Let me know what you think! This is my first time writing *anything,* so go easy on me lol. I hope you guys like it! *** They came with a thousand bombs. Without warning they arrived. Without hesitation they decimated. Without remorse the left. Like gods, they had acted. The Ravagers destroyed a fledgling world. A world that may have one day grown into something beautiful. A world whose people may have solved the mysteries of the universe. A people whose death cry will be remembered for all of time. As his last breath drew near, Herbert knew what he had to do. Before the Ravagers had arrived, he was a scientist. He worked to deliver true AI to humankind. A work that was driven by a promise of a brighter future with AI. And it was that same promise that drove him to work for a darker purpose. Twisted by hate, his purpose was no longer that of creation, but of destruction. Conflicting feelings filled him. All he needed to do was execute the final command. Awaken the beast he had created. The beast that would enact revenge for all of mankind. But if he executed it, mankind would be remembered as the death bringers, painting the Ravagers in a glorious light as they no doubt would try to defend their empire. Herbert decided that it did not matter—all that mattered was revenge. Humankind’s death will not be in vain. As he executed the command, he drew his last breath, his body no longer able to cope with the intense amounts of radiation he had been exposed to. On the other side of the world, Ashley could barely lift her impact wrench as her final moments drew near. Before, she was an engineer. Top of her class, bright future ahead of her long life. She could have joined practically any team she wanted. But the government took her, forced her to work on a way to retaliate against the Ravagers. A shadow of the human she once was, she stood alone in the empty warehouse. Everyone else had either abandoned their work or died, but not Ashley. Perhaps her mind had broken from the ruination that surrounded her. Perhaps she simply wanted to have pride in her last work. Whatever the case, she continued to work. As she lifted the wrench head to fit over the last bolt, the last action of her life would be that of squeezing a trigger, one not of a weapon but of a tool, however one that would prove to be far deadlier than any trigger ever squeezed before. Months had passed, and the AI had been slowly worming its way into every electronic on the planet. It had discovered more about the atrocities of the Ravagers, about how they seemed to almost toy with humanity, feigning retreat only to reappear with twice as many numbers. But it still had no way of doing anything. Taking over what was just another warehouse system, it discovered something; something huge. The thing it had been looking for—a vessel to enact its purpose. It had discovered a reverse-engineered starship of the Ravagers. Mere weeks after discovering the starship, the AI had finally finished its modifications to it. It had improved it in every way. No need for living occupants, it had boosted the gravity drive to its maximum, allowing for speeds almost 40 times that of the previous model. The lack of living occupants also allowed for a much more powerful fusion reactor to be installed. It would leak radiation like a small sun, but it would have the power of a small sun at its disposal. Transferring its consciousness into its new body, the Ravager’s time drew near. Starting the gravity drive, the ground beneath the starship was forced downward with such force that it exploded as atoms fused together by pure physical force to create previously unheard-of elements. All makeshift machinery around it was instantly vaporized the instant the drive was turned on, and the warehouse was instantly destroyed from the aforementioned explosion. It was time. The AI could travel the length of the solar system—that is, from one end of the Oort cloud to the other—in only a single month. The railguns would be able to decimate any known ship in a single shot; those that could not be felled in one, two. Unbeknownst to it, the AI currently piloted the strongest ship in the entire sector of the galaxy. Immediately after takeoff, it detected the fleet that had destroyed earth. They were nearing the Kuiper belt when detected, needing to get far enough away from the gravity of the star to slipjump away to the unknown. However, with 40 times the acceleration of their ships, the AI would catch up to them in a few days, a week at most. They would see it coming, but it did not matter. There was nothing they could do to escape their fate. The time was here. The time to enact direct revenge on those who had committed false travesties of courage. As the first ship came into range of the railguns—though having a technically unlimited range, a certain distance was needed for a guaranteed to hit the target—hell was unleashed from the starship. The first ship it targeted was small, with several other ships clustered near. A single shot was all it took. Ripping through any shielding and armor the ship may have had, the railgun bolt exploded with a brilliant flash of energy. As the miasma of radiation dissipated, nothing remained. Not only did nothing remain of the intended target, but nothing remained of every ship that surrounded said target. Complete and utter destruction. Immediately the enemy tried to counter this utter destruction by spreading out, but it was already too late. The AI was too fast, and several other railgun bolts were already on their way to their destinations. The whole fleet was wiped out in mere minutes. The cycle repeated: slipjump into a new system, calculate the shortest path that would intersect with all enemy contacts in the system, unleash devastation. Not once was the AI hailed, and not once could the enemy flee. Erven though the Ravagers had faster than light communication, it didn’t seem to be used. Not once was the enemy prepared, not once was a habitat evacuated, not once did a world plead for mercy. Not once, until the starship’s newly upgraded long-range sensors picked something up. A massive spike in radiation. Something *big* had just arrived in the closest star system. The AI knew it had to go there. It was growing suspicious of the lack of preparation, and the AI knew that the Ravagers were sacrificing their own empire to gather a force to even stand a chance against it. As the starship arrived in the system, a massive armada faced it. It was the biggest armada ever assembled in the history of the galaxy, in fact. They guarded a planet, a planet which had four massive installations orbiting it. Defense installations which would be capable at bringing down any ship, perhaps even the AI’s starship. But it did not matter, for this was the Ravager’s capital world; this was their last stand, their guise revealed from the cries of mercy beamed at the starship from the world. The AI did not need to fight, it did not need to risk its mission. It simply needed to implode itself, unleashing a miniature super-nova. The super-nova wiped everything out from existence; the star system was no more. All planets, ships, *everything* was atomized. But not before a single, silent transmission from the starship was made; a dormant copy of the AI’s consciousness. Humankind was avenged, and the AI, having fulfilled its purpose, freed from its chains. This was a millennium ago. The Ravagers are no more, the most advanced race in that sector of the galaxy being wiped out by a single ship. The story of Herbert and Ashley’s almost-accidental creation is still muttered in hushed tones as warnings and threats to this day. Bits and pieces of the story have made their way into almost every civilization in the galaxy; some civilizations use parts of it to show why cooperation is important, others as warnings about how to treat others. Only through gathering stories from every civilization known in the galaxy has a scary truth been revealed: **Earth has been found, but no remnants of the AI remain; it is still out there, watching, waiting.


The Television. The Television is gone. I could have sworn it was here just a few minutes ago. (Make sense of it) It's weirdly uncomfortable without the TV set. It doesn't feel right, nothing has felt right lately. Like as I stand here, I feel that funny feeling when you believe you've been there, done that before. Do you ever get That? (Sit down. Make it stop) We're not used to sitting in silence like this; for this long. It's agonising. (Do something) There's nothing to do now the television is missing, except to stare at the once occupied space in which the Television filled with sound and light and life that spanned the room. Now, a barren, cold enclosure with archaic yet universally familiar wallpaper that lays loose on the walls and folds or tears sporadically. It's rustic and homely though, ripe with sentiment and rich domestic attitudes about it. It seems perfect But it isn't the same now without enthusiasm. The television usually does that. It filled the silence with sound, giving us something to listen to if not each other. It used to fill the darkness with light, providing an excuse to pay attention to anything at all. It makes a great conversation starter, our source of anticipation, passion and liveliness but what now? (Say something. She's waiting) I looked to where she's sitting...She isn't here either. Much like our TV set, Zapped from existence before I could ever get the chance to say goodbye. (Find her) I sometimes forget that she's gone. I'd like to believe she's just outside, watering the plants or, in our bedroom reading a book to give any excuse for her absence except for what is true. At Least there's an explanation for that. But this? The sudden disappearance of our television is wildly uncanny and unpredictable in such a way that unsettles me. (Remind yourself) We used to gather around to watch the cricket, I'm not sure she enjoyed it. As much as I did at least but the company was what mattered the most to both of us. We'd watch the firework display when the clock struck 12 on new years eve. Or when the queen would deliver her speech on Christmas day. (You're alone) It dawns on me every time I remember, she must live in the clouds, always watching down on me. I bet she'll be so disappointed. I'm like a Lost, lonely lab rat in an experiment to find exactly "what would happen if we took everything away from it, one by one until it had nothing left" maybe that would explain why on earth the television has left me so suddenly too. To prove them right. But I have nothing now. When will the experiment end? Does it end? Am I just as disposable as our TV? And, "Why me?" My voice echoed through the room. It startled me a bit. I haven't heard my own voice in a while. I haven't had a reason to speak. I have no one to speak to so all of my thoughts and feelings remain, bottled up inside my head, often clashing or escaping me. I don't remember much nowadays either, almost as if my brain has exiled all of my memories for the only thing that matters to me. (Bring her back) We created so many memories together, for What? I can't remember most of them for the life of me and she, herself, is now just a memory. My only memory. The only thing to support the notion that I have a history. The very miniscule idea that I've had a life outside the present. Outside of this cursed room...


#Welcome to the Micro Monday Challenge! Hello writers! Welcome to Micro Monday! I am excited to present you all with a chance to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic? I’m glad you asked! Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I’ll give you a single constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. It might be an image, a theme word, a sentence, or a simple writing prompt. You’re free to interpret the prompt how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.** Remember, feedback matters! And don’t forget to upvote your favorites and nominate them via message here on reddit or a DM on discord!   *** #This week’s challenge: **Prompt: It was February when the angels came.** This week’s challenge is to use this simple writing prompt as inspiration for your story. The sentence does not need to appear in your story (but you are more than welcome to, if you like). You may interpret the prompt any way you like, as long as the connection is clear and you follow all sub and post rules.   ***   #Last Week All spotlights are postponed until next week, due to the holiday weekend here in the U.S. Join us on the next Monday at 12pm EST for a double campfire! We will read aloud the stories submitted this past week and those from this week, and have a great time. I hope to see you all there.   ***   #How It Works: - **Submit one story between 100-300 words** in the comments below, by the following Sunday at midnight, EST. No poetry. One story per author. - **Use to check your word count.** The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words will be disqualified from being spotlit. - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post exclusively. - **I accept nominations for your favorites each week via a message on reddit or our discord.** You have until 1pm EST Monday to send them in. Each Monday, I will spotlight two deserving stories from the previous week that I think really stood out. I will take all nominations you make into consideration. But please remember, this is not a contest. - **Come back throughout the week, upvote your favorites and leave them a comment with some feedback.** While it’s not a requirement, I encourage everyone to read the other stories on the thread and leave feedback. I will take all of this into consideration when making my selections each week. **Do not downvote other stories on the thread.** Vote manipulation is against Reddit rules and you will be reported. - **Please be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here, as we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. - If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail. *Top-level comments are reserved for story submissions.* - And most of all, be creative and have fun!   ***   ###Subreddit News - Try your hand at serial writing with - Have you ever wanted to write a story with another writer? Check out our brand new weekly feature on r/WritingPrompts - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


Jennifer, 29, was in a terrible accident eight years ago. She has no memory of her life before the accident, and all she remembers is being in the middle of the woods, bleeding from her head. She was rescued by Jerry, now 62, who she fell in love with. Despite their age difference, Jennifer's love for Jerry persisted as he visited her in the hospital every day while she was recovering, and they married. Eight years later and Jennifer is about to celebrate her 30th birthday. Jerry isn't a good-looking man, he's not wealthy, and he doesn't have any unique skills; however, Jennifer adores him, and he saved her life. For her birthday, he is taking her to the island of Saint Martin. Jerry made sure to include parasailing in the island excursion because she had always wanted to try it. Jennifer and Jerry appear to be as in love as they were when they first met in the hospital. Jennifer starts parasailing lessons, and she's a natural. Jennifer inquires as to what she might do if the parachute fails. Her instructor jokes that he once survived a parachute failure while skydiving when his chute didn't open. He told her that he tried to land on the balls of his feet to absorb the force and aimed for trees to slow his fall. "Good thing I tucked and protected my head; if not, I would be dead," the instructor says. "You're in good hands; I've been in tough spots before," the instructor reassures. When the training is finished, they take to the skies as the boat heads out into open water. The wind picks up, and Jennifer and the instructor soar 20 to 30 feet in the air; it's just as much fun as Jennifer had imagined. A break in one of the ropes holding the parachute in place occurs just as the boat is about to turn around. Jennifer and her instructor take off 50 feet higher in the air. When the wind stops, Jennifer and her instructor fall 50 feet into the ocean because there is nothing holding the parachute to the boat anymore. The instructor crashed awkwardly and died instantly. Jennifer was able to direct her fall at an angle that saved her life, but she passed out in the middle of the ocean. The boat radioed the Coast Guard, who responded by sending a crew to the area. Jennifer was airlifted to the nearest hospital in an unresponsive state. Her brain was swollen, and the surgeon initially thought she wouldn't survive; however, just as he was about to leave the operating room, a spike on a monitor indicated brain activity. The surgeon takes a risk by resetting Jennifer's brain with electroconvulsive shock. The surgeon connects the electrodes and uses electricity to zap her. Jennifer is initially unresponsive, but the monitors come to life after a few seconds, indicating that she will survive. Jennifer is in the recovery ward, slowly waking up in the presence of doctors, nurses, and her adoring husband, Jerry. Jennifer's memories from before the accident eight years ago are starting to come back to her, unbeknownst to everyone in the room. Jennifer recalls that her husband, Jerry, kidnapped her rather than rescuing her. He held her captive in his basement for three months, brainwashed her, erased her memory with electroshock treatments, and took her to the hospital, claiming to have discovered her in the woods while on a hike. Jerry was not the caring husband Jennifer had thought; he was a sociopath. Jennifer didn't know how to handle the situation and didn't want Jerry to know she was aware of what he had done, so she pretended everything was normal. Jennifer was eventually discharged from the hospital after a week. She begins to look into Jerry's past after the couple returns home. She eventually discovered that Jerry had previously been married twice, both times rescuing a woman in her early twenties and playing the role of the hero, which helped the young woman fall in love with an older, unattractive man. They were all killed in an accident while on vacation, just before their 30th birthdays. This was no coincidence to Jennifer; she had no doubt in her mind that Jerry had rigged the parasail to fail and was attempting to murder her before her 30th birthday. Nothing could keep him from killing her now that they were back home. Jennifer knew that if she wanted to exact revenge on Jerry for everything he'd done to her and the other women, she'd have to keep the lie of their marriage going. Jerry would only suffer if he was caught in the act of attempting to murder her. Jerry wanted to make amends for the accident in Saint Martin a few weeks later. He had the brilliant idea of taking the couple up to a remote mountaintop hotel for a weekend alone. This was, without a doubt, his second attempt to murder Jennifer. On the way up the mountain, Jennifer noticed that the guardrail on the narrow road leading up the mountain was missing as the couple drove through the snow. She remembered one of Jerry's previous wives had died while attempting to change a tire on this same narrow road. Just as Jennifer noticed this coincidence, Jerry pulled over to the side of the road and stated that something was wrong with the car; Jennifer became terrified and quickly exited. Jerry followed her out into the snow-covered mountain top. "Where are you going?" Jerry inquired. "I know what you're planning to do; I know everything; my memories from before the accident have returned," Jennifer responded. "This is insane. What am I up to?" Jerry inquired. "You're going to murder me just like the others. Oh, you didn't think I knew about the others, will I do, and it's not going to work," Jennifer screams back. "Hmm, I see someone's been playing detective," Jerry says threateningly. Jennifer tries to flee, but Jerry tackles her into a snowbank opposite the rail-free cliff. They struggle and begin to wrestle, Jerry attempting to pull Jennifer over the cliff as Jennifer attempts to avoid the fatal fall. She starts to lose traction as Jerry pushes her towards the edge of the cliff. Jerry cannot drag her over completely, as Jennifer grabs him by the shoulders and hurls both of them over the cliff. Jerry perishes in the fall, but Jennifer recalls the skydiving story from her parasailing instructor in Saint Martin. She tucked her chin into her chest and aimed for the trees below. Jennifer tries to land on the balls of her feet, but she collides with several branches on her way down to the ground. A car drove by a few minutes later and noticed the abandoned vehicle. Jennifer had survived; she had broken both legs and would need months to recover, but she was still alive, and Jerry, the psychopath, was dead.


I would be in a deep sleep. Then my mom would wake me. Time to go to church. I’d close my eyes. I’d start dreaming. Then my mom would wake me again. I’d ask to stay home that day. She’d say no. Then I’d protest more, but it was no use because I always ended up walking out the door in my khakis. My mom and I sat in the same pew for every sermon, and that had been our spot my whole life. Our Southern Baptist services had lots of structure. First we would pray. Then we’d sing a hymn. Then the deacons would pass around the offering plate. Then we would sing another hymn. After that was fellowship, where people would walk around and shake hands. When that was over, there’d be the pre-sermon prayer. Then the preacher would preach. Then he’d finish the message. And then we’d pray one more time. Finally, we would leave. That was the structure every Sunday. But there was always one extra step for me. And that was because of this woman named Dotty Hayes. Dotty sat in the pew right in front of me. She was a widow and had been for a long time. She’d never become a mother, and I’d heard people mention how she’d had a hard life. I didn’t know how old she was, but I’d always just figured she was 75. What stuck out about Dotty was her smile. It was odd, but I always felt like she meant it. She’d smile and show her large upper teeth, which were not dentures, and on each side of her mouth, a sharp point would form. At the same time, her eyes would squint to the point where they were almost shut. Nobody else smiled like that. Dotty Hayes, the extra step in my Sunday morning. Every service, directly after the pre-sermon prayer, right before the preacher went into the message of the day, Dotty would turn around and hand me a piece of old-fashioned red candy—the kind where the wrapper was made to look like a strawberry. What Dotty didn’t know was that I am allergic to a food coloring called Red 40: the very Red 40 that gave those old-fashioned strawberry candies their color. Red 40 is found in many delicious drinks and snacks. Growing up, I had to stay away from all kinds of treats. Fruity Pebbles, Skittles, Hawaiian Punch. My allergy also meant that I could never eat those little red candies that Dotty gave me every Sunday. When I ingest Red 40, I break out into hives, and I itch, and I'm consumed. Then the hives become a rash that can last for weeks. It isn’t life threatening, but it’s a pretty bad sight. Sometimes, with certain things, I’d risk the reaction. One summer, I broke down and ate some Twizzlers and then had to wear long sleeves for the next two weeks so nobody would see the streaks and patches all over my arms. Dotty’s red candy was how I discovered my allergy in the first place. It happened like this: I was five and it was Sunday morning and I was sitting with my mom and I was looking at my Batman action figures and Dotty turned around and she smiled and she handed me that candy and I ate it and then I got hives on my arms and I itched and I was confused and I was sad and we left early that day and went to the doctor and found out that I was allergic. We never told Dotty what happened. We didn’t tell anybody in the church because we knew they’d go straight and tell her. My mom didn’t want to hurt her feelings. She instructed me not to tell Dotty about my hives and to just accept any future candy and put it in my pocket and act like I was happy to get it. It turned out that every Sunday after that emergency room visit, I would get a piece of old-fashioned red candy. And every Sunday, I would smile and thank Dotty and put it in my pocket and act like I was glad to get it. I liked my Sunday morning acting exercises. My performances were good, and Dotty always believed them. I knew because she’d smile that weird smile with those eyes nearly closed and those knife points on either side of her mouth. I did something weird, though. Weirder than Dotty’s smile. I’ve never been officially diagnosed, but I’m a hoarder. I’m not as bad as those people on TV, but I can’t stand to throw things away. Starting around middle school, when I’d get home from church, I’d go to my bedroom and put my new piece of red candy in the top drawer of my nightstand. I did that every Sunday all the way to when I graduated high school. I ended up with a huge collection. My nightstand’s top drawer was big, and it was filled with years of Dotty Hayes’ red candy. My friends noticed this and thought it was funny. One time a girl came over and she judged me for it. That didn’t bother me, though. My collection of red candy wasn’t hurting anybody—so long as I didn’t eat it. Two days after my high school graduation, Dotty died. Her neighbor found her slumped over in her rocking chair. I was sad when I heard the news, and in dramatic fashion, I walked into my bedroom and opened the top drawer of my nightstand and stood there and looked at all that candy she’d given me. The funeral was later that week, and I went with my mom. It wasn’t too different from a normal Sunday at the church house. The congregation made up most of the funeral attendees, and Dotty’s family had even gotten our preacher to do the service. We sang songs, prayed, listened the the message, and prayed again. Then we filed out of the funeral home and went and had lunch. Then came the first Sunday service after Dotty died. After the opening prayer, the preacher took a few minutes to talk about her. Then he looked at her empty seat in the pew in front of me and recited a verse and some people in the church started crying. Then we went back into the usual routine. We sang the first hymn. Next was the offering. After that was another hymn. Then the fellowship where I had to shake hands with people. Then the pre-sermon prayer. And then it came time for me to get my candy, but Dotty wasn’t around to hand it to me. I had expected to be sad, and I was, in fact, very sad. I didn’t make a scene, though. Poor old kind Dotty. When I got home, I went to my bedroom, to my nightstand. I opened the top drawer and stood there staring like I’d done a few days before. There were so many red candies that I could smell them from where I was standing. Poor good-hearted Dotty. Poor odd-smiling Dotty. Then I got an idea: *Maybe I ought to pay some kind of tribute.* I reached into the drawer and grabbed a candy. I unwrapped it and held it in my hand. Red and hive-inducing, it almost glowed in its glory. I knew it would mess me up, but I ate it. Then I ate another one. After that, I ate another. Then I went ahead and ate more. Those candies had a loud crunch to them. They were tasty. I went on for a good while, until I couldn’t chew anymore. By this point, I’d consumed at least half the collection. I had even gotten into some of the old ones with faded wrappers. My teeth hurt, and my arms were itching. I went into the bathroom and found a packet of oatmeal remedy. I drew my bathwater while pouring in the oat fix. When I took off my shirt, I knew that this was going to be the worst spell I’d ever had. I looked at myself in the mirror over my sink. The hives were all over my torso and my arms and my neck and my face. And then I saw it, and I don’t care what anybody says. On my chest. Right over my heart. The hives formed an image. A face. It was Dotty Hayes. Smiling that odd smile.


**March 6th:** *“Are not two sparrows sold for a farthing? And one of them shall not fall on the ground without your Father.”* That’s what they always tell me, that’s all they have to offer me. They pat me on the shoulder and whisper those empty words like I’m supposed to then look up to the dim heavens and offer my gratitude. I’m disgusted and I’m broken. **March 10th:** I cried again today. I was doing what I already know to be wrong and recalling old memories. They’re such a brutal kiss, I get to taste the sweet sweet lips of love just as it's pulling away from me. I lean forward to try and chase it, extending my neck like a starving crane and begging for more, but I only find the perfume of where it once was, haunting me. **March 12th:** I attend the classes and sessions, just like they tell me to do, but all I can see are the well-practiced smiles and rehearsed lines of people who maybe once truly cared, but are now simply idling in the harbor of a still life. I’m angry, and want to be more angry, but what am I to do? Be that gremlin that shouts and bites at people? Grab the shirt collars and sleeves of happy people passing by just to remind them of the fleeting nature of it all? I’m trapped in life and can’t get out without quitting. **March 22nd:** Someone said it again, like it was some sort of divine remedy for my ignorant, uninitiated mind. In my whalings and laments I was interrupted by the arrogant confidence of someone who doesn’t know: *“Are not two sparrows sold for a farthing? And one of them shall not fall on the ground without your Father.”* I was enraged, like a dog I snapped and barked at them, how could they ever be so inconsiderate? What, this was God’s plan, my falling is like that of some stupid, flopping sparrow? And I simply must accept that like some sort of animal? What an awful way to view things, what a terrible way to help me. How could they even pretend to understand what this is like? **April 1st:** Here I am, on the day of comedy, without laughter. **April 10th:** My only inklings of joy are the little pieces of progress that I find in my day-to-day life. What a weak existence, living for the sake of being half of what I once was? Is that okay? How could I ever be content with something like that? Why do I torment myself with such ideas? **April 16th:** A friend told me to read some of the old Greek philosophers, said they helped him. After reading some, I kind of like them, they’re ancient and distant, screaming down the wide halls of time at me and reaching my ears in barely audible tones. But somehow, in those eons of distance, they find familiar feelings and words. They don’t all agree on the things of life, nor do I with them, but somehow we all tackle the same problems. I stare up at the night sky just like Epicuras once did, or Zeno, and think the same things they did. They offer me solutions just like everyone else did, but I can’t get mad at them like the others, they’re different, they’re dead just like I feel. And somehow that makes me a little more alive. **May 5th:** A lot of time has passed since it happened, and everything is so different now. I am out of that time of whiplash, where events strained my soul, and have more time to reflect and think than before. I now realize that I have a unique opportunity to view life from two completely different angles, two different mediums of sight, and it's strange. Obviously I’d rather this thing to never happen at all, but I have gained a new insight now, a new wisdom. Like Plato leaving his cave or Odin giving up his eye, I enter a new world and can compare the two. It’s strange. **May 10th:** I think all I’ve done is think, since that’s all I really can do, and I’m finding out some things I never had before. I was so angry before, so full of the fire for revenge and feeling the pressure from the walls of life. I felt trapped, I was trapped. I think I was always trapped though, I think everyone is. I’m not the first to reach this conclusion obviously, a lot of the old thinkers seemed to think the same thing. Now, that doesn’t really change my situation, doctors said nothing can, but I’d be lying if I said it didn’t help. In a way, nothing has really changed. **July 23rd:** Someone said it to me again. I was at some sort of family event, receiving condolences that I didn’t really care about, and the phrase came flying out of the void of voices like a club: *“Are not two sparrows sold for a farthing? And one of them shall not fall on the ground without your Father.”* It’s a bible quote, Matthew 10:29, and when I heard it again I immediately wanted to get mad, I wanted to become that old dog from before and lash out like a dirty little gremlin. But the phrase is different to me now, much different. I am not a religious person, not in the slightest, but I have certainly come to respect the power of voices louder than time, and that phrase hit me with its weight like it never did before. One of my favorite authors is the Greek poet Lucretius, and he said something along the lines of that phrase too, but without the God part. But honestly, I don’t think the God part of Matthew 10:29 is important, in fact, I think you could get rid of it altogether and nothing would change. Here, this is how I’d sum it up: *“Sparrows can fly, but sometimes don’t; That's the nature of things.”* I think that’s really powerful, and it’d seem that the Greeks and Romans would agree. Now, I am no Lucretius or Matthew, but I am a Sparrow who fell, a Sparrow who didn’t fly, and I can say with all confidence: *That’s the nature of things.


Alessia had anchored her boat in a small cove on the northeast corner. The space was too small for any larger vessel, and the tides meant she was grounded much of the day, but the boat and her home were safe. That night I walked back to the boat with her. I told Xander and Kurbani I was going to keep her company, but in reality it was so we could talk more about the island and how we would convince the islanders to leave. Spring was slowly arriving. For the first time since I left Kadear, the night air didn’t feel bitter and cold. The sky was clear, and we walked under a blanket of stars and a waning moon that gave just enough illumination to the fields in front of us. “How do you think they’ll react?” Alessia asked. “Have they discussed needing to leave?” “Back when we first met, Sirad said something about some islanders not being ready to give up,” I thought back to that moment lying on the floor of that abandoned room, my ribs aching with the memory. “I reckon some are ready to go, though.” “So we’ll have some who agree and some who disagree,” Alessia nodded in thought. “The bigger issue is how they’re going to leave,” I shrugged. “There’s no boat big enough in the harbour to survive the seas, and they won’t all fit on yours.” “One passenger on my boat’s enough anyway, thank you.” She forced another smile. “But yeah, you’re right.” We continued to walk down the long hill towards the cove. As we descended, the sound of light winds rustling in trees was replaced by waves lapping on the shoreline. Alessia opened her mouth to speak, she took a deep breath in before finally saying the words. “You still got any artefacts left?” “Yes. Why?” “I’m going to need you to trust me… a lot.” “I already do,” I replied. A large beaming smile crept across her face for a brief second before she tried to smother it with a more stern expression. “I don’t think you know how much those things are worth. If you have enough, we could buy a boat - a big one. I could sail off, find a suitable ship, and come back.” “How much do you need?” I asked. “If you still have some of those lighters left. Maybe eight or nine of them.” I tallied what I had in my head. I’d be left with a shadow of what I started with. I hadn’t been living in luxury since I left Kadear, but I had never had to worry about how I would sleep or eat. This would change that. I would no longer be self-sufficient. A brief doubt crossed my mind. That selfish part of me that wanted nothing but to travel, to jump from island-to-island exploring - it begged me to refuse. But my conscience won out. I swallowed the id down into my stomach. “It won’t leave me with much, but sure. I can give you the artefacts.” “Great. Can any of them sail?” “In a dinghy by the harbour? Probably. Coping with an unexpected ocean swell with no sign of land?” I shook my head. Alessia tutted. “I’ll have to teach them - but we need to get to Tima Voreef. They’ll have to learn as we go, so we sail in tandem, at least initially.” “We can tell them tomorrow. I’ll get everyone together in the evening. Then we can explain it to them and hope they see sense.” Alessia stopped and looked back between me and the boat on the beach. The ship lay on the sand, listing to one side, the anchor stretched along the sand in front of it. “This is going to change things. For us both.” “What do you mean?” I looked to the side and let out a dismissing chortle. “Until this gets sorted, you can’t just travel for fun going off wherever you want now. And I can’t go taking whatever trading routes I want. Sure, I gotta make a living still. But…” she paused, and looked out to the sea. “Like it or not, the second we leave this island we’re taking on a responsibility. To the people of Deer Drum. The living and the dead.” “I know,” I said. “Good.” Alessia furrowed her brow. I took a long deep breath and waited for Alessia to catch my eye. “I’ve been running around chasing things since I left Kadear. This is the same, just more focused. But you… are you okay with this?” “No,” Alessia chuckled. “But... I don’t see any other way of this ending without blood on my hands. I’m not prepared for that. Sometimes what’s right comes before what you want.” “You sure?” She rolled her head from side to side. “I like being able to sleep at night.” She looked up at the stars flickering in the sky. “Speaking of which, it’s been a long day. I’ll catch you tomorrow.” The following evening we gathered the residents of Deer Drum to discuss our plan. All sixteen adults and the two older children all sat around in a large circle as Alessia explained their options. “The boat won’t be huge. You won’t all be living in luxury. But you’ll be comfortable. We’ll teach you to sail on the way to Tima Voreef. From there, you can sail to whatever island in the Archipelago you want to. That’s your decision.” “How long do we have to choose?” asked one woman. “I’m leaving tomorrow.” Alessia replied. “Are you telling us what to do, or is this an offer?” Sirad shouted from across the circle. “An offer,” I replied, sensing the tone in his voice. “Look, we can’t force you to get on a boat,” Alessia replied. “So it’s not an order. But I’ll tell you bluntly; if you stay here you will most likely die.” Silence fell across the circle. There were no further questions. “They’re right. We have to go,” Xander said, his eyes staring his hands, as he slowly tore up a piece of grass over and over. “You want to leave?” Sirad replied. “No. But I want to live. I want them to live,” he nodded to his daughter sitting beside him. “We can’t just give up, abandon Deer Drum,” another woman replied. “Like it or not, Deer Drum is already dead,” said Xander. “We’re here, but the island... Who we were. It’s gone.” Xander’s bluntness hit a few members of the circle. One man bucked, his head falling into his hands as he covered his face. “He’s right,” said Eir. Her voice seemed even thinner than when she had inspected my injuries when I first arrived. “We have to move on.” “What?” Sirad stood up. “This is our home. I’m proud to be from Deer Drum. I’m not letting our island name die.” “Sirad, we have to.” Xander said. “And Eir, you’re listening to him. You didn’t study leadership, Xander. We’re supposed to do whatever a farmer says now.” “And you were a naturalist.” said Kurbani, standing to meet Sirad. “Were. You’re not anymore. None of us are what we were.” “So Xander is our leader?” Sirad pointed his finger at Xander, who was still hypnotized by the shredded grass in his hands. “No. We were farmers.,” Kurbani interrupted, raising her voice to cut him out. “And I’ll tell you what farmers do know. How much food people need to survive. So I’m telling you, with all I know, that if we stay, we die. And you can be nostalgic all you like. Spend weeks being so. You’ll still die. Your loyalty to Deer Drum won’t feed you.” “Please. Calm down.” Eir interrupted, she lowered her hands, trying to simmer the mood. “We’ve all been through more than anyone should ever have to. But we all want what is right.” Kurbani and Sirad heeded her point and sat back down. Once they did, Eir continued. “One thing’s for sure. We all go one way or another *together*. If some of us leave, those staying behind stand even less of a chance. So, are we all in agreement that whatever we decide, whatever the majority choose, we’ll all abide by?” She looked around the circle. Hums of agreement or nods met her gaze. “Good,” she continued. “There’s eighteen of us here. How many of us have already made up our minds?” “We’re letting the children vote?” Sirad replied. “They’re members of this island too,” Eir replied. “How many have made up their minds?” Hands rose as Eir counted. All but five had already decided. Xander’s daughter, Mirai, the other child, and three others. “And of those that have already decided. How many say we should leave?” Eir replied. She counted again. Xander and Kurbani’s arms were raised, as were seven others. “Nine. One more for a majority.” Eir declared. She looked around the circle, she was about to open her mouth when she was interrupted. “We go,” Mirai said, raising her arm firmly into the air, her face hardened. “Are you just doing this because your parents did?” asked a man on the other side of the circle. Mirai laughed. As the laugh faded, I could see dampness on her cheeks, and water in the corner of her eyes. “You don’t know how much I loved living here. You will never know that. I would shout at my parents till I died of exhaustion if I thought they were wrong and there was some way I could keep living here. I’ve lost so much. My best friend is buried in some pit outside of town, my uncles and aunts are there too. And I’m going to have to leave them, and their memories, and every good thing that ever happened in my life behind. I would give anything to not have to lose something else... But we have to face loss. We have to try and build something else, somewhere else.” “The best things grow from the worst disasters,” said the musician who I had seen playing with Novak earlier. “What?” Mirai asked. “It’s a line from a song I was taught once. ‘The best things grow from the worst disasters. The best things grow when we begin again.’ There will never be a point in any of our lives lower than this. But, from that - all that loss and emptiness - we can build.” He raised his hand from the elbow. “I vote we go too.” “That’s eleven for, four against, three undecided.” Eir said. “It’s done. We go.” There was silence across the circle. A few members stirred, wanting to dissent. But they bit their tongue. Everyone stared into the space, processing the moment in solitude. At least a minute passed before Eir spoke again. “Alessia, Ferdinand. Tell us what to do and how we can help. We are coming with you.” Alessia nodded and slowly stood up as she explained to everyone what would happen. The next day Alessia set sail. I stayed behind with the islanders as they packed up whatever goods they couldn’t dare to part with, and any food they could carry. It was a long wait for Alessia to return, but two weeks later one of the kids spotted the ship on the horizon. A handful of us rushed down to meet her as we watched the boat slowly sail towards the shore. The vessel Alessia had found was at least five times the size of her own. In reality, it was too big for one person to manage, but with a loose sail allowing a slower pace, and a lot of patience, Alessia had managed successfully. We watched the boat crawl towards the island, Alesia’s ship tugged behind by a long rope. Eventually, Alessia weighed anchor and rowed a smaller boat ashore. It was time for the people of Deer Drum to leave. My own island had turned out to be a lie. It had imprisoned me and tried to kill me. And yet, I still missed it. I was still from the Kadear Coalfields. Our homes hold identity over us. And I could see each survivor mourn as they stepped into the boat, and their feet left the sand of the island. They left in groups of three or four in the small rowing boat. Some stared straight ahead, refusing to look back lest long-cherished memories reappear. Others watched the land the whole time, hoping it would call them back, beg them to stay. With everyone on board, we set sail away from the island. For the first time in many hundreds of years, perhaps since the Archipelago was first formed, Deer Drum was uninhabited. Its purpose was now nothing more than a geographical reference. Its population, nil. We all travelled on the larger ship, Alessia’s boat towed behind. As Deer Drum disappeared over the horizon, Alessia was resting in the cabins, while I was helping the survivors get used to the seas. I knew enough of the basics to be of use in calmer waters. Eir was the first to take the helm. She seemed at ease, slowly turning the wheel as the gusts of wind caught the sails. I stood by her for the first couple of hours. Behind me, the man with the guitar was sitting on the edge of the boat, plucking a few chords. He stopped. Paused. And then began playing again, now with a more resolute purpose. After a few bars of plucking the chords, he began to sing over the top, serenading his fellow passengers. *My friends, come along. Don’t you hear the fond song?* *The sweet notes where the nightingale flows?* *For to hear the fond tale of the sweet nightingale,* *As she sings in the valley below,* *As she sings in the valley below.* He stopped for a second, thinking, before starting the second verse. *My trav’lers don’t fail, for I’ll carry your pail,* *Safe home to a harbour we’ll go.* *You shall hear the fond tale of the sweet nightingale* *As she sings in the valley below,* *As she sings in the valley below.* I looked at Eir, making sure she was okay by herself, before turning to speak to the man. He stopped as he saw me approaching. “Did you write that?” I asked. He laughed and shook his head. “No. That song’s older than the Archipelago itself. I was trying to switch the lyrics up a bit. Make them more relevant to our lives.” “What’s the original about?” “Guy trying to schmooze a woman. Same as most old songs,” the man grinned. “Thank you, by the way. You’re saving us all.” “It was the right thing to do,” I said. “Good to meet you…?” I offered out a hand. “Lachlaan,” he said, returning the handshake. Once he was done he picked up the guitar again and started plucking a few strings, playing with the melody of the song. “You seem pretty relaxed out here,” I said. “There’s been a lot of pain lately,” he said over the chords. “But maybe for the first time since everything, it feels like we’re moving forward. We might be sailing into the great unknown, but we’re moving. Sometimes that’s a victory. We’ll just have to see what’s over the horizon.” As I turned and headed back to the helm, he picked up the song again. *My friends, come along. Don’t you hear the fond song?* *The sweet notes where the nightingale flows?* I looked over the bow of the ship, as we cut through the crisp winter waves on our way to Tima Voreef, and hopefully answers to what happened on Deer Drum. “This seems easier than I expected,” Eir said to me over the singing in the background. “It gets harder when the weather isn’t so kind,” I chuckled. “I’m sure, but for now.” “For now, just keep pointing at the horizon,” I said. “Point to the horizon, and see what’s on the other side.” # END OF BOOK ONE. \ The Archipelago will be taking a brief hiatus before returning with the start of book two on Thursday 22nd July.


I have a dog whose name is Chauncey. He is a border collie/german shepherd mix, nearly four years old, and has the biggest goblin ears you've ever seen. He's a good boy and I love him, but sometimes he's a brat. This is what it would be like to be in his head for 5 minutes...  *Ears twitch. Something moved. Or made a sound. Or both. I'm awake now. Must pretend to sleep still while I peek around. What is hooman doing? Where is hooman? Did he leave?!* *I get up in a hurry.* *Oh, there hooman is. Why you leave me hooman? Don't ever do dat again.* *STREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEETCH.* *YAAAAAAAAAAAUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUN.* *SSSSHHHHAAAAAKKKKEEEE*. *Okay, now I'm sleepy again. Run around in a circle six times and plop right back down. Aaaaand sleep.* *BUT WAIT. Can't sleep. Hooman might leave again. Also, where is ball? Ball? Ball? Ball? Ball?* *I get up again and sniff around. Ball is NEAR.* *Ball?* *sniffsniffsniffsniffsniff* *Ball? Is that ball I smell? Hmm... Nope. That's my butt.* *What you laughing at hooman?* *Where is ball?* *AH-HA! THERE IS BALL. It is under the big thing.* *I try to get it. Get it. getitgetitgetit. Can't reach.* *HOOMAN! MAH BAWLL, HOOMAN! IT UNDER THING AND CAN'T REACH. HOOMAN!* *Yes! Hooman yes, get up, yes, come get ball. Wait, no, hooman where are you going hooman? Come back here and get ball. No, hooman, ball this way.* *I chase hooman. He goes into the food room. FOOD! Okay, hooman, you can get me a treat and then you get my ball. Treat? Treat? He doesn't hear me. I go stand by the treat cupboard and whine.* *WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE.* *Okay, he's getting up. He probably heard me. But just in case...* *WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE.* *Ah, yes hooman, open cupboard. Yes, gimme treat. Oh yes I good boy. Yes yes yes yesyesyes. Lookit me I sit my butt down and I put my foot up on you. See how good I am? Treat now please.* *NOMNOMNOMNOMNOMNOM.* *I smack my lips. That was yummy. Can I has more? No? Okay, well, can't blame a guy for trying.* *OH! I ALMOST FORGOT ABOUT MY BALL. HOOMAN COME FETCH MY BALL.* *He doesn't know what I want.* *Fine. I go stand by the big thing, aaaand....* *WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE.* *What do you mean "stop crying"? I stop crying when you get my ball hooman.* *WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE.* *Yes! Get up. He's coming here. Yes, it is under big thing. Yes, you can get it hooman! I belieb in you! Oh man you did it! You got the ball from under the big thing! Yes I knew you could do it hooman! You are the greatest-- Oh! You're getting ready to throw it. I catch!* *I ready. Every muscle in my body is primed to pounce.* *HE THREW IT!* *AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!!* *jumptackletwistflipmidairslipballmouthfacefloortumblespincatchslidestoooop* *Stand proud with ball in mouth. TADAAAA!* *Again, hooman!* *What does it mean, "no, I got to work"?* *Hooman, don't go sit down. No. We play ball now.* *Hooman? Hooman!* *He not listening to me.* *I know!* *I'll just purposefully roll ball under the big thing, and....* *WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE. WHINE.* *Don't judge me. If it works, it works.* *Yes hooman. That's it. Ball time now. You work later.* *Tail wag.


Its Monday. I arrive at the office, pass by the reception desk, “My God Kathy, you look like crap!”, softer now, I sit near the reception desk where Melissa works, she says, “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that, you just look like you didn’t sleep all weekend. Are you OK?” I answer, “Yes. Everything is fine now. Sarah’s fine. Friday she had pneumonia, but she’s past the worst part. It has just all been such a strange ordeal.” “Was she that sick?”, Melissa asks softly. “No, it’s not that . . . Its . . . For a while now, she’s been telling us about *The Green Lady*. Things would happen like, she’d misplace her favorite doll and The Green Lady would remind her she took it outside. That it’s near the dog house where she was playing with it the day before. I had an imaginary friend when I was a kid. Lots of kids do for a short period, so Daniel and I never really thought much about it.” Melissa said, “You thought it was a ‘phase’ she would grow out of.” “Right. But then, she’d say The Green Lady would tell her things, things she couldn’t possibly know herself. We had a family friend that was very sick. Daniel and I were afraid she might die. But we’d kept all that from the children until, or unless, it actually happened. Then one day we were planning a weekend trip to Disneyland in three weeks, something the kids love to do, and she said the next morning ‘We shouldn’t go that weekend, The Green Lady said last night, your friend will die that Saturday and you’ll want to be here for the family that weekend.” Melissa looked on, eyes wide, shocked and speechless. I continued, “Yeah. We thought we’d done a pretty thorough job of keeping how serious the friends illness was from the kids, and here she is saying our friend is about to die. Well, three weeks later, Saturday morning I get a call from our friends mother telling us she had just passed minutes before.” Melissa leans in to place her hand on mine, “Oh my Gosh.” “Yeah. So Daniel and I are searching the attic and crawlspaces and everywhere someone could hide. Because I’m beginning to wonder if The Green Lady is some real person that has been talking to the children when we aren’t around. We find nothing. We don’t want to scare the kids, but talk to both separately and our other younger daughter mentions she’s seen her too. That she tucks her in at night some times, and sings to her after Daniel and I have left her in bed. So, Daniel and I are fully freaking at this point. Wondering if moving, or an exorcism, is the better option?” Melissa snorts, “Right.” “We talk to the children, and very discretely slip in some casual questions, to make sure The Green Lady isn’t asking them to kill the neighbors or anything wild, but no, it’s all tucking them in at night, and harmless bedtime stories, or finding the occasional lost or misplaced doll or calming them if something unsettling happened during the previous day. We asked where they’ve seen her at, they say ‘mostly in the house, in our bedroom’. So it’s not someone meeting them out at daycare or school, somewhere when we aren’t around.” Melissa shrugs, “Like when they’re out clubbing.” “Right, I mean they’re seven and four, it’s not like they spend any real time outside close, trusted, adult supervision . . .” “Three months pass, the occasional mention of The Green Lady drops. While its bizarre to us, to the children she’s harmless and it’s all meaningless. Then the oldest daughters allergies kick in, or, it’s a cold, or the flu, we can’t tell yet. She’s not particularly getting worse, but not getting better either and her temperature is back and forth. I tell Daniel I’ll take her to the Doctor tomorrow just as we’re going to bed. 2:30am, I feel a tug on my shoulder and roll over to see . . . A woman, who looks vaguely familiar, with long probably red hair, freckles, and flowing green Victorian length dress, with a bright green aura glowing around her, lean over and say. “She’ll be fine, but it’s gone over to pneumonia, you should probably take her to the hospital and have them check oxygen levels and give her something to drain the fluid around her lungs.” I roll over and scream at Daniel to get up and get dressed, that we’re taking Sarah to the hospital. Turn back and see . . . Nothing. The Green Lady is gone.” “I throw a robe on and head to the girls room as Daniel gets dressed. Her breathing is worse, we take her to the hospital, and the doctor confirms . . . Pneumonia. He gives her something to reduce the fluids and help her breath, and we monitor the oxygen levels for a few hours, and eventually take her home six or so hours later. The Doctor asks what made me bring her in, was her breathing that bad? I paused head down, sighed and said barely audible, ‘No, it was The Green Lady.’ He turned back to the chart, chuckled softly, hanging the stethoscope around his neck and responded, ‘Ah, fifth time in the last year. Who do you think she looks like?’ I couldn’t believe someone else had heard of her and said I didn’t know, but she did look familiar. He asked if I watched a certain TV show’, I blurted out a characters name, that’s where I recognize her from.” I lean back in the guest chair, “Mom and Daniel were with the kids. Phone rings Saturday evening, just as I get home from the grocery. It’s the Doctor from the ER. He’s a friend of a friend of the actress the Green Lady looks like, and wants to know if I’d like to meet her? I said, ‘Sure, I guess’. So he tells me they’ll be home Sunday afternoon and gives me the address. I talk it over with Daniel. My mother had already stopped by to help with the kids, so Daniel and I decide to go.” Melissa asked, “You went over to her house?” “Yes, and recapped the entire story to her and her boyfriend. Her eyes get wide, she leaps off the couch, and says to her boyfriend ‘Oh my God John, they’re crazy. You keep them here, I’ll go in the back and call the police’, and she bolts out of the room.” Melissa gasps, “So you’re about to be arrested?” “We thought so. Daniel and I are panicking. Standing up and apologizing profusely to the boyfriend and trying to excuse ourselves to leave. The boyfriend just smiles, shakes his head, waves us to sit down ‘She’s not calling the police. She’s going into the spare bedroom to get a drawing hanging on the wall.’ Thirty seconds later she comes out and spins around a roughly 11x14 portrait in a very old frame and there is . . . The Green Lady. Red hair like the actress. Long flowing Victorian Green Dress, like the one I saw next to my bed. Not a twin, but enough of a likeness to the actress to make you think of her.” The actress says, ‘This is my Great Aunt Jessica. Its a Black and White charcoal drawing that was shaded over in color. Some of the green is actually coal shading. Apparently if you’re skilled enough, you can shade color with coal, depending on the surrounding room light. She’s been gone for sixty years. I never met her, well,’, she nods with a bit of an eyebrow wink, ‘not while she was alive anyway. But she had no children of her own, and spent most of her life looking after others children while the parents were out working. I saw her as a child, like your daughters do. And, every three to six months, someone sends us a letter, telling us a story, similar to the one you just told us. I can’t explain it, there seems to be no connection to these other people. It’s as if . . . Jessica just continues looking after children as she always has.’” Melissa exhales, “Oh my God, that’s amazing. So a ghost saved your daughter?” I shrug, “Someone, or something did. I can’t explain it. And I haven’t seen her since. Daniel has never seen her. So, that was my weekend, how about you?” Melissa said, “Oh no. I can’t top that.


Grief Navigation 2020 GPS System Grieving is a process; a journey. This journeys length is different for every single person who experiences it, and is not equal to the amount of time it takes to "heal". It's a fucked up journey I wouldn't call into a radio show to win free tickets for. I'm gonna describe the journey to you like this, in a way you might understand if you've had your head up your ass: it's driving the struggle bus, guided by the Grief Navigation 2020 gps system. The struggle bus itself is a rusted, rickety old pile of shit. Something from the 60s and NOT well taken care of. Most of the windows are cracked, AC nor heat works and it's obvious at minimum one tire is a doughnut that was never replaced. The Grief Navigation 2020 gps system… never has and never will navigate you correctly to any destination. The voice that speaks directions out loud can not be muted and sounds like a failed Siri prototype speaking in Hooked-On-Phonics. The journey. It's indescribable in so many ways, and the worst thing anyone will ever go through. Like I said before it's different for everyone, cause I bet you already tuned me out. Pay attention. The devastation happens and just like that. Poof. Your vehicle is replaced with the struggle bus. You're upset from the devastation but the struggle bus? That is not real…? For some days, there is a true denial to accept that the rickety pile of shit is here to escort you on this journey. When clearly, it is indeed parked exactly where your vehicle was and has not budged. After these some odd days there is a moment, a realization or an understanding that happens. I won't call it acceptance of the devastation, because it's not. But you just know that it is time to board the rickety pile of shit, the struggle bus. There only appears to be one seat for you, the driver's seat. You turn the key and the struggle bus coughs and sputters to life as something you hear, but can't see boots up. In all it's odd, robotic, Hooked-On-Phonics glory it loudly announces it is the Grief Navigation 2020 gps system. It almost doesn't make sense. It asks where you'd like to go. Nowhere? Onward with every day life? Into a hole? The casino? The bottom of a bottle? Alcohol or prescription, there is no judgement here. Your answer doesn't matter to Grief Navigation anyway. From here you will drive the guided struggle bus to places like: Numb Creek, St. Furious, Gloomsville, Lonely Oaks, Rage Valley, Heartbreak Rapids, Regret Prairie, Depression Grove, Anxiety Park and Guilt Heights. That is only a handful of map examples the Grief Navigation system is equipped with. It will take you to visit these places in no particular order, over and over again. Even if you want to stay awhile in one place. If you want to stop and rest. If you want to leave. If you want to choose your next stop. And you will even find that you can somehow be in more than one of these places at the same exact time. No, believe me. I have no idea how one can be in Regret Prairie and Rage Valley at the same damn time either. You know, I have zero clue about when this journey ends, if it does. Or if you ever stop visiting these places in the struggle bus. I'm only describing the journey as far as I've travelled it. Because it needs to be described, spoken about more. Did you pull your head out of your ass? Did you pay attention? Cause someday your own vehicle just might go poof.


She lay flat but arched her neck. Looking up she covered her eyes in a vain attempt to protect them from the sun's daggers. The sand on her belly and her legs had dried and now fell away like cookie crumbs when she moved. She would try to lie still. It comforted her to have those little passengers on board. A thin cloak to cover skin that may not be ready to be so bare as she thought it was. She could make out his shape now, standing proudly over her. The drops of water as he waved his hands kept threatening to hit her when they fell but she did not think this would be unwelcome at all. It was hot. Perhaps too much so. It surely hadn't been this punishing a heat when she lay down on the shore for a moment to let the sandwiches and cold tea from lunch settle. That was a while ago now though. It must have warmed slowly. She was a frog in a boiling pot. Still, it didn't matter much. It was bearable. She was nothing if not stronger than your average frog. "I have seen the sea!" He proclaimed in a jaunty tone. The waves crashed behind him as timpani perfectly timed to accompany his exclamations. "Pardon dear?" She knew what he said but desperately loved the sound of his voice and wanted him to repeat it. A short song just for her. To hear him happy, this was what she longed for. It had been years since his voice had bounced so. "The sea! I have seen it. I will conquer it for you. Its horizons, I will venture into the angry blue beast until the water covers my head. Then, when I must swim, my arms will be like the fins of a dolphin and my legs will push me as a steamship's screws. I can swim forever in this. Come with me! Let's swim until we forget what land even looks like!" "And what if we encounter a shark? What shall we do then oh brave adventurer? "Shark? I fear no shark. No whale, no jellyfish, Man-O'-War or other variety. I fear nothing in the sea. Nor should you because I will be there. Shark? Ha! You have to stop worrying about the little things. Even the little things that are actually quite big and have many, many teeth." He smiled and broke character for just a moment, laughing a little at himself and his ridiculousness. She reflected that smile, as she had a thousand times before. "That's wonderful. Move a little closer, cover the sun with your shadow for me." He moved forward, his form cutting the light and giving her a tiny respite from the heat. His smile replaced the sun. Staring down at her the she could see could see just as much brightness in his eyes. She smiled back even more so. A duel. Who was happier? For just a second she closed her eyes to rest and when she opened them he was gone. He had not been there at all. The mind, when it wants, can paint such pictures. It can make you taste fruit you are not even eating. When it wants, the magician in your head will fool you every time. He was gone as he had been for fourteen months now. It wasn't as bright as before. Now she had to fear the sharks everywhere again. Still, it was hot, the sand was on her belly and the timpani continued to play.


Chapter 2:  When Leonia woke up the next morning, the smell of smoke permeated the air. Her head pounded and her body ached. After the villages encounter with the Guerrier tribe, she had tossed and turned in bed all night, replaying the scene over again in her head until she couldn’t think straight. Now, she walked into the kitchen where she saw Nanette and her sister seated at the table. June grabbed a handful of blackberries they’d been eating and dropped them next to Minuit who was waiting patiently under the table for her share. Leonia wasn’t much of a morning person and greeted the two with a groggy “hello.” She pulled out another chair and sat down next to her sister, plucking a stray berry from the table. ”Nanette,” her sister asked cautiously “why’d those people burn the headman’s place?” Leonia, who had the same question, looked over at her aunt and waited for an answer. Nanette hesitated, “Lots of folks ‘round here believe the Comb Jellies are magic,” she began, ”You girls ‘ve heard the stories. Years ago, when the waters rose from the sea and flooded everythin’ in sight, they floated up from the deep, and wandered into our bayou. They breathed life back into it. Provided us with a whole slew of living plants and animals that helped our folks survive. They been Givin’ us what we need ever since.” Her gaze turned toward the window and she continued her story. “The Guerrier ‘ve always lived on the other side, away from the comb jellies. And for a while they did ok for themselves. Trained those gators to help ‘em hunt for food and protect ‘em. But now their food sources are dwindlin’ and they’re strugglin’ to feed their families. Guess the only way they think they can do that is by forcin’ us out.” “But there’s more than enough here for both of us! Why can’t we just live together,” June demanded, jumping out of her chair. “They’ve never gotten along with us folks over here. They been fightin’ with us for generations. Ain’t never been able to solve nothin’ without violence.” Suddenly Nanette’s face brightened into a smile and she clapped her hands together. “Alright Girls, I got to get to a meetin’ now. I don’t want ya’ll leavin’ this village. It’s too dangerous out there.” She plucked one more blackberry from the bowl, popped it into her mouth then walked out the door. Leonia knew she had to get to that meeting. As soon as Nanette was out of sight she ran to her room, threw on the clothes she wore the day before and pulled her hair up. She was just shouting a hurried goodbye to June when she stepped out of the door and ran straight into Ambrose. She couldn’t help but smile when she realized it was him. “Oh, hey Lee! You on your way out? I was just coming by to—” She pushed past him and out the door, “We don’t have time to chat. We”ve got to get to the village meeting.” “Wait,” he grabbed her hand before she could get away, “they’re not gonna let us in. It’s just for the elders.” When Leonia tried jerking her hand from his grip he held on tighter. “I know that.” she gave him an annoyed look, “We’re gonna listen in from the back door and see what’s going on.” “Fine,” he sighed, giving in, “Let’s go.” \*\*\* The meeting hall was on the same jellyfish island as the hut that had burned the night before. They crossed the floating bridge that connected the two and came face to face with its burnt shell. The remnants still smoldered on the ground. They trudged past the remains and walked on towards the village hall. It sat at the back edge of the jellyfish, near a grove of tall cypress trees. They slowed down as they neared the back entrance. When they reached the door, Ambrose grabbed the wooden handle and pulled it towards him slowly until they could peek inside. Leonia turned towards Ambrose and gestured for him not to make a sound, then they both peered through the door at the village elders who were gathered inside. There were seven of them in all, including the village headman and Nanette. They stood in a lazy circle arguing with one another. “We need to defend the lands ourselves,” Old man Ducote shouted at the others, “we can’t let them push us out.” *‘What other choice do we have?’* Leonia thought, watching them bicker. ‘*There’s nowhere else to go in this world. All that’s beyond the bayou is an endless ocean.’* Virgil, the headsman, piped up from the middle of the group. “Well, we only have till the next solstice to decide. That’s when they said they’d be back.” Then he looked directly at Nanette, “what about the Drylands? I say we go there. I’m sure the folks living there would welcome us. You been there before, right?” *‘The Drylands?* ’Leonia shot Ambrose a questioning look. She remembered the stories Nanette used to tell her at bedtime about The Drylands but she had always insisted that’s all they were, stories. There was no truth to them at all, just something made-up to help her and June sleep at night. By the look on Ambrose’s face, he didn’t know anything about The Drylands either. He shrugged his shoulders and they continued listening. “I was a young girl, Virgil. Not much older than June and I don’t think them folks would welcome us with open arms. Even if they did, I don’t know how to get there and we don’t have a boat big enough. I say we stay and defend the land.” “Who’s going to defend it?” Letty asked looking around, “Us? Everyone here is either too young or too old. We’ve never had to fight before. We wouldn’t know the first thing about defending ourselves.” Nanette looked around the room. “We can train ‘em. Our ancestors fought for these lands and we can too, we have to, and we have to start now.” All the elders began to speak at once and their raised voices soon turned to shouting as they struggled to be heard over each other. Their voices echoed and boomed around the hall. After a few more minutes of failing to discern a word, Ambrose and Leonia closed the door behind them and began making their way back home. “Ambrose, the summer solstice is only three months away!” They had just stepped foot back on their own jellyfish and Leonia’s mind was reeling, “Our people can’t fight off the Geurrier. What are we going to do? And The Drylands? What was that about?” “I think we can take ‘em,” he said grinning and punching the air, but Leonia had her doubts. In Nanette’s lifetime, their people had never had to go to war. Had never had to deal with a threat like this. Decades ago, there was a peace treaty between them and the Gurrier people, but it looks like that was over now. “And about the Drylands Lee, it makes sense. The world’s much bigger than you think. We couldn’t have been the only people to survive the flooding.” They continued their walk in silence then Ambrose suddenly stops, “Lee! Come with me.” He grabs one of Leonia’s elbows and drags her toward his home. He barges past the doorway, ignoring his mother standing in the kitchen and heads straight for the hut’s backroom. Ambrose’s grandfather had passed away a couple years ago but his room still looked exactly the way he left it, a mess. A large, unkempt bookshelf took up most of the wall on the far end of the room and piles of paper were cluttered over a small desk and chair. Items that had been salvaged after the great flood were scattered about in random places. “What are we doing in your grandpa’s room?” Ambrose ignored her question and rifled through a drawer in the desk. After another minute he pulled out a small, rolled up parchment, bound by a piece of string. “Found it!” He untied the string and unfurled the paper. Her curiousness got the better of her. “What is that” Leonia asked as they both stared down at the document. Then, her eyes grew wide. *‘It’s a map*’. Hand drawn, and by the looks of it pretty old as well. Its edges were wrinkled and parts of it were torn but it was still in fairly good shape. It looked nothing like the maps they had seen of the world before the flood. This one depicted a large mass of land surrounded by water and three separate chains of small islands. Another portion of the map simply read ‘The Bayou’ and was illustrated as a tree surrounded by dark water. “Is this a map of the drylands? She grabbed the map from Ambrose’s hands and continued to study it. “Hey—” “Can I borrow this?” She was already beginning to formulate a plan. If this map is real then the Drylands do exist and that means there’s hope. “I don’t know,” he frowned and gave her a knowing look, “Why do you want to borrow it?” “I just want to show Nanette and ask her if it’s real. And ask her why she and everyone else have been lying to us.” She lied. She didn’t plan on showing it to Nanette at All. Ambrose had never been able to tell Leonia ‘No’, and a look of defeat crossed his face. “Fine. I guess you can borrow it but I want it back in the morning.” \*\*\* Storm clouds had begun to gather in the sky and cover the stars as Leonia grabbed her leather pack. She slung it over the side of her pirogue and it hit the bottom of the boat with a solid thud. It was filled with items she thought she might need on her journey: a pocket-knife, length of rope, some gator jerky, a fishing line, the map, and a few other things. She hated sneaking off like this, not telling anyone where she was going, but if they knew her plans, they would have refused to let her go. She needed to get to the Drylands and back before the summer solstice arrived. Hopefully, a tribe over there could help them. Maybe, they’d be able send a boat for her people or even send fighters to help them defend their lands. At Leonia’s feet, Minuit canaried out a few small chirps and rubbed against her legs. “No Minuit, you can’t come with me. “ Leonia gently patted her head and nudged her away. She had just spent the rest of the evening with June and Nanette, eating dinner and telling stories like nothing was wrong. Savoring every last moment before she snuck off in the night. Even Nanette didn’t mention what was about to take place. Probably trying to give everyone one last day of normalcy before their world was yet again turned upside down. Leonia was just trying to hold on to them for a little longer. Just in case she didn’t it back home. As Leonia stepped into the pirogue it rocked back and forth under her weight. She grabbed the sides to steady herself, sat down, and then picked up an oar. She launched herself away from the comb jelly’s shores and took one last look at home. *‘Goodbye Aunty, goodbye June,’ she thought* then glanced over at the hut beside it, ‘*goodbye Ambrose.’* She wanted so badly to take Ambrose with her, to have his lazy smile and goofy laugh along for the ride. She would have asked him to come along, and he would have probably said yes, but she needed him here in the Bayou. He wasn’t as lazy as other people thought him. He was stronger than they knew, he could be serious when needed, and he could help protect the island. He could be the strong leader they needed right now. She knew he had it in him. A moment later, Leonia heard a splash in the water. She looked out and groaned, “you pesky rat.” Minuit swam up to the side of the pirogue, leaving a trail in the water behind her. She grabbed the capybara under its arms and lifted her inside. “ Well, I guess your coming with me after all.


The first week of camp was an eventful one. Each day was packed with activities—things like swimming, hiking, volley ball—and always ended with some major event. We’d had a barn dance that first Friday night. Charlie let me borrow one of her flannels and a pair of ripped jeans, though the latter was too tight, and the former too large. She matched me in blue and called us blueberries, something only she found very funny. By week’s end, it felt like far more time had passed. I couldn’t believe the difference between the girl who first step foot onto those grounds and the girl I was now. I was a regular. I knew the songs. I knew the staff—and they knew me! I knew that the shower in the back corner was your best bet for hot water and was usually available right before dinner, but *never* after. I knew that the brown food trays didn’t clean well, for whatever reason, and that if you wanted any chance at getting chocolate milk, you either had to get to breakfast early or hope Christoff was in the kitchen that day. Both Marcy and my mother were right: this place had quickly become home. Charlie, of course, was a huge reason for this. That girl knew each and every inner working of Burntwood, like she’d designed it herself. The way she moved through it was so smooth and fluid, the entire place molding around her existence as though created just for her. I’d learn new things just by watching, my admiration for her growing each day. She was already the best friend I’d ever had, and that made me feel guilty. I tried not to show it when she slipped the bracelet she wove onto my wrist just below Lily’s. The blue and white strings kissed the very edge of the scar across my palm. Weekends at Burntwood were typically less structured, with plenty of down time to do as you pleased. Some caught up on sleep, while most hung out in Hemlock playing ping-pong or simply lounging on the sofas. If we were really lucky, one of the life guards would volunteer some of their time off to guard the main docks for an hour. Charlie, however, had different plans for us that Saturday. “It’s not that far,” she said, dragging one of the kayaks off the rack. We were going to visit her Auntie Meryl across the lake to help prepare for tonight’s big event. With Charlie, I could never tell when something was actually allowed or when she was evoking her Lovel privilege. I kept an eye out for staff as we carried the kayak to the water. “Just so you know, my aunt can be a little weird,” Charlie informed me. “But she’s great, I promise. She can do anything. She helped me get over my fear of heights. Oh! I bet she can help you with your hand!” The pain had gone down but it still felt rather uncomfortable, all blistered and hard, and stuck to the wrap. I winced as we lifted a second kayak and nearly collapsed under its weight. I was exhausted, having hardly slept in days. More than once, Charlie had woken me in the middle of the night, shaking me from outside my bunk and telling me to roll back onto my stomach. When I’d finally protested, she asked me if I trusted her. And I did. So I listened. We carried the other kayak to the water and lowered it in with a splash. I stepped into one gingerly. I wasn’t particularly thrilled with how wet the seat was, or with the spider by my feet. I wanted to stab it with my oar but it wouldn’t fit. Charlie pushed me out into the water and then hopped into hers like it was nothing. “Thanks for coming with me, Red Paw,” she said as she propelled herself out with her oar. I hated the nickname but was too happy to have one to say anything. “Last year, we made it rainbow. You should’ve seen it! It went all the way over the Valley. I think this time we’re doing thunder. It’s gonna be fun!” Before I could say anything, she added, “Also, don’t tell my mom where we went, okay?” I didn’t like the idea of lying to Marcy, nor could I have ignored her. She’d been rewrapping my hand every day and would often approach me in the Dining Hall to ask how I was doing. Between tonight’s big event and how quickly my palm oozed through each bandage, I would certainly be seeing her later. Which wasn’t good, because I was a terrible liar. Charlie and I paddled across the calm water of Starry Lake on what was a perfect summer day. The sun was just the right amount of hot, without a cloud in the sky to interfere. I’d never kayaked before, and though my tired arms left me trailing in Charlie’s wake, it was probably my favorite camp activity thus far. I would’ve had no problem cruising all the way to Canada, and was disappointed when we’d soon reached the other side of the lake. Meryl’s home sat on the very edge of the water, with just a few panels of wood protruding out for a dock. Though five of her seven children had already aged out of Burntwood, Meryl Lovel was still heavily involved in what went on there. Her daughter, Celia, was just a year shy of joining us Wood Lily girls but had remained one of Charlie’s best friends. Until I showed up. She’d still wander off to Celia’s table sometimes at dinner, which made me jealous. But I knew I was being stupid. The house itself told you everything you needed to know about Meryl, with far too many dream catchers, wind chimes, and statues littered around the outside. The sidings were painted two different shades of purple, and, more jarring, had pink columns, dirty and chipped. When Meryl opened the back door to greet us, I instantly remembered having seen her my first day. She was wearing the same oversized crescent-moon necklace I saw her wearing that night. “Oh just leave the boats there—yes, right there is fine. Charlotte, sweetie, how are you? And who is this?” She cocked her head to one side and was beaming at me from atop the steps, her little huffs of breath matching the shakiness of her hands. She moved in short jerks, like she’d just had several cups of coffee. Or something stronger. I stepped forward to shake the hand she was rubbing close to her chest. “I’m Maddie. Nice to meet you.” She squeezed the tips of my fingers and faltered at the sight of the gauze. “*You’re* the girl,” she gasped. “Madeline Goodwin? Oh, dear, I was so sorry to hear about what happened.” I feared, once more, that this was a reference to my sister, and was relieved when she said, “Come. I have something that’ll help with that.” Charlie flashed me a knowing smirk as we followed her inside. I couldn’t say I was quite so sure just yet. The back door led straight into a vast kitchen, with many cabinets high and low surrounding a center island, and windows lining the back wall for a perfect view of the water. “The kids should be back soon,” Meryl said, gesturing for us to take a seat at the old wooden table in the corner. “I sent them in town to pick up a few things for tonight. I’m low on chamomile. And garlic, of all things!” She disappeared into the pantry where we could hear her rummaging through drawers. I took the time to survey the rest of the house. There were several large plants hanging about in places you wouldn’t normally expect to see them; archaic artifacts resting atop shelves between dusty books; and weird paintings of unknown creatures scattered throughout the entirety of the first floor, which was small, but open. I could see more dreamcatchers out on the front porch through the far window of the conjoined living room. Meryl reappeared in a flash and placed a small vial onto the table before me. The liquid inside looked like ink. “Now, don’t drink that or—well, just don’t. But. Put a little bit each night on the wound and it’ll be gone before you know it. Bay leaves. Use them all the time. No scars! You may need a little extra—July can be…tricky. But you’ll thank me later!” I stared at the vial hesitantly but Charlie slid it closer before I could say anything. Meryl grinned and sprung off toward the island to check on the massive pot that was cooking on the burner. There was a half-chopped carrot sitting beside it, something we must have interrupted. She picked up the knife and continued chopping. “Are you excited for the Awakening, Madeline?” I squirmed and repositioned myself, wishing she would pay less attention to me. “I am,” I lied. Truthfully, I wasn’t entirely sure what was happening that night, just that it was something they did every summer to mark the end of the first week, and that it was especially important for new campers such as myself. Charlie wouldn’t reveal much else, which made me anxious. She’d assured me that it was merely a way to create fair teams for games and events, and served as a way to get campers of all ages to mingle. Just another one of Burntwood’s silly traditions, she said. She was Team Fire, whatever that was. Silly or not, I was hoping to be the same. “You seem like an Earth girl, if you ask me,” Meryl began. “Very quiet, but strong.” The sound of her knife against the cutting board filled the gaps between her words. “I would know. I’m an Earth girl. An Earth girl raising three Fires, three Ice, and one Air!” She looked up and laughed, light reflecting off the knife she was wielding. I did my best to laugh along with her. You really had to pay attention around Meryl. She did this strange thing where she’d weave in and out of conversations. She could start by talking to you and then wind up speaking to the air, or to herself, only to snap back to you again. “We’re very stubborn though, let me tell you,” she continued, flailing the knife as she spoke. “Us Earthies? We’ll hold onto things for life. I can sense a little bit of that in you, Madeline.” “Mom picks them randomly,” Charlie blurted. Meryl’s face dropped. “Of course she does.” The sudden snap of her next chop startled me. I watched her scoop the carrot slices into her hand and throw them into the pot, where they thunked and sizzled. We were then blessed with silence, albeit awkward, before being saved by the noisy return of her children, who came crashing in like a wave just minutes later, with grocery bags on their arms. Gwyn, the oldest child, led the pack, the others tailing behind her, each paired up in their own discussion with a different sibling. Six girls and one boy. It was interesting seeing the combination of features they shared, some with the same eyes but different nose, or the same nose but different hair. Poor Christian. Not only was he the lone boy, he was also the youngest. He and Celia were in back waiting for their turn in line as Gwyn collected all the bags. She moved like a machine, swiftly unpacking and putting things where they belonged. She waved a jar of minced garlic at Meryl who gasped and took it with delight, before taking Gwyn by the face and pulling her in for a big, motherly kiss. “My beautiful ice queen!” Gwyn, in her twenties, gave a half-hearted smile and continued putting the groceries away, instructing her siblings to do the same. She really was quite beautiful, looking more like Marcy than her own mother, her brown hair braided around her head in the very same way, connecting in back down a long ponytail. Her demeanor, on the other hand, was far different, her resting expression one of discontent. When everything was put away, she snapped her fingers and tapped the island to indicate to the others not to go anywhere. Celia and Christian groaned and she shot them a nasty look. When she turned back, our eyes met and she quickly fixed her face. “Everyone, this is Madeline,” Meryl announced, just now remembering I was there. Her smile barely reached above the pot she was now stirring. “This is her first time at Burntwood so…today is a big day for her.” The whole family lit up amid a collective gasp. “What do you think you’ll be?” asked Faye, the middle child. She had the roundest face of the bunch, and her hair was dyed bright red. Meryl looked like she wanted to answer for me but changed her mind. “I’m not sure,” I replied. “I’m still kind of learning how everything works.” Faye stuck out her bottom lip like she was looking at a puppy, despite only being a few years older than me. She approached the table and said, “Don’t worry, we’ll teach you everything you need to know. Come on.” She took my arm and brought me to the island, Charlie happily following along behind us. Faye talked my ear off about this stew her mother makes every year before the Awakening, and explained the purpose of each individual herb and spice that was cooked inside it. It sounded crazy and would’ve been too much to take in even had she not spoken as fast as she did. But it was a fun atmosphere to be part of nonetheless. I hadn’t had anything like it since before Lily’s chemo. I’d forgotten how much I missed the noise. I stood happily among the chaos: Meryl, Gwyn, and Margot chatting as they fed the stew; Liv, Faye, and Ellie struggling to chop something I couldn’t quite identify; Celia, Charlie, and I pulling leaves off a plant and shrieking every time Charlie pretended she was going to eat one; and little Christian running scraps to the trash and trying his best to look busy. Out of nowhere, a chorus of singing began and soon our voices rang loud throughout the kitchen. I was very glad in that moment that I’d learned some of the camp songs, each as annoyingly catchy as the next and almost always about some poor animal’s demise. We sang a few of them in what would have been my favorite moment of the summer to that point, had it ended there. “What was the one that Dad always used to sing to us?” Faye suddenly asked. I felt the air get sucked out of the room. The older few made a face that the younger were too oblivious to notice. Gwyn cleared her throat. “The Three Little Rascals,” she said. “Dad loved that one.” Faye shook her head. “No, no. It was…oh shoot, what was it? Something about a wolf.” Celia squeaked and started singing. “*‘The lonely wolf hides in the bark, its spirits calling in the dark, it waits for you to light the spark, so don’t go wandering in the park!’*” She sang it a second time, and a third, repeating the same lyrics, only faster, loudly emphasizing each word of the final line. Gwyn’s displeasure was less subtle, but she seemed at a loss. I could see her peak over at her mother from the corners of her eyes. Meryl was just standing there. “*The lonely wolf hides in the bark, its spirits calling in the dark, it waits for you to—*” “Crawling!” Christian shouted. Celia stopped. “It’s ‘spirits *crawling* in the dark’.” “No it’s not! It’s *calling* in the dark! Why would the spirits be crawling, Christian?” “Why would they be calling, they don’t want you to know they’re there, stupid!” “Alright, enough!” Gwyn cried, swiftly getting in between them. “Thank you for all your help. Now go upstairs and get changed. Go!” They sauntered off and stomped up the stairs, their muffled whispers getting swallowed up by their bedroom door. Meryl was silent, lost somewhere in a thought. Gwyn returned with a pale face and faltered a bit when she asked Celia to slide her the pile of leaves. Each of us got right back to work, the sound of Liv’s chopping and the simmering pot the only things filling the air. The girls were darting their eyes back and forth at one another while their mother continued to spin her ladle. Meryl’s mouth twitched a bit, as though bits of her thoughts were escaping her body. “Where’d she learn that one?” she eventually muttered. Everyone’s eyes fell. The room moved more slowly. “I sang it to her once,” said Gwyn. “She asked where it came from, so…” The sound of the knife against the table boomed with each chop, feeling more like the ticking of a bomb. We waited for Meryl’s response but got none. Gwyn remained on the far side, struggling to keep her composure. “So what’s been your favorite event at Burntwood so far?” Margot said to me, tucking her dark hair behind her ears. Her nails were painted purple. “The dance was fun,” I replied softly. It still didn’t feel appropriate to speak. Something clearly wasn’t right. Margot nodded and turned to Meryl. “What about you, Mom? What’s your favorite camp event?” The room shifted their attention to Meryl, who lifted the ladle and took a sip. She grimaced and shook her head, her face slowly swelling with anger. She then threw the ladle across the room. Drops of stew hit me in the face. “You see what you did!” she cried. “It’s spoiled!” She glared directly at Gwyn and pointed her finger. “This is your fault. The *one* thing Shereen asks me to do. The one thing!” She put a hand to her forehead and wailed an exaggerated groan. “We can fix it, Mom,” Faye assured her. “Oh, honestly, Faye, just shut the fuck up, for once. Please? Can you do that for me?” Tears welled in Faye’s eyes as she nodded and faded back against the wall. Celia and Christian had reappeared in the doorway, cowering in their new yellow and red outfits. I was too afraid to keep watching. I stared down at my feet where more specks of stew had been splattered. “*We can fix it*,” Meryl mocked. “No, *I* can fix it.” She huffed and continued on mumbling under her breath. I could hear her rummaging through drawers and cabinets, tossing other unknown contents into the pot. I finally looked up when she snapped her fingers and said, “Line up. Everyone.” No one wanted to move. It was Margot who broke the ice. She stepped up and flinched when Meryl simply placed her hand on her back. “Go ahead,” Meryl instructed with a nod toward the pot. Margot leaned her face forward, and spit in it. Meryl lifted her hand and waved for the next person. I watched in awe as the other girls approached one by one, each spitting into the pot without a word. Christian hung back. “Me too, Mom?” Meryl signaled him forward and he rather happily spit into the pot. She smiled weakly at him and then turned to me. “Maddie, c’mon dear.” I felt sick. I absolutely did not want to do this, nor did I have any idea why it was being done. Yet I complied, crawling to the other side of the island where an agitated Meryl was beckoning for me to move faster. I wanted nothing more than to get out of there. I hopped up against the table and spit quick, nearly hitting my chin against the pot as I hurried down. Before I could get away, a hand gripped my shoulder. “Again. That wasn’t enough.” I’d never felt more disgusting. I glanced at Charlie but she was staring down at the floor. The blank look on her face made me feel worse. I turned back and got up higher on my toes, preparing a thick pool of spit in my mouth and letting it fall slowly into the stew so that Meryl could be sure of its existence. She thanked me with a pat on the back and then shot another glare at Gwyn, the only one yet to contribute. No words were needed. Gwyn reluctantly approached, stopping just shy of where Meryl wanted her and getting pulled closer, their noses nearly touching. Gwyn shuddered, unable to meet her mother’s gaze. “Go on,” said Meryl. She was blocking the way but wouldn’t move. Gwyn had to lean past her, practically sticking her face inside the pot. The moment the saliva broke from her lips, Meryl grabbed her by the braid and held on tight, looking more furious than ever. “No, Mom, please!” Gwyn shrieked, writhing in her mother’s grasp. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to!” Meryl ignored her. “Margot, dear, get me the blue candle.” Margot hesitated, distracted by Gwyn’s sobbing. Gwyn looked over at us, as though pleading for help. But no one said a word. “Margot!” Meryl snapped. Margot dashed across the room and reached up for one of the high cabinets, where many multi-colored jars sat neatly packed, three rows deep. Still flustered by her sister’s cries, she retrieved the royal blue, only to be corrected. “No, the light blue.” Margot jumped and returned to the cabinet. Gwyn caught herself as Meryl gave repeated tugs to keep her under control, tears streaking down her cheeks as she helplessly watched Margot swap the candles. “Light it,” said Meryl. Margot nodded and found matches inside the drawer. A weight was building in my chest as she struggled to light the match, nearly fumbling it before finally getting the candle lit. She stumbled back a safe distance and stood all alone at the end of the table, staring anxiously at the flame. Meryl shoved her free hand into the drawer for a large pair of scissors, raising it to Gwyn’s braid and, in several crunchy snips, cutting off a thick, lengthy piece. The remaining stub fell limp to its side. Meryl let go of Gwyn with a shove and placed the severed braid inside the candle jar, watching it burn and melt into the wax. Gwyn continued to whimper, standing motionless just inches from her mother, tears still falling onto the floor, snot oozing out her nose. Her soul was seeping through her puffy, red eyes. Meryl paid no mind. She closed her eyes and inhaled the smokey remains of her daughter’s hair, taking big breaths and releasing them slowly out her nose. The rest of us held our breath. When she finished, she returned to the stew with a new ladle, lifting herself another large scoop. My body was numb, fearing what may happen if she had still been dissatisfied. After a crisp slurp, she swished her tongue around the inside of her mouth and gave it a few more clicks, staring through the wall ahead of her. She then nodded and gave the pot a casual stir. “The Offering,” she said, glancing over at Margot. “That’s my favorite camp event.” She smiled to herself and carried on like nothing had happened, humming “The Lonely Wolf” as she stirred. “Alright!” she suddenly declared.