in the jean shorts and denim jacket I always wore to summer nights out, and I got behind the wheel of my car–with every intention, I thought, of meeting you at the fairgrounds.

I made the left onto Pine Street, and then I just kept driving. It’s a good thing there weren’t many people on the road because you know that’s a fifty zone and I was going at least seventy. I got on the highway going west and drove until my gas light started blinking. I don’t know how far from town I was by then. I didn’t think about it.

Now, I’m sure you’re wondering, what was I thinking?! I’m sorry, because this is going to be disappointing, but I wasn’t thinking about much of anything. I was thinking that I wasn’t going to the stupid carnival. Somewhere in me, I was thinking that I couldn’t take another day of what, until that moment, I’d flattered myself by calling my life . Mostly, though, I was thinking about filling up my gas tank and getting back on the highway, and going, going, going and never stopping for anything.

When I got back on the highway, my pockets were bulging. I had drawn as much cash as I could from all my cards. My phone started to ring as I left the station’s convenience store. I chucked it in the trash as I came through the door. I never saw who called. If it was you, checking to see why I was late–well, now I’m telling you why.

My speedometer never dropped below eighty the entire rest of that night. I’m actually kind of amazed I didn’t get ticketed. Anyway, it was a beautiful sunrise. I think it was the most beautiful sunrise I’ve ever seen. I kept drawing cash from my cards until there was nothing left on either of them, and then I threw them in the garbage too. I drove until my car and I were both so low on fuel that neither of us had anything left to burn.

I pulled off the highway into a little nothing town, like ours but also completely, fundamentally different. I think I was somewhere near Illinois at this point, or just outside of it. I’m not quite sure. I got calories for myself and gasoline for Cheryl (as I’ve started calling my chevrolet). I swear it was the most amazing cup of weak coffee and the most sublime overly greased omelet anyone has ever tasted.

I drove the entire rest of that day, and finally crashed in a motel in Madison, Wisconsin. You don’t know how good it felt to bathe . I washed away two days’ worth of sweat and dust, and twenty-two years and fifty days’ worth of a life I now realized I’d never been particularly fond of. Once I was clean, I put on a ratty old bathrobe and found the hotel’s gift shop. I bought packets of underwear, sports bras, a nightshirt, two pairs of vacation shorts, three t-shirts, a backpack and a sweatshirt. The motel had free toiletries. I took everything I could carry or fit in my bag.

I drank scalding hot tea and watched cartoons until I fell asleep. I felt incredible. That was the happiest I’d been in my whole life. That sounds sad, I know, but it feels wonderful.

The next day I woke up and my first thought was that the day belonged to me, in a way that nothing ever had. This is tough to explain. Also, don’t think I don’t realize how cruel I sound to you. I’m not trying to be cruel. I’m sorry I didn’t do this a long time ago, and I’m sorry I did it this way, but somehow I don’t think you’re that hurt.

Maybe I’m just making myself feel better. But I was never close with my parents. I would have died for my school friends, but after school somehow they all faded away. And you and I haven’t been close, whatever we led ourselves to believe. We thought we were close the way pre-teens are close. We never even tried to be close as adults. The person I was until that night when I left is gone forever. I don’t really think that anyone is going to miss her. I won’t feel bad about that, though. I never needed her and I still don’t.

So nothing from who I used to be was mine, but this day was. I had it to spend however I chose. I could do anything. I’d just proved that by doing something I never would have thought I could do–walking away. Choosing to be the person I want to be. I went out and explored Madison. I liked it, but I didn’t love it, and after a day I was ready to be somewhere else, so that night Cheryl and I got back on the road.

At 3 AM, I decided I was hungry. Google told me there was a roadside diner forty miles away that was open twenty-four hours. I finished my slice of pie and sugary, bittersweet coffee at 4:30 AM and I was in South Dakota for the next sunrise. A couple of backpackers watched it with me, off of a hiking trail near the Minnesota border. I liked them, and I liked hanging out with them, so I stuck around for a few days.

Who knew South Dakota was so gorgeous ? Or that I have a knack for hiking, for that matter? I slipped once and got my Snuggle’s Motel vacation shorts muddy, but I kept up with them. Their names are Abby and Danielle. I’m going to visit them next week! I’m not going to tell you where, because neither of us needs to do a post mortem on the old me, but it’s a city I’ve never been to, and I can’t wait to see it.

We eventually parted ways because they were heading up to Canada. For that I would’ve needed a passport, which I didn’t have or feel like getting. Besides, I wanted to see Montana. I kept driving.

After two days of watching Montana spin past me, and a surprisingly breathtaking stop in Idaho, I made it to Washington. I’d always wanted to see Washington state. Did you know that? I don’t think you did. I never talked about it. I don’t think I’ll ever know, Evan, why my real self was so rarely–if ever–a part of us.

Don’t think I haven’t asked myself whether things would have played out differently if I’d been more honest with the both of us. I asked it a lot of times, but the mountains of Washington blew it from my mind. I won’t dwell on the past. We both have lives to live. I hope. Or, no–I believe. Please believe me that I’m sorry it took me so long to acknowledge that.

The road from Washington to California is a blur. Oregon was a whirl of color in the windows while Adele blasted on the radio. I started stopping just for the heck of it, in random places. I would stock up on Twizzlers and Doritos and just keep on hitting the road. I’m not going to tell you about what I did from there, I’ve decided. I started typing this out just to get my thoughts in order. I had no intention of sending it to you. I was going to send you something else. An apology? An explanation? I don’t know. All I can think is that I owe you the truth, for once. So here it is, for all the good it may do. I don’t know anymore if this is cruel or kind. It is real, though.

You don’t need to hear about all the things I did, or the friends I made, or the things I saw. I was renting monthly, and I’d just paid. Mr. Brecker has probably thrown my things out already. Like I said before, no one will miss the person I was, least of all me.

I’m sending this from a public library computer (the keys are sticky but the WiFi is good). Then I’m never checking my old email address again. Like I said, I started this email just to start saying something . I never meant to send it. You have no idea how hard it was to sit down and do this. You must’ve gathered by now: I love the feeling of running. I’ve been running towards my life since the last time we spoke. I won’t run away from my past, and I won’t let you take the brunt of it again, so I’m going to make myself hit Send in a moment.

You won’t see me again. I don’t think I’ll ever get sick of the over-fresh scent of hotel beds, or the tang of rest stop coffee, but I am going to have to get back to the job thing. It’s an odd feeling, having no idea where I’ll be in three weeks or three years. Actually, my head is getting a little buzzy just thinking about it. It’s nervousness, but truth be told, I think it’s closer to excitement.

Once again–know that you did nothing wrong. Forgive me if you can, and if it will make you happy. If it were me I’d rather be furious. Do that, please, with my blessing. Whatever is best for you is what I hope you’ll do. I’m not sorry for what I did; it’s exactly what I should have done. I never wanted your happiness to be sacrificed to mine. I don’t believe it will be.

Thank you for what you did for me that night, however unintentionally. I’m not being flippant; I mean that. You gave me an epiphany that I desperately needed when you asked me, was I coming tonight? It is with the relish and release that epiphany brought me that I can finally say, with candor: No, I’m not .

Sincerely,

Sara


The coming of the seven-day night, as they called it, was a warning they all took seriously. The news that there would be no daylight for one whole week troubled the people of the small town of Cairns greatly, but not as much as when they learned that the gods would come down from the skies during this darkness. As to why this particular time, the book of knowledge was silent. "They are gods," the people said in defeat. "There is no need for them to make sense." It was to start on the night that any one of their roosters died, so when old Charles Chickens clucked his last the townsfolk braced themselves. The people of Cairns, both young and old, stood outside on the dirt roads facing west as they bade goodbye to the sun. To fight their growing fears and, perhaps, to try to smother the violent waves of disquiet, they decided to throw a feast when the darkness fell. Everyone was invited—from the McGonnellys to the Bielbears, from the farthest house up the hill to the smallest hut at the center of the market—everybody heard the word. There was dancing and singing. There were tables set up on the main road. Here and there, mugs of beer were passed around. The smell of roasting beef and pork permeated the air, while the women went around the tables carrying trays with bowls of potatoes, bread, and gravy. Late into the night, torches were lit. Soft circles of light bathed the merrymakers who were already red in the cheeks and full to bursting. Their mayor, a plump man named Federick Humblesby, raised a glass that was already half empty. "To the people of Cairns and the seven-day night!" He said. "May all of our woes be as short-lived as this darkness. Blessed us be!" The townsfolk raised their glasses and drank deeply, knowing their fears were kept at bay by the beer. They have just finished their last beer barrel. "Say," one of the town's loudmouths said. "Weren't the gods s'pposed to come down?" They exchanged uneasy looks, having completely forgotten that. One woman gasped when they realized they had not prepared for it at all. "What are we to do?" They turned to one another, breath smelling like pork fat and gravy, repeating the same question. "We make offerings?" "With what? We just slaughtered Moo's cow." Heads turned towards a fire pit where there was a boney carcass still roasting on the dying embers. Its underside as black as coal. "A pig then?" Everyone looked at the plates they left on the table, each one had a bone from a rib, a foot, a leg. There was even a discarded ear near the foot of one farmer. "Surely, one of us can afford to slaughter one more?" No one made eye contact. All of a sudden, the starless night sky became an interesting thing to inspect. "Maybe, they're alright with some vegetables?" A woman said. The older woman beside her frowned. "Well then, you go on ahead and give them the wilted ones since that was all you left back home." A man in ragged clothes raised his hand. "Mayhap some bread? I have got more at home." The people who were standing next to him, his neighbors all, scratched their head in uneasiness. The man was the poorest in all of Cairns and would accept the lowliest of jobs to get by. They knew his bread would be moldy and, to be honest, probably the only food he had. "You need not worry about it." One of them said to him. "You keep the bread and be full." "We've got carrots," a man said from the other side of the crowd. "What you feedin' Paddy then? Your shoes?" His wife replied. "Why don't we just go to the next town and buy carrots there?" "In this darkness, friend? Not one of your brightest ideas that." "I think we've got some more fruits in the basket at home?" "Those fruits I told you to throw in the bin yesterday because they were starting to smell like death. Those fruits, you mean?" "Alright, enough!" The mayor shouted to be heard. "We have no more left to give, or so it appears. But we must never anger the gods. So, what we must do then is simple: since we have nothing to feed the fires of the ritual cauldron, we give what we can to any visitor who arrives." A young man's brow furrowed in confusion. "A visitor?" The mayor nodded. " Any visitor. Stories of old have often described the gods as coming down in disguises, mostly in forms we often find rather... repugnant, to test our mettle." The crowd groaned. Already, they were thinking of a man covered in a thick crust of his own sweat and dirt, his hair matted and his clothes stiff from the perpetual wear. The idea of allowing such a man into their homes made them wrinkle their nose. "And now, ladies and gentlemen, it is late. Return to your homes, please. Bring the torches with you. There should be no one left out on the roads when we're all home. Tomorrow, we reconvene at the plaza to discuss this matter when our words aren't slurring and our heads are clear." The mayor waved at everyone goodbye, his assistant on his tail with their own torch. The crowd slowly dispersed as their feasting finally ended. Walking in tight groups, every single one was immediately sobered by the reminder that they would not be waking up to sunlight pouring in from their windows. And when all of Cairns was fast asleep in their beds, with their heads throbbing and their bellies bloated, a strange fog crept forth from the shadows, wrapping the small town in a white, cool mist. Emerging from its center and leaping towards what remained of the feast was a rather large black cat. Tied around its neck was a collar with a golden pendant that had the name "Bastien". Bastien sniffed at the greasy plates and the upended glasses, finding nothing for him. He flipped some bowls over to see anything interesting at the bottom. Then, he spied the cow on the spit and slunk towards it. There was almost nothing left of the cow save for its charred bones.  Bastien clawed at it, shaking its form until it fell to the ground. The cat licked its paw and then tapped the cow's bones as if to awaken the dead animal. When the bones started to move on their own—rocking from a side to side like a boat caught in a storm—Bastien moved on and visited his first house. There, in the backyard with the flies hovering over them, was a mound of rotten fruit that stank to the heavens. Bastien paid the stench no mind and, like with the cow, inspected the refuse thoroughly. Finding only mushed and discolored fruits, he again tapped it with his paws and when the fruits started to take on a color as if they were freshly picked, Bastien was long gone. He found the smallest hut in the marketplace next. It was barely big enough to house the lonely man curled up on a cot in a corner, his entire possessions stashed inside a cloth bag that he used as a pillow. At his feet was a small box that Bastien opened to find three small pieces of bread that were bluish-green. The black cat retched before he tapped the moldy slices and then went on his merry way. The last house that he visited was the mayor's. Bastien climbed up through a window left open near the kitchen and what he saw surprised him as much as any black cat, whether godlike or otherwise, could be surprised. There was an entire shelf full of food and drinks to fill the bellies of at least thirty people. Bastien saw a huge roll of cheese, a row of jams and sugared plums, five stacks of sour dough bread, and so on. There was a hatch on the floor left open and the curious Bastien went down to have a look. He found the mayor's assistant splayed like a doll on a chair, mouth hanging wide open, and snoring. His fingers were loosely curled around the neck of a wine bottle that he held to his chest. Next to him was an oaken rack that contained many more bottles like the one in his hand. Bastien saw nothing to do there and went back the way he came. He eventually found the mayor sleeping in his room right in the middle of his plush bed, covered to the neck with a soft, velvety blanket. Bastien was at a loss. This man appeared to be wanting for nothing. What was there to do here? Bastien sat in the darkness for a while, contemplating. And then, unable to resist the call of the fluffy bed jumped right into it and stretched. Before he left, he sharpened his claws on one of the bed posts. Bastien made sure that he visited all of the houses in this small town and giving away what magic he could. Being that his mistress was rather busy elsewhere, he figured it would be alright to go on an excursion of his own. As long as he made it back home before his mistress, he wasn't going to be in any trouble. Besides, his mistress did say that she was getting tired of people asking for so much, so when Bastien saw with his own eyes that there was such shortage in food in that small town, he resorted to solving this problem himself. His mistress would be proud. All of this work tired Bastien to his bones. Before the first person had even opened their eyes to start their first day in the darkness, the black cat had gone back from where he came. There was a commotion that woke everyone. Ammie Fugle, the mother who was tired of rotting fruits in her house, had awakened to a bountiful harvest of bananas, mangoes, and apples just sitting outside her backdoor. The McGonnelly family, living two houses down, saw that their entire kitchen floor was covered in huge, juicy carrots. Benny "Moo" Moones, the farmer who volunteered to have one of his cows slaughtered nearly fainted in shock to find the same cow back in his farm, grazing. He even inspected every inch of its body to confirm that, yes, it was the same animal they ate last night. He thought he was going crazy, but then his eyes chanced upon a pig walking on the road that let itself into the front yard of Felmer Bielbears—the man who sold the very same sow to the crowd before the feast. "This is the gods' work," Moo said, in a sudden wave of enlightenment, but with that burst of wisdom came another realization: Now they had no more excuse not to make their offerings. Unbeknownst to Moo, everyone else who woke up in that strange Cairns darkness was having the same epiphany. The gods had given them a gift, and now they must give in return. But of course, nobody wanted to. When the mayor woke up, he was alarmed to find splinters everywhere on his bed sheet. When he slid his legs over to the side to get up, so many of it embedded in his skin. His assistant was woken up by his scream. Try as they might, they were impossible to pull out, not in that darkness when they could barely see a thing. He dressed up and went to the town plaza getting increasingly annoyed as the splinters felt like small wooden knives stabbing him everywhere on his legs. The mayor stood upon the dais at the plaza with a scowl on his face. There was no warmth in the crowd that gathered to see him, and this made him all the more irritable. Instead, everybody had a peculiar look on their face that Mayor Humblesby couldn't place. "Any new volunteers? Anything at all you could offer to give?" He cut to the chase. The crowd exchanged uneasy looks, some even avoiding eye contact. Mayor Humblesby winced, feeling a sharp pain between his toes that he wanted to scratch. In the awkward silence that stretched, only his labored breathing was heard. "Let me be clear: there is absolutely no one who wants to offer anything to the gods you constantly pray to for blessings and such? No one at all?" The sound of soft murmurs of protest undulated in the plaza. The mayor caught things like, "... but the horse..." and "... damned fruits no good like I told you before..." and " ... we'd go hungry...". Th ey were no closer to a solution. But just before the mayor walked out in annoyance, a voice shouted from the back. It was coming from the marketplace. Heads turned to look at the poor man who was smiling from ear to ear. In his arm were loaves upon loaves of freshly baked bread that left everyone's mouths watering when he passed by. Without another word, he tossed the bread into the ceremonial cauldron along with the herbs for the ritual and then set it aflame with the torch he carried. He then knelt down and lifted his hands to the sky, completing the ritual of gratitude by exclaiming it loudly. The crowd watched in awe. Felmer Bielbears, who was standing nearby, clutched his heart in joy and wept. "Those who have nothing be the first to share. I would have gladly given more had I more to give." Moo's jaw dropped. "Had you more to give?" He shouted from the other side. "I saw your pig walk back to its pen." This was met with a shocked gasp from everyone, but the look on Felmer's face was more than their surprise combined. "You accuse me of lying? If it were true, you would know this how?" "Because his cow came back to him!" Arthre McGonnelly guessed, though the look on his eyes betrayed that he knew this to be the truth. "This is madness!" And then the crowd erupted in a cacophony of accusations and defamation, hurling insults at each other that go much further than the night of the feast. "SILENCE!" The Mayor stomped his foot on the wooden platform and immediately regretted it. He saw stars when he closed his eyes. "Cows and pigs coming back to life is the work of the gods. Have any of you received anyone into your homes? Anyone at all?" The people of Cairns shook their heads, though they were feeling dread crawling up their spine. Surely the gods must ask for something in return? Before the mayor could speak again, the burning cauldron spewed out white smoke as thick as a cloud before the rain. "Was this where you've been, Bastien? Tell me." A female voice said from within. When it dissipated, the townsfolk immediately fell to their knees in deference. Stepping out from the column of smoke was a tall woman with long, black hair to her feet and a golden dress that twinkled like stars. Atop her head was a crown of light that burned like the sun. In her arms was a black cat purring contentedly. Bastien the cat took one look at the people and then looked at his mistress to say that, yes, this was where he's been. "To the good people of..." the goddess turned to the mayor who had his face pressed to the ground. "Cairns, my goddess," he replied, his voice muffled. The goddess cleared her throat and started over. "To the good people of Cairns, let me apologize. My beloved Bastien wandered here into your town and gave you gifts. Unfortunately, he does not know well how to wield this power—he is a cat, as you can see. Whatever you received from him will decay soon and destroy everything it touches. Before that happens, I highly suggest you burn each and every thing." "But my goddess, please. We would have nothing left to eat!" Bastien meowed, prompting the goddess to put her ear next to the cat. "What's that you said? The fat man has enough food for all?" The cat purred in response. "Very well, then. You heard the cat." "My goddess, please," the mayor said, trembling. "It will not be enough—" "I will not hear any more." The goddess replied, and with a flick of her hand the cloud of smoke appeared once more wrapping itself around her, and when it faded, so did she. The stunned crowd turned to look at each other, horrified and embarrassed of their greed. Without another word, they all rushed away from the plaza, panic surging through their veins as they gathered all that had mysteriously appeared in their home. The frenzied crowd tossed every piece of food into the fiery cauldron and kept the fire burning for a whole day. One child and his friends took pity upon the cow and the pig and set them free before their owners got to them. But just before everybody thought that the chaos was over, the crowd descended upon the mayor's house demanding for some food. Federick Humblesby was weeping as he gave hunks of cheese to his angry people. Meanwhile, in the abode of the gods, a smiling goddess looked down upon the folks of Cairns as she caressed the equally happy cat  in her arms. Bastien was no inept cat—he did exactly what his mistress would have done and used his powers just as he was trained. He was generous to a fault, and that was his only shortcoming. "Why don't you pay that poor man a visit again tonight, Bastien?" The goddess said. The black cat purred.


By the time I stepped outside, the leaves were on fire. The bark on the trees was starting to singe, and the earth was so hot that I thought I wouldn’t make it. I could hear the cracks; some loud, like branches were about to break and fall; some softer, as the trees began to release their seeds. The small brush-tailed rock wallaby that was panting near my home, was obviously distressed. I needed to get to her with a damp blanket, and try to pick her up. Then I had to get the hell out of here. I had gone home as soon as I heard the news about the bushfires raging just north of where I lived. My parents had passed in the year prior, and I had all the family photos to make a family tree. I had been writing their stories, and the stories of our forebears; and then scanning and inserting photos where they fit in the sequence of things. I hadn’t thought to scan all the photos first, and then insert them. No, that would have been smart!! Everything was strewn over my dining table, together with my laptop. Who knows where I left my backup drive? I had tried to get home as quickly as I could, but the traffic was horrendous. By the time I got there, the firefighters and State Emergency Service (SES) personnel were going door-to-door to see who hadn’t yet evacuated. I was that late. I scooped all my paperwork up into my arms; and it was on the way back to my car, that I saw the wallaby. They’re fast animals, with big back legs for hopping and leaping the way that kangaroos do, only a little smaller. They are super-cute, and their fur is soft and fluffy. Their claws are another matter! I saw the brush-tailed rock wallaby, and realised I had to make a choice: drop all my treasured family photos and family tree research to save her, or to try to save everything and hope I could save her as well. Brush-tailed rock wallabies are “near threatened”. I had to do something! In moments like those, you might think clearly, if you have had experience with “moments like those”. I had no idea what to do. I had to think on my feet, and I couldn’t. I had to just “do”. I piled the papers and computer into my car, dumping them on the front seat; and dashed to my bedroom. I ripped up a blanket from the bed, and took it to the shower to dampen it. I had no idea if this would work, but I had to try it. I rushed back outside, and the wallaby was gone! The last time I saw her, she was panting in the heat. There were other dead wallabies nearby, and I thought how she must have lost her own family; her own friends. My throat was dry, and my nostrils were filled with soot. My eyes began to sting. The air was thickening with billowing pyrocumulonimbus clouds of grey and orange water vapour, released from the trees as they took on the flames. The steam made a blanket above the earth and, from there, made a local weather system. Within it, were carbon dioxide and carbon monoxide; the gases that contribute to global warming; and, with the sulphur dioxide and nitrogen dioxide, they added to my severe discomfort. I could taste the poison in the air. I was terrified; both by the sight of the flames, and by the blockage in my throat. I couldn’t take air in, and I was like that little brush-tailed rock wallaby; gasping for air. But where was she? Then, under the house, I spied her. She was hiding, and trying to find shelter from the impending wall of heat. She would have been a great example to the kids in schools, who are taught early on, to “get down low, and go, go, go!”. I crouched down, as close as I could, and tried to speak as gently as possible. She was shivering and looking around for somewhere safe, and I was this big thing with a big wet blanket, yelling over the deafening sound of the roaring fire, not to be afraid! Somehow, I managed to catch her within my blanket. I placed a corner over her wriggling head, and wrapped her like a cranky baby, so I could protect her from the flames and smoke. The wet blanket, if it stayed over her head, would help to keep the smoke out of her lungs. I hoped! I hurried to my car, and struggled to open the hatchback door. If she got loose in my car, she could cause an accident. At least, in the boot, she’d be contained. Once I got her in, I slammed the hatch down, and burned my hand on the metal. The fire was getting too close. It was time to move! I got in and turned the key in the ignition. The motor sputtered and shrieked like it had seen a monster, but finally started. I drove down the gravel driveway away from my haven. When I had moved here two years ago, I had sought a tree-change, and my beautiful home was filled with tall scented eucalypts, leptospermums, wattles, and the most vibrant array of birds I had ever seen. Now, it was all fuel for a hungry fire. I drove to the end of my long driveway, and saw the firefighters doing their heroic best. It brings tears to my eyes just thinking about them now. My sinuses rage with the heat of sorrow, knowing now, that some of them died in that very fire. They left young families. Their flashing lights showed the way out, and just as I escaped, it seemed as though the walls of fire closed in on those firefighters. It could have been me. I felt like such an idiot, going back for pieces of paper. And now, my actions could have placed them in more danger. I raced to a neighbouring town, where all the refugees from the fires were congregating on the beach. I had forgotten the scared animal in the back of my car. As I arrived, I found people in uniforms handing out bottles of water. People in other uniforms, asking questions. More people, still, checking our wellbeing. A girl tended my burned hand, and I became aware of the searing pain that would not subside. Some people were even handing out packs of toiletries (thankfully, as I had forgotten simple things like that). Suddenly, I remembered the poor little brush-tailed rock wallaby! I ran back to my car and opened the hatch. There she was, still breathing; and somehow, more relaxed. Could she have been suffering carbon monoxide poisoning? I gingerly picked her up, like you would lift a sleeping toddler. One arm scooped under her bulky legs, wrapped in the wet blanket; the other crooked under her neck. She had such a sweet face! Her long lashes slowly opened to reveal deep, dark eyes that looked up at me as if to say, “check my baby”. I crouched down, where I was, so I could rest her body on my knees. My left hand respectfully snuck in, under the blanket, to feel the warm soft fur outside her pouch. There, I could feel the small joey moving under my palm, within her. Relief! I still didn’t know what to do. I was no ranger. I wasn’t a vet. I didn’t even have chickens. I had “gone bush”, with no idea about the bush. I wanted to become an apiarist and build my own style of beehives. I was still only learning about bees! I hoped the few I had, had escaped. I looked around to see who could help me care for my little wallaby. Uniforms everywhere, but which were rangers? Who were the vets? At last, I saw people carrying dogs and other pets toward a tent, and I lifted myself up off my haunches and carried my cherished companion in that direction. A young man lifted the blanket to see what I carried, asked if there were any burns, and (because I didn’t know), placed her on a picnic table. My arms felt so empty! He inspected her, and made some notes; and then directed us to a water station. There, I was able to find a woman who knew what to do. She showed me how to help hydrate this young mother, and I felt like everything would be alright. Finally, I started to breathe a bit more normally. I hadn’t realised it, but I had been holding my breath for most of this time. The pounding in my chest began to ease. I sat down on the ground next to my car, exhausted but relieved. I drank the water like I was in the middle of the Great Sandy Desert; I was so dry. I closed my eyes, and through snuffled snores, somehow fell asleep. Just as I was resting, wallaby in my arms; a siren pierced the darkness. It cracked through a dream; or, rather, a nightmare. I was a bee, trapped in a hive, surrounded by fires. Then I was a chicken, flapping wildly to escape the flames. Then I was me; in my dining room, with photos of my mother and father fluttering all around me; and I was too scared to know what to do. And from my mouth, I could hear the sound of my raspy voice wailing, and no-one coming to rescue me. I was utterly alone. The time was about midnight, but it was hard to tell because the colour of the sky was a dark orange. Someone on a loudspeaker announced the fire was on the way toward us. Suddenly, we were trapped all over again! The fire now encroached the town, from every direction. It had waged it’s war on so many different fronts, and now those fronts combined into one long line of terror. Again, I packed up my companion, and looked toward the sea. It was our only hope, but how would we all get off the shore and to safety? There weren’t enough boats. This wallaby was too heavy for me to swim and take her with me (let alone my papers and laptop that I left in the car). To be honest, she was weighing heavily in my arms now. The adrenaline must have given me the strength I needed to carry her this far; and now, I was depleted. She was about six kilograms in weight, but she felt like a tonne to me. I must have passed out. I don’t know, for how long. When I awoke, my burnt hand hurt like it had been dragged over hot bitumen. My arms were empty, and I could hear a woman sobbing. A man with a kind face came to me; and I felt his soft hands on my upper arms, as he whispered, “It’s alright. You’re safe. Everything will be okay now”. I looked into his green eyes, and I don’t know if it was the sight of them or the change of medication in my intravenous drip, but I started to feel better. The sobbing stopped. I went back to sleep. Another day, another nurse. More morphine. I didn’t realise how bad my injuries were for a long time, because I had been placed in an induced coma. But now that the coma was lifted, I started becoming more aware. I had the feeling that something was missing. Something? Someone? Who was it? Who did I lose in that fire? I remember holding something or someone in a wet blanket. I remember my left palm touching something soft, and the movement within. Back to sleep; I’m so tired. Another day, another allied health professional. Sometimes, my visitor is a social worker. Sometimes, I talk with a psychologist. Sometimes, they make me get out of bed and try to use my body. I look at my hand; and it’s not my own. My feet don’t work like they’re supposed to. My sister comes to visit. It was a long flight, but she made it. I’m so glad to see her; to have her wrap her arms around my tired, sad body. I sob onto her shoulder uncontrollably. I wriggle away to find tissues to blow my nose; I hate crying in front of people because blowing my nose is so ugly! But I just can’t help it. I feel like I’m grieving; but I can’t quite remember what or whom I’ve lost. My sister says I’m a hero. Apparently, I saved one of the last brush-tailed rock wallabies in my area. A-ha! That’s who I’m missing! She says that when I was evacuated off the beach, a ranger found my little companion and took her to a sanctuary. I can visit her when I’m discharged, if I like!!! I need my sister’s help; because, unbeknownst to me, my feet were burned in that fire on the beach. Walking can be painful. Bathing can hurt too. We go home to my house in the bush, and all we see is devastation. The smell of burnt timber, and dead animals, fills the air now. My car was burned that night at the beach, and everything in it. No family photos remain. The only things fluttering in the breeze around me, are the ashes. My beekeeping mentor calls to check on me. Seventy per cent of our country’s bees were killed in that fire. Our country’s honey industry is on the brink of disaster. Our bigger beekeepers helped to keep other agriculture going; and now our primary industry is facing decimation too. We need to start again, but so many went without insurance (because they couldn’t afford to pay it), and it will be so hard to build the industry up again. I’m staying with my other sister, because I have nowhere else to go. I’m lucky that we get along! But I feel like I’m imposing on her, and I’m itching to go home and rebuild. Small steps. I keep telling myself, “Small steps. I’m not the only one.” Today, though, I’m happy. The ranger called!!! My little brush-tailed rock wallaby is doing fine. Her joey is okay! Around seventy per cent of the habitat was destroyed, and with it, all their food sources. People from all over have been sending sweet potatoes, and donating money to help get more, so they won’t starve. I’m inspired! My new home will have a garden so I can grow sweet potatoes, just for the brush-tailed rock wallabies that might come to visit. The ranger has a question she’d like to ask me. “Would you like to help when we release your wallaby back into the wild?” I don’t need to be asked twice!! Whatever it takes, I’ll be there. I can come sooner! She says that I can come any time I like. They need more helpers … So, my sister and I drive south to the sanctuary, and there she is. My special companion. She, who knows the fear of that awful day and night. As soon as we see each other, we know! And we bound toward one another. And unlike the first time we met, this time, we’re all hugs!


Whenever possible I walked the nearly two miles to my local library. I was nine years old, and this was during a time when one could walk alone to the local library without fear of being accosted or worse, abused. I found the library to be cool, quiet, and calming. All of these qualities were extremely attractive since my house did not have air conditioning and I only went to the library in the hot, humid Michigan summers while on vacation from school. Also, my house was either full of my mother’s buddies, or she was finding some odd something or other to scold me for (therefore not quiet). And lastly, along with the earlier mentioned conditions in place, our house was far from calming. Thus, the library was the perfect place to get away from it all, including my younger brother who had no interest in the library. Plus, unlike the movies, it was free and within walking distance. Walking was calming and it was great exercise. It gave me time to think, I could listen to my own footsteps and let my imagination run wild. I could hear birds, and dogs, and people, traffic, and the leaves rustling in the breeze. All things one does not notice when in the company of others. These sounds help my imagination take flight. I see in full size, full color pictures. I hear in song. My soul is recording data for future use. It is like having a media vault inside my head. As I get closer to the library my footsteps quicken. I am excited to get inside to be with all my book friends, and to discover new book friends. But I am also excited to connect with my angel librarian. I have reached and entered the library, and am welcomed in calm, cool, hushed tones that are an integral part of the atmosphere. The librarian and I have become fast friends. She is tall and slim and holds herself in such an elegant posture. She is the color of melted dark chocolate. Her hair is a short neat afro that frames her head like a perfect halo. And though she is ethereal and magnificent, when she looks down at me, she is not looking down on me. The open warm glance highlighted with a warm smile actually makes me feel taller and much more important than I ever feel anywhere else. The librarian does not just look at me, she sees me. I am the only person in her world at this moment. Her name is Miss Veronica. Even if when I get to the library, I do not check out any books, the walk is worth it just to have Miss Veronica notice me. The energy that she gives me is rejuvenating and allows me to endure any of the madness that is awaiting me in other parts of my world. She has made coming to the library magical and necessary. Miss Veronica then proceeds to accept the books from me that I have brought back, and then suggest to me books that she thinks I would enjoy reading. Somehow or another, she never suggests books that I have already read. How does she know!? This is before computers were used to track books and patrons at the library. This is when books were organized by the Dewey decimal system and found by using the card catalog. It was like she was my own library guardian angel. She cared about me. Reading had always been my escape from my physical surroundings whenever I needed a getaway. Much to my mother’s chagrin, her attempts to shatter my peace were thwarted by my ability to immerse myself in a book and be whisked away. Miss Veronica has helped to feed, nurture, and grow a skill that will serve me well for the rest of my life. She has aided me to not only wield the gift of easily entering other realities through imagination, but also to create my own worlds through visualization and writing. I will give a nod to my mom and my aunt. I have a huge vocabulary and it is because I spent a lot of my earlier summers sitting on my mom’s lap on my aunt’s front porch while they played Scrabble. They were serious when it came to their Scrabble games. I picked up much. Which most definitely made reading and writing extremely easy for me. After I have stayed at the library for at least an hour, I leave. Leaving Miss Veronica is almost as lovely as greeting her when I arrive. She gives me for my walk home, words of positivity, encouragement, and wisdom. She also gives me hope as she says, “I look forward to your next visit.” This was not just a scripted statement. This was a heartfelt expression of departure from one friend to another. Thanks to Miss Veronica I start my journey home uplifted and joyful, kind of like leaving a spa. My feet never touched the ground, I floated home. My imagination is burgeoning. Nothing negative can reach or impact me. I am invincible. As I grew older, I went to the library less and less. It was not that my love for reading was waning, it was because I had more activities to keep me occupied. I started gardening for instance. Also, I began to do errands and chores for people in the neighborhood to put a little money in my pocket. When I turned fourteen, I got a job. I still read whenever I could get my hands on a book. It was just that these new activities kept me out of the house and from under my mother’s feet as much as the library had. I started working as a teacher’s aide for summer classes at my neighborhood elementary school. The teacher of the third grade reading class which I was assigned to did not really engage the kids and was not able to hold their attention effectively enough to improve their reading. Most of these kids lived in my neighborhood and knew me. I did not want them to waste their summer being in a class that was not teaching them anything. I started writing stories for them using the list of vocabulary words that they had been given. This was a hit. The kids learned new words and their meanings. Their vocabulary increased and some of them even came to enjoy reading. I felt like I had honored Miss Veronica, my angel librarian. She had poured into me, and I had subsequently poured into others. I had gone from being a receptacle to being a fountain. She had given me a gift that I could share. Miss Veronica did not fit into the mold of the usual librarian in that she actually cared more about one getting a good experience out of visiting the library beyond having to be quiet and follow other strict, set-in-stone rules. She was not harsh or aloof. I do not know about her relationship with anyone else, but she was my angel librarian.


Emily was up in her room drawing a picture when her father came in. She put her sketch book down and asked her dad what was up. and so her dad told her about puberty. Emily calmed him she already knew about it and went back to drawing. When they were done with dinner they went to an art museum. and Emily was so happy. her dad told her about her mom and how much she loved art. Emily's mom died a day or two after Emily was brought home from the hospital. And every girl has bullied her about it but Emily dies not care. Emily has done with her life like art and teaching jobs. Emily has loved all of it and she dedicates everything to her parents because they helped her through everything. Her dad has done everything to keep her drawing going. She got all sorts of art jobs and she denied most of them because she was decorating cakes and cupcakes and teaching art in 3 different schools. her step mom was abusive and her dad did not see that. so when Emily got off of school one day she went to the police to tell them about her parents because her dad became very abusive to he as well. But the police sent her away to a art home which made Emily happy but she wanted to be with her dad. Emily always wanted to be somewhere with other girls who loved art but they still made fun of her here and there but they did not irritated her like the other kids at her old school did. she had a routine to do everyday. She also had sports to choose from that were free. she chose cheerleading and softball. after about a week of being there everyone adored Emily. and they all asked why she was there and she told them about her dad abusing her after he got together with some girl and she had her kids taken away. They all explained that they were looking for a school for art. Come to find out they were all bullied. and they were abused and such. every girl has some real good skill and a girl named lila was super quiet and gave Emily her story. Dear diary, My science teacher Mr. Brown is not as I expected him to be. Ya, I just moved from Texas to New York but still. So anyway in science class he made me do an essay on a scientific event and I chose dinosaurs. And Mr.Brown said that it was due tomorrow.

In history, Mrs. O’Neil is making me do a paragraph on a president and that is due tomorrow. And the president I chose was Abe Lincoln. And there was nothing in math and stuff.

I wish my stepbrother Henry was not so mean. He is always at parties, drinking, smoking, and talks back.

I wish my step-dad let us stay in Texas. Dear Diary,

Today was not too bad. At lunch, a group of boys asked if I wanted to sit with them and I said sure. Josh asked if I did any sports in texas and so I said that I did baseball, cheer, dance, and volleyball. And he said “ But Lila cheer and dance isn't a sport.” and so I told him what all we had to do they stopped laughing.

After school, my mom took me to the dance studio to see if I could do dance and they said I could and that I started tomorrow.

Then we went back to the school to see if I could do cheerleading, volleyball, and baseball and they said I could.

Dear diary, Ok. I have to make sure I have everything: Lunch iPod Earbuds Money Uniforms As we were trying to practice for baseball the guys kept messing around. I hate how the coach does not do anything. And for me I pitch it then they don't even hit the ball.  And as we practiced cheer the football players were also out. They are so cute. Since we got done early I stayed out there a little longer. When the guys were done they noticed me in the stands cheering them on and doing a cheer. The quarterback asked me out! He said his name is Sam and he thought I was cute!!! I told him my name and he said that he saw me cheering. And he also asked if I wanted to hang out and I said sure. Dear Diary So I found out that there is a party for the people who are in sports. You don't have to go through. But if you are in multiple sports you can only have one outfit on. So I went with a cheerful look. So in English, we had to make a poster of what makes us us. So I drew a pom-pom, a pointe shoe, a volleyball, my fishing, a baseball, and my family. When I was done a guy sitting next to me wanted me to draw him a basketball and I said sure. Then as I was going to my next class the creeps stopped in front of me and asked if I could hang out with them and I said I was busy with everything. ( Cheerleading, volleyball, baseball, and dance) Dear diary,

I found four boys staring at me in history. I thought they were being creeps. and they put a note on my desk asking if i wanted to hang out but i said no because my step dad was super mean and did not want me hanging out with random people. The real story is that my step dad is abusive to me and he hate me going off to places. and i also have a lot of studying to do for my classes since im in all honors other than history. because im not really good  at history. i hve no idea why im so bad in history. i mean i study and get good grades on my tests but not on my assignments and i dont know why.


On a bright sunny morning, somewhere in Chicago, Ronnie woke up with a start, cold sweat dripping off him as he thought is it true? do I actually have a magic portal in the back of my garden? he shook his head and thought it's just a dream. but it felt so real, a tiny voice in the back of his mind said. I'm probably just overthinking things. he sighed and heaved himself out of bed. as he ducked into his closet in search of a pair of socks, he felt his cat, Purssimon, brush his foot lightly, like she usually does when she wants something. he ducked out of his closet and looked at her. suddenly she ran out of the room and ducked into the hallway. a few moments later she peeked her head back into the room, looking slightly annoyed. "you want me to follow you?" he asked. Purssimon nodded, a little impatiently , thought Ronnie. she ducked out of the room into the hallway, and this time Ronnie followed her. as they kept walking, it took Ronnie a while to notice that they were walking to the same place he had in his dream. in his dream, he had walked out of his room and went to the back of his garden, where he keeps his old family relic, a glass Grifin statue. the moment he reached the statue, a portal opened and sucked him in. ... after a few minutes of walking they got to the back of his garden, to where he kept the glass Grifin. the moment he looked at the Grifin, he felt a sudden urge to pet its beak. suddenly a portal opened and sucked him in, just like in his dream. the moment the portal sucked him in, he closed his eyes, and felt a gust of cold wind, all over him. as he opened his eyes, all he saw was white snow. he blinked several times and thought wait a minute... this isn't Chicago, " where am I?" he asked. "well kid, welcome to Elaria" said a voice behind him. Ronnie spun around and found himself face to face with a cat lady who looked very similar to Purssimon. he took a step back so that he could see her a better. she was wearing a white fur coat and tall black leather boots. he decided to focus on her head. her ears were a little sharp and on top of her head she had two big, furry cat ears. her face was a bit furry and she looked like a leopard or a cheetah. her eyes were sharp, and her pupils were thin just like a cat. "who.. who are you? and where is Purssimon?" he asked. the cat lady chuckled to herself and said "you really are an idiot, I AM Purssimon" Ronnie stared at her blankly "wait... what? explanation now... please?" Purssimon sighed and said "well dumbass, you're in Elaria. my name is as you know, Purssimon. I am a cat lady, and your bodyguard" Ronnie shook his head and thought I'm probably dreaming another crazy dream. "can you please pinch me?" Purssimon looked at him blankly and said "sure...?" she pinched his arm very painfully. "ow," he said as he jerked his arm away from her. so I am definitely not dreaming, he thought. "so, how am I supposed to go back home?" he asked. Purssimon looked shocked as she asked "why would you want to go home? Elaria is a great place!" Ronnie felt himself get angry as he clenched and unclenched his fists, and said "well Aleria-"

"Elaria" corrected him Purssimon. "well Elaria isn't my home! and I don't want to be stuck here forever, and never see my family again!" he sat down on the snow and pressed his hands to his face. his pants immediately got soaked wet, but he didn't care. he wanted to go home! he didn't want to stay there forever! he wanted to go back home to his family! Purssimon sighed and said "I guess that means we're going to see an old colleague of mine. he will help you control your connection with Elaria, so that way you'll be able to go home whenever you want and come here whenever you want" Ronnie got up excitedly and said "let's go now!" Purssimon chuckled and said "First we're going to get you some new clothes that are more suitable for this" Ronnie glanced down at his T-shirt and trousers and suddenly he realized how cold he was. he started shivering violently. Purssimon sighed and said "you're lucky I have fur, and that I don't need a coat" she took off her big fur coat and gave it to Ronnie. Ronnie took it gratefully and slipped it on. suddenly he felt so warm as if he was standing under the hot summery sun in Chicago. Ronnie glanced at Purssimon and what he saw totally shocked him, she was wearing a tight black leather suit and she didn't seem cold at all. "How are you not cold?" he asked. her expression was somewhat smug as she said "well I have fur, so I don't need a coat. anyway, come on we need to go get you some new clothes" as they started walking, someone knocked him down to the ground. he tried to twist around to see who was his attacker, but whoever it was pinned his head down so that he couldn't see who it was. he tried wriggling free but whoever attacked him wouldn't budge. he tried screaming for help but the person attacking him said "shut up Scorpio!" Scorpio? who is Scorpio? thought Ronnie. he kept wriggling until he finally managed to throw his attacker off. he glanced at his attacker and he was shocked! his attacker was a beautiful female elf with white hair, pale skin, grey eyes, and soft pink lips. he quickly recovered from his shock, and started backing away from the elf. the elf stood up and said "give up Scorpio. you have nowhere to run now" Ronnie started to panic as he said "look miss elf I think you have the wrong person. I don't know what you want from this Scorpio guy, but I think you got the wrong person" the elf snorted and said "do not joke with me Scorpio. you know perfectly well that Scorpio is an organization, and you know perfectly well what we want" we? Ronnie thought, he scanned his surroundings but he couldn't see anyone. now that I think about it... he couldn't see Purssimon where is Purssimon? a new wave of panic as he scanned his surroundings frantically. "where is Purssimon? what did you do to her?" the elf studied his face with a frown and said "relax. your friend is fine. if you give us what we want peacefully no harm will come to her" he let out a sigh of relief and asked "what do you want?" her frown grew even deeper as she said "you know, that thing your boss stole. the silver crown" Ronnie stared at her blankly. she sighed and said "you're not a Scorpio, are you?" he shook his head. she sighed and yelled "BLUE YOU CAN LET HER GO" the air shimmered somewhere to his left, and suddenly Purssimon and a boy around Ronnie's age fell out of a purplish portal. purssimon yowled and hissed at the boy, who Ronnie assumed was blue. the boy had blond hair, with a small hint of greenish turquoise. he had sea-green eyes and surprisingly, he had normal ears. the elf held out her hand and said "nice to meet you, I am Aria" Ronnie shook her hand and said "nice to meet you to my name is Ronnie"


The cold and I are not best friends. Nor are we enemies. We are friends that catch up once every year but have no need or want to be in constant contact. When they arrive, I embrace them with open arms, looking forward to our much needed reacquaintance but when it is time for them to leave, we part happily and readily. We are currently towards the end our of encounter which is why I was rather begrudgingly putting on my shoes to go outside. Everything was crisp; the light, the snow, the air and sun. A white glow emanated from every angle of any object concealed by what had fallen over the last few days. Out of the window, I could make out my destination, the oddly stocked but surprisingly useful hardware shop. Since Mabel and Joel had decided to part ways for the 5 th time (and she adamantly but naively swore last), she had refused to enter any part of the town he might be in. Her theory was that it was seeing him that first time after a break-up that drew her in. If she could wait until she had built up an immunity, the process of which was still undetermined, then the separation would remain permanent. It wouldn’t but I was being dutiful in my adherence to the friendship laws of store owning exes. When the first step of her back porch finally gave way and the shelf that had always hung quite precariously over her bed gave out under the weight of her collectable ash trays, a visit to the otherwise averted hardware shop was called into order. After working herself into a state the last three days this week when she promised herself she would go, I quietly offered to go instead. At first, she pretended to be reluctant telling me, telling herself, she was perfectly capable of going to a shop. Then she realised that she owed it to herself to really commit to the break up. After she thanked me and promised me a gin and tonic upon my delivery of the DIY items. I checked my watch. Even with the added time of manoeuvring across the roads of untouched snow and deceptive ice, I wouldn’t be late. Padded up in every way possible I tentatively pulled open the front door to the empty canvas outside. The parts of my body unable to be covered instantly pricked up and the cold that had looked so crisp was actually cutting. My cheeks stung as the covered top of my head already began to sweat after the first few steps outside. Under foot my boots dipped into soft snow only to meet impenetrable ice underneath adding a crunch every time they did. It did not look like anyone had been down the street yet, although there were a couple of faded footprints coming from the Tikhman’s house further down the street. Past the residential rows on streets leading to the main street, I could hear some cars moving along at a glacial pace. There were few sightings of wildlife with only an occasionally tweet in the distance. It made the white plains feel even quieter. Except the rhythmic crunch of my footsteps and rough exhale of condensation there was no one stirring yet or those that were made the sensible decision of staying inside. It was why it was noticeable that as I prepared to turn down the long road to the shop, the crunching appeared to have stopped. I had noticed it getting quieter during my so far ten-minute walk, that was already starting to numb every part of me. Assuming it was due to the density of snow, I had paid in no thought but now I looked down. My feet were full submerged. Someone walking by would not be able to tell if I had clown shoes on or was getting ready to ice skate. I lifted up a heavy booted foot and pushed it back into the snow, though it went through no sound followed. Turning I looked behind me onto the path I had just taken. My house was still in sight, I had turned left up my street walking opposite the frozen lake and low shrubbery that was picturesquely outside of my front door. After a few minutes along there, I had crossed the road walking directly alongside the fence of the park until reaching its end and turning left again preparing to get onto the main road. A couple of driveways had been shovelled earlier in the morning but I had not seen a single a person or any fresh footprints. As I looked behind in the snow I had just stepped on, the knowing panic already setting in, I was greeted with undisturbed, brightly white snow. There were no footprints. Not just from anyone else but from me. Knives dragged across my lungs as I began to pace it back the way I had come. The crunching was all gone and my laboured breathing was providing the only soundtrack to my horror. Not now. It was too soon. I needed time to say goodbye. When I made my first turning back along the park, my earlier footprints appeared at the other end of the street but had faded out by the time I was mid-way down. Everything past them lay undisturbed, still a canvas waiting to be utilised. Please, don’t do this to me now. I’m not ready. Just give me a day. Not even that, just a few more hours. A chance to leave it tidier, a chance to do a last bit of good. That’s all I want. I wasn’t sure if I was speaking out loud and even if I was if anyone would hear me, but I heaved myself as fast as I could down the roads saying possibly not so silent prayers. My house was only a hundred metres away now. My whole body on fire, sweating, shaking. Yet as I looked down and back, the snow in wake lay under disturbed. Leaves attached to bushes didn’t so much as whisper as I brushed passed them. Was it possible that even in the cloudless, morning sky the sun was beginning to dim already? I was fading. I wasn’t ready but I was fading. I was nearly there, pushing myself across my front garden and up the steps to my front door. I reached for the door knob, but I was too late. My outstretched fingers went right through the metal. Although clasped in tension, they exerted no force. It was time to move onto the next one. It wasn’t my choice, but I didn’t operate on my time, I operated on theirs. I looked down at the shoe indent my boots had produced when I originally left the house and thought about how nice it is to be someone and be seen. To leave a mark. It is our purpose, it is why we get moved from place to place. To leave fated and purposeful marks. Yet, every time it comes to an end and we begin to fade, it is hard to tell how long our mark will remain and how much we’ve really been seen.


“Please, don’t do it.” His fingers dig into the flesh of my lower abdomen and my vision blurs as his bright blue eyes get swallowed by dark corners.

“You brought this onto yourself,” he tells me, voice trembling with bitter rage, his smile as sharp as the blade clenched between his teeth. He reached up and put his hand on my face, stroking the side of my left cheek with his thumb. Our eyes locked with a fierce intensity and I knew my fear wasn’t what was hindering my breath but the endless stretches of cobalt blue.

His thumb brushes over my lower lip as he speaks, “I wonder if your lips are still soft and subtle,” His voice has gone velvety, and he draws my lips towards his. “Tell me, do they still have that rich, tangy, sweet taste?”

I still remember the way he would pull me into his arms, a cluster of hostile nerves dancing beneath my stomach to greet him. He would lean forward, eyes searching my face before planting a warm kiss on my lips, gently biting my lower lip to tease me. When we parted his hand was always on top of my chest, my heart trembling beneath his fingertips.

He was laughing, I was crying. Then he jerks my head forward and almost snaps my neck in two, just to remind me that I fell for every lie, every perfectly curved smile.

Despite his hatred for me, that moment stayed in my mind, nurturing the soul within me. I look into his eyes, begging for him to stop, giving him one last chance to walk away but his expression is the same, dark, vacant, and hungry.

Then he takes his knife and drives it in between my ribs and up my chest.

I wake in a pool of sticky blood, fighting my way out of an anxiety attack that has started brewing in my chest. The man in gray is nowhere to be found.

I am alone.

The pain is electric, burning through all my defenses and it takes me five minutes just to lift my head.

I sucked in gulps of air, and the pain in my ribs intensified. “You’re alright,” I say to calm myself down. I should be dead but I’m not. “You’re alright.”

I roll to my side and that’s when my blood overflows my lungs, suffocating me like a sponge soaked in water, and I’m certain that if I didn’t die before I would now.

My agony spills out in stabbing spurts, rippling over my skin in the form of fresh tears. The silence was heavily throbbing and for just a second I begged for someone to find me so my suffering could end.

I hear a rattling at the door and I scramble to my feet, catching my reflection in the mirror dizzily: curly hair disheveled, skin-tight, dark eyes wild and smoldering.

So this is what being in love looked like.

What the hell was love if it wasn’t me and him?

I found my way to the door, dragging my feet behind me and clutching my chest with one hand. I peeked through the window before deciding to open it, just trees. Whoever was there was gone now.

My eyes scan the street, hoping for it to be empty but it’s a bright day out, full of people dressed head to toe in dark blue. The crisp white dress I was wearing was now stained a glossy reddish-brown. I head back inside and try to think of my next move. He might come back here. I had no choice but to run. My legs feel numb and I am trembling as I start cleaning the blood on my chest. I rip the bottom of my dress and use the piece of fabric to cover my wound, wrapping it three times before tying it. I lean against the door, taking a break, and gasp, gritting my teeth when the cold doorknob touches the sensitive side of my chest.

The microchip that’s snug beneath the skin on my neck is glowing red which means I don’t have much time left to live. The bolts fastened inside my elbow are tightened making it harder to extend my arm and I wish I could have just a moment to rest, to think of a better plan than this but there’s no time. It won’t be long when the rest of the bolts inside me start to lock and I won’t be able to move at all. I slip out the door and walk down the sidewalk with my head down. As I ventured out of the neighborhood I found myself at a farmer’s market with booths filled with all kinds of things but nothing I could stomach. Then I am hit with a rich, sickly sweet aroma. Strawberries. I used to wear strawberry-flavored lip balm all the time.

And now my mind wanders back to him. How did he do it? How did he memorize the taste of my lips when all I could hear was the pounding of my erratic heartbeat every time he kissed me? It almost justifies my theory that there’s a heart, a swarm of pulsing arteries among the metal. That he might just be like me.

But I was wrong.

Warm sweaty fingers enclosed my wrist. “Hey! Don’t move!” “I’m just trying to get home,” I say.

“You’re wearing the wrong color.”

I curse under my breath.

He tugs my arm and I slowly turn around. He is tall, with faded blonde brown hair and an enlarged belly. He looks at me and blinks. “Is that blood? How is that possible? Unless-” My hand is at his face before I can think, fingers clawing his eyes, itching to hold on to the cold metal.

Then I rip his eye out of its socket pulling out a jumbled line of blue and red wires that entwine between my fingers.

I remember a time when I would have given anything to be just like him, to be just like everyone else. Another trinket among metal and computer programming.

A crowd is standing around me, calculating my existence, trying to figure out how I ended up here.

He falls to the floor with a thud and I use that to turn around and stagger past them.

They won’t know what to do with me. They’ve never dealt with a malfunction before. A mistake. I take a deep breath and start to stop jogging when a hand clamps down over my mouth. My heart lurches and I want to scream but I have to remember they don’t have any emotions. No one will come running to save me. I swing my body around, shoving whoever was behind me.

“Damn you’re still alive.” He tells me. I flinch, my gaze coming up to his. It’s him, the man in grey. Soft dark brown curls fall around his face. He lets a slow lazy smile stretch along the curve of his mouth.

For once, all I feel toward him is red hot anger and the worst part is that I’m not even that mad at him. I’m angrier at myself.

“When you left me, my heart went under and the pain submerged in my bloodstream because, without you, I had nowhere else to go,” I say, my hands clenched at my sides.

He blinks at me, bored with what I said. He still, after everything, doesn't seem to care.

“It’s not my fault that you fell in love with me,” he says with a scathing look, eyes clouded.

Then my last bolt screws shut, the one located in my knee and I feel my body falling. The ground comes in contact with my skin in an abrupt force, pain shooting everywhere. My head is at his feet.

He takes a step towards me as if to crush my face and squats looking me in the eyes as he tilts his head.

He watches me and for a split second I think he feels bad but then he leaves me lying there as I take my final breath. I notice that my dress has faded to grey.


I want a life where I don’t hurt so much and so often. I think that’s what Sophie wants, too. Not just for herself but for me. Isn’t that what we all want for our family? You may not know my sister personally but you’ve probably seen signs with her name around the city, “SOPHIA HARBOR for MAYOR.” She’s pretty much a sure bet at this point. Sophie’s backed by the firefighter and police unions and well-respected by many key community members. Her platform is strong for her base, she’s pro-life, anti-drug, and supports the troops. Everyone knows that means she’ll work devotedly to help them keep as much of their paycheck as possible. As long as I can remember, my sister has had a powerful need to address the injustice she sees in the world, a need we both inherited from our dad, formerly our local sheriff. When I was in elementary school, I got picked on a lot. Even though she was two years older, Sophie stood up for me and never seemed embarrassed to show she loved me. When she started sixth grade though, everything changed. I no longer had a protector at recess and I had to figure out on my own how to survive the taunting and kicking. Part of my problem was that I wanted to be friends with everyone and I wanted to be totally myself. I was a dork, I’ll admit it, and a sensitive one to boot. But people tended to like me and when no one else was around they told me that no one really listened to them, that they felt they couldn’t be who they were, and that it was nice to be around someone different. I was already familiar with people treating me one way around others and another alone. My dad was the consummate professional, dedicated to his work and helping people, and well-loved in our town. He talked proudly of me to others but behind closed doors, he would tell me I was spoiled and a liar and that people would only like me if I was secretive about who I was. As an adult I see this as a reflection of his own pain. But as a child I took this to heart. I believed that no one could love me for the person I wanted to be. I was afraid all of the time that everyone would find out that I was a fraud and would hate me. I started to think I was lying about things that were the truth. For years I barely ate or slept and I hurt myself and others all the time. It felt like I was just a chimney, a fire was lit under me but I stood stone cold, exhaling smoke. My dad hated that I smoked cigarettes. It took him years to find out that I was a smoker but when he did he told me how selfish I was and recounted the story of my grandfather’s death to lung cancer. I remembered it well, maybe even better than he did because I was less traumatized at the time. My grandad became well and truly undone at the end, threatening his wife of forty-five years with a .45 pistol. I also remember him sitting with me and finally admitting that he thought he might be dying, months after his terminal diagnosis during his last round of chemotherapy. He never stopped fighting. That was his way. But for a few minutes he sat with me and cried, acknowledging at least momentarily that he might be at his end. He never apologized to my dad for beating him with his belt and his fists but in the time we spent together, he always made me feel safe. The gentleness with which he moved a log on a lathe or killed a fish before cleaning it always soothed me. When he was a teenager, he ran away from his own abusive father by joining the Marine Corps and serving several tours in Vietnam. My grandad was proud of his service and the men he served beside so he supported any candidate that he felt would protect the military. When George W Bush declared war on Iraq though, he ended his lifelong loyalty to the GOP and was a Democrat until he died. He told me it was unbearable for him to see so many soldiers and civilians lives wasted over weapons no one could prove existed. He was a hard man, and often unkind, but he could change like the wind, a quality my dad nor Sophie will ever have. My dad is nothing if not steadfast and Sophie, too. But it was me that grandad spoke to about his grief and no one else. When he died, my dad brimmed with rage for years. All the things left unsaid or unacknowledged burned inside him. Every year around my birthday we would argue about what day he died of all things. My grandfather flat-lined as my family sang happy birthday to me around his hospice bed, the night before my sixteenth birthday. But my dad does not want my birthday to be associated with his death so he gets outraged when I bring up my sadness about his passing around that time of year. One of the last conversations Sophie and I had with our grandad, he sat us down and told us never to join the military, that it was his dying wish. He said they would own our bodies and we would pay a price too high for college or a stable job or recognition as a hero. Sophie screamed at him. What about protecting our country?! He coughed into a tissue and said something I didn’t catch about Agent Orange. I remember our grandfather as warm, strong, witty, and skilled. Sophie remembers him as a bastard who hurt people and never said he was sorry. I think we’re both right. Our grandad’s dying wish forked our paths, though. Sophie, already in college at the time, studied law and fought for better care for Veterans among other causes. I retreated inward, trying to dedicate myself to spiritual growth while outwardly caring for myself less and less. I was in and out of rehabs and mental hospitals, often unemployed, often living at home. My sister seemed to thrive, smiling ear to ear covered in tassels and stoles and flowers at her graduations. My only graduation was from a mental health program. Mom picked me up from the hospital and took me to our favorite botanical gardens to catch up and celebrate. She and dad got divorced when I was eighteen and though we were close when I was a kid, we got much closer as adults. She was a nurse and worked long hours, mostly sleeping in her free time. She was always there for me to call or talk to but she was often absent, too, and she never stood up against dad. We talked about that the day of my graduation. She said she was so sorry and that she wished she had been there for me more. That meant a lot to me and I told her so. She had been getting more and more exhausted and we all thought she was just working too hard. But then one day, she just didn’t wake up. I was twenty-four and completely unmoored. I held my sister as she cried at mom’s service but couldn’t find any tears left inside me. Dad had remarried by that time and Sophie was very close with his new wife. When she got engaged a few months later to a handsome lawyer, Sophie texted, called, and visited her all the time to get help with wedding planning. I wasn’t in the wedding party so I just sat in the pews at the ceremony with a close friend I had asked to come for moral support. We left a gap between us for mom. Sophie seemed overjoyed to be starting her new life. For me, it felt like my life was over. I spent all my time reading and drawing and smoking and scrolling through social media. Then a friend invited me to a protest; I hadn’t felt so alive in years. As I chanted, I felt my grief and rage boil up and bubble out of me. I started going every week and then every night. I screamed and cried openly, weeping for my mother and all the mothers that had lost their lives or their children. When the people who had supported me and cared for me were beaten and gassed and shot at, I tended their wounds, I fed them, and I started trying to protect them. I drew cartoons and shared them online under a pen name. I amassed a following for my work, but my anxiety was growing daily that somehow my dad would find out. And then Sophie announced her campaign for Mayor. I couldn’t believe it. She’d been working in municipal government for years but she hated it and despised everything they stood for. We’ve seen and spoken to each other less and less as the divide in our politics has grown. Now she’s started complaining publicly about the rioters and looters destroying our city. It feels like our worlds are colliding. My work is beginning to seem irrelevant because I’m so thoroughly avoiding the mayoral race that will greatly impact the protests. Everywhere I go now, I see her name and cringe. But I can’t let it go anymore. I’m not really a writer, just a cartoonist but I hope you take my point here. Sophie Harbor cares deeply about injustice but she’s seeing it in many of the wrong places. I believe my sister will force the situation with the protests to a fever pitch to make a point about how violent and inhuman we are as demonstrators. She will likely allow greater use of force and put more money into the police department. I believe this will harm the most vulnerable of our city. I’m not going to endorse her opponent because, like Sophie, I don’t believe that government is the answer to our problems. I never wanted to betray my sister’s trust, but this is bigger than either of us and it’s time to take a stand. Submit.


The fabric of her reality seemed to be ripping apart at the seams. She reached up and used her left hand to whip the steam from her bathroom mirror. Aisha gazed at her reflection, the almond-shaped hazelnut brown eyes, the caramel-colored skin, the freckles that were sprinkled across her nose and cheeks. It was all familiar, she connected with the image, she knew that it was her.  She felt crazy, the need to ground herself like this. Her eyes started to well up with tears as she thought about the loss of her wife, her best friend. They had done everything together, they had faced the world together.

She felt a wave of anxiety wash over her when she heard the voice calling for her from the kitchen.

The voice sounded like Maya, IT looked like Maya, IT had her beauty, her smile, but not her essence. The therapist told Aisha that she was suffering from Capgras syndrome, a psychological disorder that causes one to falsely believe that an identical person has replaced a person close to you. But Aisha knew better. No doppelgänger would fool her. IT was not Maya. The timing was too convenient. Aisha and Maya had seen the spacecraft together. Aisha had captured actual photos of the event, not blurry images but crystal clear professional photographs.

Aisha had been following Senator Howard R. Ervin. Maya had gone along with her like she had on so many occasions. Aisha found that Maya provided a cover story so she could do her investigative field work without raising suspicion. Plus, it was a great excuse for having her around.

Aisha was working on a piece for the Times about political corruption, and believed that Senator Ervin had been selling influence.

They had followed him out to a remote location. Aisha pulled out her Fujifilm X-T4 camera, she felt it in her gut, this was the moment she had been waiting for and she was right. What her and Maya saw next changed everything. A spacecraft appeared from seemingly nowhere. Senator Ervin exited his vehicle and transformed into a kind of lizard man. She shook off the disbelief and snapped as many photos as she could.

She took those photos and wrote up a Pulitzer Prize winning piece and hand delivered it to her editor.

The push back was almost immediate. She was called in and suspended for two weeks. They accused her of violating the Times code of ethics. They claimed the photos were fake, and that she had knowingly lied. Never before had her integrity been questioned. The idea that others believed she was compromised made her feel

physically ill.

But Aisha knew the truth. She refused to back down. She went onto the dark web to do research on the creature she saw. The creature she learned was called a Reptilian, known throughout history by many names. They have appeared in the folk lore of different cultures across time, cunning, cruel, bent on ruling as overlords.

People speculated that they already controlled the world, using their shape-shifting abilities to take the form of world leaders.

She became obsessed with Senator Ervin. She dug through his trash, and followed him everywhere he went. She took meticulously notes detailing his every action. She knew now that the Times couldn’t  be trusted, so she went on the web. First YouTube, then TikTok. Showing photos of glitches in the illusions created by the reptilians, and focusing heavily on Senator Ervin.

But frustration reigned as the videos would get flagged, and her accounts removed. She went back to the dark web, she published her findings in blogs under the name Grillo and found a following. One night, she was arrested and charged with stalking Senator Ervin.

Maya had shown up and bailed her out, but something was off.

From that moment onward, they seemed to always be one step ahead of her. Beating her at every punch.

Senator Ervin had agreed to drop the stalking charge if she agreed to obey a restraining order and attended therapy. She reluctantly agreed. The therapist tried to convince her that she was sick. But she knew it was a lie. She tried to tell her about the reptilians, about Maya. But she didn’t believe her, no one believed her.

The more time she spent around Maya the clearer it became that they had replaced her. She knew Maya, she loved Maya. She could never forget her touch. Nor the love in her eyes, in her voice. The

Reptilians could steal her looks, but not her soul. “Capgras syndrome, fuck that.” What truth preyed upon Aisha's mind and plagued her emotions was a simple set of questions that played on repeat.

What did they do to Maya? Where is Maya? Was it her fault?

IT called out again.

“Honey, are you okay?” She summed up her strength and answered back.

“I just finished my shower, I’ll be out soon.” IT had cooked again, the smell of coffee and bacon hung in the air. She hated IT, and refused to call it Maya even in her mind. But she had to play nice. Aisha knew she had to keep her wits about her. She couldn’t tip her hand. She knew IT was feeding the other reptilians.  information. Aisha got dressed and walked into the tiny kitchen, staring at ITs face. She had seen a glitch before in ITs eyes, they had turned green, and the pupils changed to slits for a split second.

IT tried to talk to her, but IT words ran together in Aisha's mind. “I have to run, I’m late for the bus. I can’t risk missing it.” Aisha  bolted from the apartment and into the cool crisp morning air.

Aisha walked to her bank, she had taken to keeping her evidence of the reptilian in a lockbox. She couldn’t leave anything in the house with IT there.

Her mind was racing, she felt like people were watching her every move. Aisha went inside, talked to a clerk and accessed her lockbox. She took her research from a hidden compartment built into a jewelry box. There it was all her hard-won proof on a tiny SIM card-sized memory chip. She placed  it carefully into the slit she made in her left shoe .

Aisha exited the bank and held a cab. On the way to the meeting spot she felt a sense of relief for the first time in a year. She had found a group of hackers on the dark web who she came to trust, a group that had the same goal, to expose reptilian secrets. The group would hack all the major media outlets and post her story on the home pages. She had the cab drop her off a block away from the meeting spot, and walked the rest of the way. It was a clandestine business building on the outskirts of the city. It looked run down, like it hadn’t been used in years.

She followed the instructions they provided to the letter. The door opened and she was led to a room by a small motley group of hackers.

Arum_Sahan is the username of the hacker she had spoken with the most. The one she felt close to. Arum_Sahan was the group's leader. He eagerly introduced himself.

“Grollo, it’s so nice to finally meet you. Welcome to Prometheus.” Grollo, it was weird to hear someone call her by her dark webpin name. She studied him. He was a short squat man, with greenish blue eyes, short red hair with a short cropped beard. “I have an encrypted computer set up. Did you bring the chip?” She reached down and retrieved the treasure trove from her shoe.

Arum_Sahan put the chip into the computer. She told him the code to unlock the chip and decode the documents and photos. Arum_Sahan  stared at the screen almost mesmerized. “This is stunning, what you have accomplished, the information you’ve uncovered.” The door opened behind her, and IT walked in. “It’s too bad that you can’t let it be,” IT said. The room started to spin, she fought for breath, as she gazed around the room everyone started to change. She was surrounded by reptilians.

They grabbed Aisha, and forced her into a chair. She tried to scream but the words caught in her throat. The reptilians tied her to a chair. Arum_Sahan walked over to her, studying her face. Suddenly Aisha heard her voice but it was coming from Arum_Sahan mouth. Her face appeared on Arum_Sahan face. Horror gripped her so tightly she couldn’t breathe. It was like looking into a mirror. The room began to spin. Arum_Sahan looked at Aisha with a smirk.

“We are everything you say we are, and so much more. We are Ananaki, the snake that misled Eve. We are Nahas.