They say my mother gave birth to me too early. By the time the Midwife had arrived, I had already been brought into the world. In my small village of Bhavishnu, it is unheard of to give birth before the Midwife arrives. Mothers are expected to hold on until she arrives, no matter how long it is. You see, the Midwife is a very strange creature; vengeful and easily angered. If she feels any form of disrespect, she is said to obsess over revenge until she finds the perfect solution. Disrespect comes in many forms, from mild to severe. However, to the Midwife, nothing is more discourteous than refusing her the job she was assigned. When I enter town, the people don’t hesitate to stare at me and whisper as I search the shops for groceries and supplies, but I don’t blame them. The purple scars running diagonally across my eyes aren’t easy to overlook. “Cursed Child,” they whisper. Though, not quiet enough to evade my ears. In some ways, I am angry. I am bitter at society for believing in superstitions that could never be possible. Other times, it is easy to see why they act the way they do. My scars still appear fresh, despite having healed 17 years ago. They are still an angry color, raised high on my skin. Miraculously, I am still able to see, which only adds to the superstition. I am the village reject, the outcast. I’ve heard the story of how I acquired the scars about a million times and I know the details by heart, but I don’t remember it happening. However, the villagers’ vivid description of the incident doesn’t disappoint. After my birth, the Midwife went into isolation for forty-two days. There was no punishment cruel enough for me, the demon who had clawed his way into the world too soon. My mother abandoned me sometime after my birth, not wanting to suffer for my disobedient actions. After the forty-second day, the Midwife found me in a warm cottage towards the edge of town. A merciful couple had taken me in, fed me, and clothed me. During that forty-second night, the Midwife entered my cottage and killed the couple watching over me. She didn’t want anyone to stop her when she punished me. She had to succeed or she’d die a disrespected woman. She found me in my room, sound asleep. I’m told she uttered unspeakable words over me, causing three gashes to simultaneously appear on my newly-formed face. After wounding me, she continued her punishment. One that had been carefully planned for multiple weeks. The Midwife then proceeded to take drops of my blood into a vial and brandish a piece of parchment. The Midwife then drank the vial’s components as though she was a pen being filled with ink. Hurriedly, she wrote on the parchment using my blood which now flowed freely from her fingertips. The Midwife then left me alone in the cottage, but a young babe left for dead. I wouldn’t have survived if the mail carrier hadn’t heard my cry. The mail carrier entered the cottage, looking for the source of the wailing and found me in my room next to a piece of parchment with smeared black lettering. The mail carrier picked up the parchment and read the words that forever sealed my fate. “Disobedient birth leads to punishment. Punishment leads to defiance. Defiance leads to societal scorn. Societal scorn leads to loneliness. Loneliness leads to paranoia. Paranoia leads to insanity. Insanity leads to aggression. Aggression leads to violence. Violence leads to death.” To the villagers, this paper was a prophecy. To me, it is insanity. People say I will soon experience the fifth stage; paranoia. I was disobedient and left my mother too soon, they say. I was punished by the Midwife, defiant in my survival. It is no secret the village hates me. I live a life of loneliness. No mother, no father, no siblings. They tell each other it is only a matter of time until my loneliness drives me to that fifth stage. Of course, all of these things are true of me, but I do not believe they foretell of my death. I have gone 17 years without conflict and I’m quite sure I can continue that. No one will even get close enough for me to inflict harm, so I know the ‘prophecy’ is a lie. It is no prophecy and it is most certainly not my future. Every day is a repeat of the previous one, a foreshadowing of the next, but my never-ending cycle of life is comforting somehow. Everything is how I know it will be. I wake up around 4 in the morning, the sun not yet risen and the air not yet warm. I am not someone who needs a lot of sleep, for my body won’t allow it. After waking, I shower off, trying hard not to look in the mirror at the scars that run across my face. They trigger hurt associated with my mother’s abandonment, confusion as to why I had to be born early, and most of all, anger for the villagers who could never understand what it’s like to be a throwaway. I don’t like feeling these emotions because they govern my actions. Anger makes me aggressive, hurt makes me easily frightened, and confusion makes me act foolish. When I feel emotions as strong as these, my mind disappears and my body takes control. I will not allow myself to give the villagers another reason to hate me or believe in that stupid ‘prophecy’. For these reasons, I try to never look at the thick, purple lines running across my upper face. After showering and getting dressed in whatever I can dig around my bare house and find (because I live sparingly and can hardly afford a shower), I go outside and look at the sky until I feel serene and can carry on with my day. After that, my day quiets down, even though the morning wasn’t very busy at all to begin with. I go inside and draw pictures of vast seas and bare deserts, trying to fill the time with the only thing I’m exceptional at. On a good day, I get to eat a few pieces of bread and a small number of wild roots from the back of my house. On a bad day, I go to sleep shivering and trying desperately to ignore the sharp pains in my stomach. Regardless, I won’t let my poverty discourage me. I have stacks of paper to satisfy my ever growing imagination, I have a bed that is much softer than the ground, and I don’t have to worry about neighbors whispering to their children about me. I am alone, but I am not lonely. Or so I’d like to think. Life is hard for me, no matter how much I like to pretend it is not. It’s only natural to crave companionship, only natural to wish for happiness and success, despite knowing you will never achieve it. And on the cold and hungry nights, despite my positive attitude, the doubts and negative thoughts still creep in. I am only human, after all. Some days my mind won’t allow me to draw and instead chooses to blame me for all of my hardships. It’s hard to get out of the cycle of self-deprecation, and some days my mind and the weight of the world won’t let me get out of bed. I want to sleep for an eternity, but my body won’t let me. I want to stop being. I don’t crave death, but it’s hard to live. If everything would just slow down, I think it would be easier. Unfortunately, I know time doesn’t slow down even when my mind does. Focusing on existing takes so much of my energy that I don’t have time to think about the Midwife or my title of the “town reject.” It all becomes far away in a corner of my mind which I know exists, but forget to use. Considering I am alone, I have no one to constantly remind me of the failure that is my life. Instead, my body constantly reminds me that I need to eat while my mind won’t give me the encouragement to do it. I know I have to change something in my life before I crumble into nothing, but I can’t remember what it is anymore. Sometime close to the start of winter, the harshest season for me, I hear a knock at my door and try to think about any importance today may have that would bring someone to me. My birthday is in the winter, but surely I would know if it had happened already. I don’t ever get knocks on my door, so it’s quite startling. Who could it be coming to see me and what do they hope to gain? I don’t have the energy to go to the door and to be frank, my strength has dissipated ever since I sunk further into my depression. I haven’t been to town in months and I know no one would willingly seek my company. I tell my mind to quiet down. “It doesn’t matter who’s knocking. They will go away eventually, just like everyone else. Just like my mother, just like my well-being.” I start to close my eyes, hoping to obtain at least an hour of sleep. I am close to the welcoming void when I hear another knock, this time more urgent and resounding. I start to get upset, mentally wishing the person away. I was about to gain the sleep I couldn’t last night, but I was interrupted. How bothersome. Sighing, I close my eyes again, still feeling the remnants of sleep. Heavy eyelids and slowed heart rate. I breathe deeply, trying to get back to the place I was so close too. My mind finally quiets and my subconscious takes over, painting vivid colors of red and yellow to the back of my eyelids. Knock Knock. I open my eyes, suddenly awake. I couldn’t remember what I was dreaming about, but I knew it was important. Looking around, I discovered the room around me was dark. I must’ve slept longer than I thought. I was still tired, so why was I awake? The answer came to me around thirty seconds later. Two knocks, with an increment of five seconds between each. Without warning, my heart clenched at the sound. There was someone out there and they had been knocking for what appeared to be several hours. This was not normal at all. Why were they still out there? Stomach turning at the thought of a stranger watching me sleep, I slowly raised my head and turned around toward my door. Focusing my attention on the front door, I tried to calculate how long it had been since the last round of knocks had occurred. I looked at the door closely, trying to figure out how long it had been, when I heard a loud succession of knocking. I considered how long I had until my eighteenth birthday, unsure as to why I was considering it. Somehow, a bit of the fog cleared in my mind and I thought of the Midwife. The Midwife, the ‘prophecy’! That was it! I’d blocked it from my memory, but the rest of my punishment would happen on my eighteenth birthday. The Midwife was not done with me and the mental trauma she inflicted on me as a child had caused me to forget this very essential part of my existence. I had never questioned my existence before, just simply accepted it. I tried to think, forcing myself to push past the remaining fog in my mind. Anger boiled inside of me as slowly I started to remember the events that had occurred when I was just weeks old. The Midwife was a vengeful woman, insistent on causing harm to everyone around her. My very existence angered her and before I could even talk, she turned my existence into the same misery she felt. The anger continued boiling inside of me, growing hotter and hotter like a chamber of magma. If I continued to think about this, I’d explode into a spray of fury and poisonous emotions. I felt the anger slowly rise from my stomach to my chest and finally to my throat, threatening to explode everywhere. I thought once more about the Midwife and screamed in rage. She’d left me with these scars, left me with this shattered mind and an aching heart. I thought again of the scars that painted my face and in a fit of savagery, I scratched at them over and over, insistent on getting them away from me. I wouldn’t let a cruel woman that I didn’t even bother hurt me any longer. “Keep at it, you’re just fulfilling the prophecy,” I heard a voice behind me rasp. I turned around, still angry and insistent on releasing all of that anger somehow. I looked at the figure standing before me and tried to decipher who they were. A passing face on the street, perhaps. They reminded me of an old acquaintance who I’d long forgotten. “Who are you?” I asked, possibly too aggressive for a random stranger. “You’re very aware of who I am…after all, I’m who inflicted those wounds on you.” The Midwife. So this is where my punishment would occur. I looked at her, rage and disgust masking my features. This was the Midwife whom no one had seen since the prophecy? She didn’t look powerful at all. How could such a frail woman be as strong as the villagers claimed? She looked pitiful and weak and that very weakness made me want to destroy her. I could probably kill her with a single blow to the head. I looked around the room, searching for something within reach. Nothing heavy enough. “Oh, child, how foolish you are. I can read your thoughts, you know. We are connected, you and I. My blood carries your blood.” That stopped me for a millisecond. I’d never looked at it like that before, just assuming all of my blood had left her when she’d written her ‘prophecy’. I chuckled, amused by the idea of a prophecy. There could be no prophecy because my life was normal. “Normal? You pretended to be normal. Society scorns you because you don’t see who you truly are. You are not good, you are not kind. You have followed almost every single step of the prophecy already. You were disobedient in your birth, you were punished by me, you defied death, you were scorned, and grew lonely. You believe this is where you departed from it? Prophecies can be interpreted in many ways, child. So far, you are correct in how the steps played out. I’ll give you that. However, you haven’t stopped here. You grew paranoid, devouring every ounce of food in your house, afraid that it would spoil before you could get more. You did not want to be wasteful. When you ran out of food, you refused to go to town because you were paranoid the people would harass you. So, you grew hungrier every day, living solely on the roots of your backyard. Hunger mixed with food you don’t know does not equal normalcy. You slowly grew insane, the hunger driving you mad and the roots speeding up the process. You see, those roots were not made for human consumption. Those roots are made for poisons. After insanity, you grew aggressive with no way to get all of your anger at me out. You deepened the scars I gave you as a way to hold onto the anger you held for me. A way to get out all of that pent up aggravation and aggression. Those scars would have been less than visible by now if it weren’t for you. Do you know what comes after aggression? Violence. You wonder often why people avoid you and why no one wishes to spend time with you? You pushed a little girl on the street who was staring at your face. You pushed her into the road where she could’ve died. Luckily she survived, but the town hated you even more after that. They considered ways to get rid of you, but were ultimately too afraid of what you would do to them. Next is death. That role hasn’t been fulfilled yet, but you won’t have to worry about that much longer.” The Midwife smiled at me, seemingly innocent, as though she hadn’t just spewed lies to make me seem completely and utterly insane. As though she hadn’t just threatened my life. I was sure that what she said was wrong, but I couldn’t stop the back of my mind from perking up as though I vaguely remembered doing these things. She lunged forward, grabbing at my throat and pressing the air from my lungs. I tried to fill my lungs back up, but that only resulted in more choking. No one would save me, nothing could help me. I kicked and slapped at her hands, desperately trying to get her off, but her grip only tightened. Slowly, my vision blurred and eventually started slipping into blackness. When it fully enveloped me, I didn’t fight it off. Everything went dark and it was surprisingly peaceful. “ Disobedient birth leads to punishment. Punishment leads to defiance. Defiance leads to societal scorn. Societal scorn leads to loneliness. Loneliness leads to paranoia. Paranoia leads to insanity. Insanity leads to aggression. Aggression leads to violence. Violence leads to death.“


Time, as the magister of Manchuria had written long, long ago, had a tendency to pick favorites. By which was meant, in the primordial pecking order of various realities, it was actually quite rare to find one in which Time presented itself with any sort of self-respect. For every universe in which He was the sort to show up at steakhouses in a pinstripe vest, and talk amiably with His disciples over a glass of Chardonnay and perhaps a nice soup, there are at least a thousand in which He is the type to drive by that same steakhouse at one in the morning in a convertible that assuredly belongs to someone else, his hair flying like a greasy flag behind him and a hoarse note in his voice suggesting he has been screaming vulgarities at the top of his lungs since sunset. ***** Night fell in the Downs of Ans. It was spring, which meant that the willows on the slopes of the Damp Hills crooned to the tune of the crickets, and the sound swept over the quiet streets like a dream in trundling motion. The houses here, to the south of the river Myr and some miles separated from the Silver Bridge, carry a distinct flavor of civil negligence, coupled with resident dissatisfaction that has given even the exterior walls the appearance of coffee on a white shirt. It has always been an unpleasant place, dangerous to walk even on snow-lit full moons, but tonight we frequent it not for the alleys in which muggings take place in Congo lines, nor the stench which has been bottled by the more suicidal breed of alchemist since the city's birth, but for the curious events taking place very far underneath the dirt-caked surface of the poorly cobbled streets. It had all the best trademarks of simple ingenuity, and even when he was nicely lost in the intricacies of his work, the engineer known to his few human contacts as Jorial felt the warm bubble of pride in every firing neuron of his mind. Assassins, it turned out, were just as afraid of a club to the back of the neck as anyone else, and the gentlemen of the Downs at perfected that practice to an art form. So he worked in peace, undisturbed by fears of an undue comeuppance, and as the days went by the machine, like a sketch done in degrees, became more and more defined. What had once been a jumble of gears and elastic connectors was now a defined skeleton of steel and tubing and at least half a dozen species of screws. At the center of the labyrinth was an already half-covered sphere of soft blue luminescence, which blew small sparks into the yellow light of the basement. "Beautiful," said a voice from the other side of the room. "Dangerous," grunted Jorial as a reply, and he gave the final turn on a bolt larger than his fist. It was the first leg of the temporal cage, and though he did not notice, it was almost three degrees too far to the left. "I gathered. Did I tell you that I lost a man carrying that here? I take it that's a no. Oh, don't look so shocked, it wasn't all that dramatic. One second there's two men carrying the crate, and then of course James had to be an utter fool, swinging it back and forth like a briefcase, and then... poof! He's gone! If I'd any idea how he did it, I'd tell you to market that to the highest bidder at the Sterlian Exchange." "And I'd tell you, absolutely not." Jorial wiped his hands on his long apron, his eyes holding a note of worry. "Do you have the rest of the girders? I told you I'd need at least half a dozen more, and I only see two on the pile." He gestured to a pair of long iron beams lying next to a makeshift forge. His guest made a noncommittal gesture that troubled Jorial even more. "Yes, yes. I'm afraid I ran into some trouble at the docks, though, but it's nothing you should worry about. I'll just get them to you tomorrow." "I need to finish this cage today, Cordimus. Else you should have brought the sphere later, like I asked! You told me yourself, it's already killed"- "So dramatic, Jorial. Look at it! We've been sitting here with it uncovered for over an hour, now, and we aren't dead yet, are we? Besides, we don't know it kills people. For all we know, he's just been... moved. That's not the word, but it'll come to me in a moment, it's been a long night." "I don't like this." "I know," said his guest, and began to rise. "Believe you me, I know. But it's just how it is, my friend. If it'll calm you at all, I'll try to get Gideon to raise your payment. Two thousand Capitol pieces, how does that sound?" "Insufficient, if it's my life on the line." This drew a laugh, born more of courtesy than humor. "You're a funny man, Jorial. I like that very much, it makes you interesting to be around. But if you'll excuse me, you are not my first errand of the night, and very far from my last." He checked his watch with a pointed expression, and with a tip of his hat, Cordimus took his leave. Jorial heard his clipped steps ascending the stairs, and his voice calling back, "and of course, if ever you need me, try not to, yes? I'll be back by tomorrow, if all goes well." The door slammed shut. He was alone again. For a moment, he was unsure of how to proceed. He eyed the girders again, then the still burning embers of the forge, and the hammer resting at an angle upon the sizzling surface of the anvil. He could create the scaffolding for the front half of the sphere, and proceed tomorrow with the rest, but then again, the work would exhaust him, and it was far past midnight. He took off his heavy gloves, and rubbed at his wrinkled eyes. The machine would have to wait. Ten years younger, and it would have been a different story, but time was such a venom to the bones, and he needed rest. Twenty minutes later, changed into his nightclothes, the engineer laid his head on the small bed in a side room of the basement and closed his eyes. It was the 2334th year of Maxwell, and the song of the willows lulled him to sleep. ***** Jorial woke to the same unease which had driven him to bed. A persistent paranoia that had lingered ever since Cordimus had arrived last night dragged nails down a pot somewhere in his chest, and he winced as he threw on his apron, mask, and gloves. His knees were no better, and stiffer for the morning, but that would pass. This dread, though, would require something heavier. The kitchen was on the other side of the basement, and the allure of whiskey dragged him through the workshop, where his heart went suddenly cold. The sphere had gone utterly dark. "Mother of Yaw," he whispered. His feet moved independent of his will, ever closer to the dark metal in the center of the machine. "What..." His hand, trembling, rose to touch it. Fear struck him a sound blow as his fingers touched the surface, and he braced for what he was sure would be the unbearable agony of vaporization. It didn't come. The material was cold, but no colder than ordinary steel. Smooth, but not impossibly so. No sparks flew from it, and the blue light was utterly absent. "Cordimus is going to murder me." A pounding came from the direction of the door. His heart lurched and sent a twanging, bowstring sensation down his spine. It will pass, it's the wind, it's nothing at all. It came again, and louder. The wind, the wind, the wind, the... the realization hit him that the basement was not, in fact, in any position where the wind could hit it. It was inside the abandoned cellar of a den of money launderers, who prepared against such things. And besides, it was locked. Wind be damned, there was someone outside. And from the loud THUD that shook the very structure of the basement, they were about to come in. Jorial picked up the hammer from his anvil in one hand, and the pronged poker in the other, and called out to the footsteps hurrying down his stairs. "Who is that? You're trespassing! Who goes?" But no one answered. Only the tramping of boots on the stairs, and a jingle of steel that could only mean the worst. Grim shadows appeared near the opening, and muttered voices carried through. All of a sudden, they stopped. "I said, who goes there?" The answering voice was tinny, but deep and intentionally fearsome. "This is Captain Ryur of the Royal Aralunian Inquisition. Come out now, Magrul, and you may yet see the light of day before your timely death. Refuse, and we'll cut you down before you can read a single verse." Blank silence. "What?" "He's stalling," someone muttered, and one of the shadows grew quickly larger before giving way to its owner, a man in heavy plates of gleaming iron, his helmet large and crested, who held in his hands a crossbow of immense size and antiquated design. In spite of this, he had no sooner begun to loom above the figure of Jorial before he threw himself to one side, the bolt going wide and a cry escaping beneath the mask of steel. "He's a staff! Garis, your spear!" It was obvious that their time in the staircase had not been wasted. When the other three men charged into the cramped workshop of the basement, their weapons were armed and quickly aimed at Jorial's chest. He, in turn, dropped his impromptu weapons and raised his hands slowly above his head. The first man had regained his feet, and an extended creak indicated that his crossbow was once again a threat to Jorial's limbs. "You move, Magrul, you die," he growled. "This is a mistake," was his only response. The original proclamation from the men had only now begun to filter through the rushed confusion of the morning, and he eyed the foreign crests on their armor, and the colors that now belonged only to the Duke of East Halmsvale, with dismay that soon gave way to puzzlement. "Hold on... did you say you were from Aralun? " "Silence your tongue, magician." The crossbow twitched menacingly. "But that's not - just hold on! That... your lot's been dead over a thousand years! And the inquisition... that's ancient history. This isn't right, you don't exist, this is Ans we're in, you hear?" "I say we shoot him." "What's that, in the corner?" One of the men pointed towards the husk of the machine. Ryur's head followed the motion. If it was possible for a helmet with only two slits for the eyes to express curiosity, the captain's was doing so now. "Well, Magrul? Answer him. And no more of your nonsense. We don't follow your pagan politics." "But I'm"- A bolt fired, and smacked into the stone less than two paces from Jorial's left foot. "Last warning," said the captain. "It's not an easy answer," began Jorial, grasping for what Cordimus had told him a long time ago, but panic was clouding his clarity. "It's... well, it's supposed to"- his brain cleared. Realization struck like a lightning bolt. "What year is this?" "Captain, I told you, he's stalling! We should"- Ryur shook his head. "That's enough, Crandis. He's harmless without the staff. Besides, he amuses me. It's the 1920th year of Maxwell, Magrul. Does that satisfy you?" "That's not a nice color for a face, is it?" "Crandis. Shut up. Magrul, the machine. What does it do? Where are the others of your kind? We know of the covens, it won't do to lie to us." "It... I... gods, you really are Aralunian." He raised the mask slowly above his head, and tossed it to the ground. "This house we're in... it wasn't here an hour ago, was it?" "I told you already: enough of your tricks. Is it a teleporter? Is that what you're saying?" "And 'Magrul'... you think I'm a wizard, don't you?" "There's only one Wizard, Magrul. And we've killed him already." "But then... The Shattering, then. That was what, 1912? I'm sorry, I'm terrible with dates. Ridell"- " Don't say that name!" "But I can help you, don't you see? That... no, that's not a teleporter, you... you don't understand, it's a sort of time... manipulator, is what it is. I'm from the future! " "All magic is vile. Future, past... it's of no matter to me. You're coming with us." "But I can help you! In less than a century, your kingdom... it's gone . It burns with the rest of them!" "Shut up. Yarin, tie him up. Crandis, ready the horses. We're leaving. Garis, stay on him, you hear? That spear doesn't drop a single inch from his chest or you're walking back to the outpost." Ryur began to turn. "What is it now, Yarin?" "Er... that staff of his, Captain?" "Well?" "This is a poker." The soldier held it up. "I don't care if it's the beard of Aermun himself, Yarin. He's a Magrul. Said it himself, didn't he? Traveling through time... it's scum like him that almost got the whole lot of us killed." He turned his attention back to the fearful face of Jorial. "You'll hang by dusk tomorrow." "But you don't understand! It's not magic, it's Glint! And you don't know... Mortmondes is coming, he comes and you all die anyway, but I can help you! I can help you, and I'll go back to my time, and the future... your kingdom will last for millennia." "I have no idea what you're talking about, and frankly, I don't care. I've had enough of your kind's treachery. I"- The ceiling split. chips of stone and splinters of half-rotten wood scattered to every edge of the room. A sound like living thunder trampled the sullen dust, and a blazing white light enveloped Jorial's senses and stayed there. He was aware of a chorus of screams, in which he took an agonized part. Something slammed into his chest and sent him flying against the anvil, and the following crack, he decided, was probably not a dent to the iron. His eyes cleared at the precise moment that he realized he couldn't move his right leg, and he saw running feet all around the workshop, and blasts of purple and orange light and a bright sun that threw the crisscrossing paths of the arrows in bright relief. One side of the entire building had collapsed in a shower of natural earth, which had formed a slight incline to the light of day far above. He crawled in that direction, faltered from an excruciating bolt of pain in his lame leg, then drew himself up into a feasible limp, the poker serving as a crutch as he toddled away. Behind him, the screams continued, and someone, probably Ryar, screamed "keep him here! Don't let him escape!" But even that sound was soon lost in the roar of sudden fire. Jorial scrambled against the dirt and rock, fear and adrenaline giving power to his weak strides, and he cleared the top at about the same time as the corpse of the man called Yarin, whose smoking cuirass gave a clue to the nature of his demise. From what little he knew of the period, Jorial knew that what was being used below was raw magic, quite removed from the sharp, domesticated sorcery of his own age, and he felt enough fear of the fact to mount one of the horses in front of the ruined building with more speed than his leg wanted to permit. Screaming from the pain, he jerked its reins around, grateful that someone had already untied the leads as it cantered into a field that wouldn't exist for very long. But it was all right. Through the pain, fear, and bewilderment of his situation, Jorial had found a glimmer of meaning, which he clung to. He knew where he was going. More importantly, he knew what must be done. In an hour, the last of the screams faded into the distance, and were lost. In a day, the first of many golden towers came into view, and the glorious ramparts of Aralun stood mightily in the face of the sun.


Silently in the café that we always used to go to together, I wait for him. My mind runs wild with crazy thoughts but on the outside, I hold a calm and put together expression and stance. I stare at my coffee swirling as the unstable table wobbles when workers rush past. I think of the table, it’s placed on the wonky tiled floors, wobbles at the slightest of movement, and is the most difficult table to tolerate. Out of all tables in this whole café, I always choose

this  one. Why? Why choose to sit at the worst table in the café when there are a dozen other seats free? Well to answer that, I don’t know. Maybe I like the challenge, maybe every time I sit at this table I expect it to be fixed, maybe I enjoy the uniqueness of this singular table, maybe I don’t want to make the table feel left out or lonely as it longingly waits, watching the couples, families and singles pass it by, waiting for just one person to choose it.  Although the table has its floors its my favourite. It’s the only baby blue table that has tiny little daisies painted on the surface, it’s in the best location that overlooks the ocean but still allows you to look at the streets below, and it’s the table I always sit at with

him.

I stare some more at my once hot coffee with a pretty leafed pattern that has now melted away deep into the cup. The table, that others might see as a tacky, old, broken, wonky table, to me is the most beautiful table of all. I cherish the table more knowing it’s

my  table, the table avoided by all customers because it’s seen as flawed, is the table I consistently choose to sit at every Thursday morning with a hot coffee before work. But most importantly, it is the table

he

joins me at every Thursday.

This broken table that I cherish dearly, reminds me of him. Flawed, hated, unwanted, and lonely, but beautiful and unknowingly loved, with more potential then it- he knows. I love this table, the same way I will forever love him.

The past 4 Thursdays I have sat at this broken table alone. hoping for him to join me, but deep down in my heart I knew he just needed space and time. Deep down in my heart I knew that the relationship we once shared together, the conversations on Thursday mornings across this poor table about the deeper meaning of life, the future plans we discussed together, the random business schemes we’d shared with each other over breakfast muffins, that we had randomly thought of at 2am, deep down in my heart I knew these were the plans and conversations he would now be having with a new version of me.

This realisation, the deep down knowing, tore apart at my soul, the person I stood by for the past few years, defending and loving and despite his many flaws, I was always there for him. So, one last Thursday morning I sit waiting for him to arrive. I know he’s coming because he messaged me to meet him, but despite the excitement I feel to finally see him after a whole month of no contact, I push it down and it is overpassed by the anxiousness I feel knowing what the outcome of this conversation might be. But I sit at the wonky flawed table that I will forever love and am willing to fight for

us,

for the last time. I zone back into reality and take a sip of my ice-cold coffee, looking across the ocean waves patiently waiting for his arrival, and of course, there he is. I look up at him standing on the opposite side of the table, small genuine smile that I can’t push away sits planted on my face. I gesture to him to sit take a seat in the chair Infront of me, he does. with this silent interaction, I feel the smile gradually slip away. We sit there in complete nothingness, gazing at the ocean and then at the table, awkwardly locking eyes in between glances. I eventually find the courage within my anxious self to lean slightly forward, “hey!”. Did he hear me? Am I being ignored at my own table? No, he mustn’t have heard me. “hey” I repeat, he looks over, then back at the water for 0.6 seconds and then turns back to me releasing a deep breath, “hey.” I can see it now, as much as I wish I could fight, there is not a single sign of love left in his eyes when he looks at me. This was his test, to see if he could still see something in me and evidently, he cannot.

We sit in silence for another 15 minutes until I finally break, “I think it’s time we both moved past this, whatever

this  is. I wish you the best” I sigh, with a small, forced smile. I slide out of my chair picking up my jacket and hugging it in my arms. I stand there beside the table, and look at it for a second, then glance at him, part of me hopes he will stand and hug me farewell for one last time, but once again, deep down I know it will not happen and a hug cannot re kindle the spark he once had for me.

I stride towards the water down where the table overlooks and walk along the sand. I take my shoes off and feel the sun begin to fade away, heavy clouds slowly creep above me and it begin to rain. I don’t walk to my car to avoid getting wet, I just stand on the beach, blankly in the rain. For the first time in a very long time, I cry.  A decision was made that day, I would never sit at that flawed table again as every time I see past its flaws it always managed disappoint me, this is the same with him. I would never see him again, as despite how even through his worst I loved him unconditionally, I was always left empty handed and the unconditional love I had for him never going to be reciprocated no matter what I did.


“You really want to go undercover at Stay Out?” the sergeant asked him. “You know there was a shooting there last year, right?” “I know,” Detective Ziccarelli, or Zic as everyone called him, said. “But our snitch told us there’s a regular dealer who comes in there almost everyday and sells to the customers. I really want to make my first drug bust.”

“Well, be careful what you wish for. It’s a dangerous place,” the sergeant said.

“Thanks Sarge,” Zic said. “I’ll do my best to stay safe.” Following that conversation, Zic was ecstatic. He had long wanted to go undercover at the biker bar called “Stay Out.” It was a dream come true for him. Not only did he get to do real detective work, but he got to play the part of a bad ass biker. He could scarcely believe the department had given him official clearance and the budget for riding a second hand Harley and dressing in biker gear. He glanced at himself in the mirror in satisfaction. He was now decked out in black leather and chains, and he hadn’t shaved in three days. He thought he looked great. Dark and dangerous. His plan was to stay out all night at “Stay Out,” pun intended, and do his best to bust drug dealers, gang bangers and wannabes. He was eager to make his mark as a detective. He just knew that Stay Out would be the ticket to his success. He had spent the better part of a year carefully cultivating his confidential informant. The C.I. had finally admitted that Stay Out was a hub for drug deals and various criminal biker gangs. The bar was cleverly named in Zic’s opinion. It was a dive bar on a trash filled corner, a bar with a nasty reputation. Everyone in town knew the wisest thing to do was to steer clear, or “stay out” of Stay Out. Even before the shooting, the police had often been summoned to Stay Out, mostly for fights and once for a drug deal gone south. And now it seemed that the drug trade had once again resumed at Stay Out, at least according to the snitch. With Zic being relatively new to the force and therefore unfamiliar to shady characters, coupled with his natural born ability as a smooth talker and schmoozer, he had been the logical choice to go undercover. Zic looked like an Italian version of John Ritter, a bumbling, lovable goof of a man, mild mannered, wholesome, but swarthy at the same time. He was someone who perps and victims couldn’t help but either smile at or cry helplessly on his welcoming shoulder, all while spilling their guts out. Being a born actor, he used that gift to his advantage and often charmed his way into and out of multiple situations and predicaments. Even as a young child, he could wheedle his way out of anything. For that reason, he had rarely been punished, which drove his siblings crazy. The same held true in his love life. With his dark innocent good looks and innate charm, Zic had left behind a string of broken hearts all over the city, although no one seemed to stay mad at him for long. So far, he hadn’t made any inroads, however, in ferreting out any criminal activity. It was still early in the game, though. He was just starting to infiltrate and blend in with the Stay Out customers. Tonight he was sitting at the bar, trying to chat up the bartender and another biker sitting a few stools down from him at the scuffed wooden bar. “Care for another shot?” the bartender asked him laconically, as he dried a shot glass with a dirty, once white towel.

Zic hesitated. Going undercover was treading a fine line. He needed to drink enough to appear just like all the other hard drinking regulars. However, he couldn’t drink too much, or he wouldn’t be at the top of his game. He needed to maintain his professionalism and follow procedure. If anything criminal were to occur, which was a strong possibility, being tipsy would definitely not help him in his mission. “Sure. Hit me,” he rumbled. You had to break a few eggs to make an omelet, or whatever that saying was , he thought to himself.

He slyly looked around, trying not to attract notice from others. To his surprise, he saw another man sitting off in the corner, staring at him. The man’s position, sitting alone at a chipped wooden booth, set him apart from everyone else and didn’t invite conversation. As a cop, however, Zic knew the corner was the best place to be in a potentially dangerous situation. There was less exposure when your back was literally to the wall. The man was dressed like every other biker in the place, sporting jeans, heavy boots, and a leather vest with chains. However, he was by far the largest man in the bar, a veritable mountain of a man. He also had the longest beard Zic had ever seen. It was so long it nearly touched the floor. The biker also had an air of command about him – one hard look from him would be enough to get anything he wanted, and he knew it. At the moment, he had a sneer on his face. To Zic’s surprise, the man got up and walked over to him, sitting down heavily on the stool next to him. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you before,” the biker said with no preamble or context. He spoke in a deep, gravelly voice. “What’s your name and what brings you in? We don’t exactly get a lot of strangers here.” Zic knew he needed to maintain his composure and not sound defensive, although the biker was very forbidding looking. He took a deep breath before speaking, knowing he needed to give it right back. He couldn’t let the big man give him any crap. “Name’s Zack,” he said. Zack the alter ego for Zic or Zicarelli. Zic had often heard that the best lies were those that were closest to the truth.

“Is there a law against having a drink here?” Zic asked the biker in an innocent voice. “Are you being a smart ass?” the biker said menacingly. “No. I wouldn’t do that,” Zic replied coolly.

“Again, what brings you in here?” The biker repeated. “No special reason,” Zic said. “Just having a drink.” “Ok,” the biker said. “Just making sure you’re not a cop. We don’t need the badge here. We take care of our own.” The man looked straight into Zic’s eyes. Zic felt every muscle in his body tense up. Had the biker made him already? How was that possible? He had never laid eyes on the man before, and Zic had been exceedingly careful in his attire and cover story. He was just Zack, a biker new to the area, at least that’s what he had told the bartender. “No, I’m no pig,” Zic said, trying to sound convincing. “Well, that’s good,” the man said. “I’d hate to have to put out a hit on you.” “A hit?” Zic asked, disbelievingly. “Are you serious? That’s what you do to cops that come in here?” He hoped he didn’t sound too outraged, but he couldn’t help it. Was the man really issuing such a blatant threat to a virtual stranger? “Relax. Just testing you, buddy.” “That’s good,” Zic again tried not to sound rattled. “Excuse me now, I got to hit the john.” Zic needed a moment to collect himself. He needed to decide what his next move was.

When he got back from the bathroom, Zic noticed to his surprise that the man was gone. Zic didn’t know whether to feel relieved or disappointed. Looking on the bright side, Zic realized that the man might have given him a lead or tipped his hand. The biker had that unmistakable air of authority and had even uttered what appeared to be a real, credible threat. It might even be enough to merit a search warrant or a wire tap. At the very least, the man was worth looking into more closely. Zic really needed to figure out who he was and how he fit into the puzzle. Zic needed to ponder that more, when he was fresh. Maybe his colleagues would have some ideas.

For now, however, it was late and he really needed to go home and get some desperately needed shut eye. He headed outside to the street and to his Harley, looking forward to the rumble of the engine and the feel of the soft leather grips under his fingertips. With the wind on his face and the crotch rocket launching him into space and time, riding a Harley was a feeling like no other – sheer poetry in motion.

He kick started his bike. It was an older model and didn’t have an electric start. He much preferred the older bikes. They had more character. The engine roared immediately to life. Before riding off, he looked around. It was always a good idea for a cop, and especially one who was working undercover, to take stock of his surroundings. It was now pitch black, but street lights illuminated the neighborhood. Glancing up and down the street, he saw a tiny Ma and Pa grocery store, a pizza joint, a laundromat, and a 24-hour check cashing place. It was a Tuesday night, and everything was still open, but most businesses were deserted. Blinking neon lights from the check cashing place cast a glow of warm colors on the sidewalk.

 For whatever reason, Zic felt a prickle of discomfort on the back of his neck, an unexplainable sixth sense that told him he was being watched. He glanced behind him but didn’t see anything or anyone. He failed to notice, however, that on the other side of the street, a little further back, the large biker that had confronted him in the bar was also climbing onto his own bike.

As Zic drove his Harley away into the night, the biker followed him, staying several car lengths back so as not to be spotted. There was a surprising amount of traffic for this time of night, and the biker remained hidden in his pursuit. Zic still felt that tingling sense of unease, however. Even though he was riding along and enjoying the rush of the cool night air on his face, he couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching him. He was approaching a yellow stoplight, hoping to get through it before it turned red. As a cop, he could easily run a red light and not get into any trouble. However, that might attract unwanted attention, should he get pulled over. It was best not to chance it.

Sure enough, the light turned red before he made it through the intersection and he was forced to stop. He impatiently idled his engine at the stoplight, eager to resume his journey. While waiting, he turned his head and looked behind him. He could see two cars immediately behind him, and then straining his neck to look further, he noticed a motorcycle with a very large rider further back. He couldn’t be sure in the dark, but it looked an awful lot like the large man from the bar. He tried to turn his head surreptitiously to get a better look at the man. He strained his eyes and squinted. Yes, it was undoubtedly the biker.

Was it just a coincidence? Whether it was coincidence or not, Zic thought it was best to err on the side of caution. He needed to shake the man. It was time for some fancy riding. He mulled his options. He really didn’t want to get into any sort of chase situation on a busy street. That wouldn’t be safe for anyone. It was best to adhere to the speed limit and traffic rules. He would just do some tricky maneuvering and make some sudden sharp turns. Although he was new to the force, he wasn’t new to the town and knew its streets like the back of his hand. He would use that to his advantage. Maybe it was simply his imagination, and he wasn’t being followed. Zic really didn’t know. It was hard to tell. He couldn’t afford to blow his cover, however. He really needed to lose the man. I t was now or never.

As soon as the light turned green, he sped off down the street. When he got to the first intersection, a road cutting into a residential neighborhood, he made a hard right, gunning his engine as he did so. He sped off in no time flat to the end of the block and then took a sharp left, followed by another right. He glanced back, turning his head to look over his shoulder, while at the same time, endeavoring to keep his bike steady. His heart sank when he realized that his watcher had easily kept up with him. It was time for some even more fancy maneuvering. It was his only option. This time he didn’t telegraph his turn. He was halfway through the next intersection before he jerked the handlebars hard to the ride to turn his motorcycle. The bike tilted precariously towards the ground. He was mere inches away from his head hitting the ground, his nose hairs almost scraping the pavement. It went without saying that he was not wearing a helmet. Harley riding gang members were too cool for safety. Helmets were not their thing, although he would have preferred to wear one. Keeping his fragile noggin in mind, he carefully leaned his body upwards, straining to keep his balance while at the same jerking his wheels up. He continued to gun the engine. Somehow he managed to right himself. He breathed a sigh of relief, noting with satisfaction that his nemesis was further up the street. At the moment, the large man was attempting to make a speedy U turn. A full 180 degree turn was needed to get him back to where Zic was. Zic took advantage of that fact to make another series of wild turns, one right after another. Evil Kneival would be proud . He continued trick riding until he at last found himself winded, but blessedly alone in a distant neighborhood, one that he was surprisingly unfamiliar with. He thought he knew every square inch of town. Nonetheless, he realized with elation that he had successfully shaken his tail. Once he got home, he parked his bike in the garage, taking care that no nosy neighbors could see. He shrugged out of his now sticky black leather jacket and plopped tiredly down in front of his computer. He needed to type out his report while the events of the night were still fresh in his mind. His time at Stay Out had surely proven interesting.

He planned on recommending that surveillance be continued at Stay Out and also especially on the large biker. Perhaps even a confrontation with the man, albeit carefully controlled, would be in order. Zic also wanted to run the man’s face through facial recognition software. Somehow, he needed to sneakily take the man’s picture with his cell phone the next time he ventured into Stay Out. He still didn’t know why the man had followed him. Did the biker know Zic was a cop? Was his threat about putting a hit on cops who entered the bar a real one? If so, Zic may have just escaped with his life. Stranger things had been known to happen. Zic took a shaky breath, reliving his wild ride. It was truly amazing to him that he had gotten away from his pursuer and hadn’t crashed his Harley. He was proud of himself for his riding expertise. He was now not only a true Harley aficionado, but also an expert rider, he felt. He had surely earned his status as an ace biker slash cop. One who had risked his life going undercover. Like the sarge had said, be careful what you wish for. Whoever said police work was dull? T hose tired cop jokes of d onuts and coffee be damned.

He could hardly wait until his next time at Stay Out, where hopefully he could stay out of danger.


“Simon!” Clyde, my boss called from his office.

Walking into Clyde’s office, I hear him talking to someone over the phone, “Yes, I understand.” Clyde pauses for a moment. “Yes, I will send him over now.” Clyde hangs up the phone and then proceeds to look at me. A smile spreads across Clyde’s face as he begins to speak. “Simon, my boy! I have news.”

I give Clyde a curious look.

“Do you remember that project we were told to drop by the Eagles?” I give Clyde a nod. “Well Simon, today is our lucky day! We, more specifically, you, have been given the honor to go to their base.”

Shock ran through my body. Was this a joke? Managing out an “Okay.” I turn around and make my way to my desk. Reaching my desk, I grab my belongings and make my way to my car.

Arriving at the base, I get stopped by an armed soldier.

“Sir, I need you to turn the car around. The public is not allowed here.” The soldier said in a gruff voice.

Taking a gulp, I answer, “I was told to come here for an interview.”

The soldier looks at me, then says something into his walkie. “ID please.” The solider says, extending his hand.

Fumbling, I get my ID out of my wallet, and hand it over. The soldier looks over it and hands it back, “Go straight through the gate and turn left into the parking lot. Someone should be there for you.”

Upon reaching the parking lot, I see someone in a white lab coat. Pulling into a spot, the person comes towards me.

“Simon?” The person in the white lab coat asks.

“Yeah, that’s me,” I say, extending my hand.

“Alistar, nice to meet you.” He says while taking my hand. Alistar offers a smile and turns, walking away.

Jumping a bit, I take off behind Alistar, fidgeting with my camera all the way. Once reaching the door, I see Alistar stop. Alistar lets out a cough, “Would you mind turning around for me?”

I let out a laugh, looking at Alistar. “You’re serious?” Alistar nods. Laughing, I turn around.

In a maximum of five seconds, I hear a door slide open.

“Thank you, you can turn around now.”

Turning around, I can't help but peer into the base. I hear Alistar let out a cackle. “Hold your horses.”

A sheepish smile spreads across my face, and I follow Alistar inside. Looking around at everything, I notice the colorless walls, clocks here and there, bars on the high windows, and lots of rooms. I stop walking when I see it, grabbing my camera and snapping a photo.

Suddenly my camera is grabbed from my hand. “Sorry, no photography,” Alistar grumbles. “How am I supposed to do my report then?” I ask, looking at Alistar.

Alistar suddenly pulls out a small notebook and a pen. “Here you go.” Alistar hands me the notebook and pen. Shocked, I take it from him. Alistar turns and hands my camera off to a soldier. “You will get that back after our journey.”

All I can do is nod and proceed to follow Alistar as he takes off down the hall.

After what felt like hours of walking in this colorless labyrinth, Alistar stops in front of a door and takes in a deep breath. “Simon, what you are about to see is top class.” I nod. “There are papers on that desk that I need you to sign.”

Walking into the room, I notice a window on one of the walls, with a desk and a few chairs around that window.

Taking a shaky breath, I move towards the desk. Scanning through the papers, I freeze as I see the NDA. Clearing my throat I call to Alistar. Hearing nothing, I look towards the door, which is closed.

Shit. Frantically, I stand up and run to the door, which I can’t open. Spinning, I look around the room for an escape. Adrenaline was pumping through my veins as fear flooded my mind. Suddenly the door opens. Turning towards the door, I see Alistar. Letting out a breath I didn’t know I took, I let out a laugh.

“Sorry to startle you,” Alistar says calmly. “What did you need.”

Regaining my senses, I head back over to the desk. “This NDA. I thought I was supposed to do an interview?” A smile shows up on Alistars face, and he quickly coughs. “I have to inform you, that what you do with the information is your own choice.”

Nodding, I sign the NDA and the rest of the papers and hand them over. Alistar smiles as he takes the papers. He motions for me to sit at the desk while saying that he will be back in a minute. This time, Alistar does not close the door on his way out, leaving me to peer out into the hall. Soldiers walk by, wheeling cages as they go. I hastily write ‘cages?’ onto the notebook.

 I look around the room one last time, before taking the chance to run out of the room. I run around the corner of the hall and end up in a place with three new hallways. I could hear my heart beating in my ears, and suddenly it just stopped. I felt a shiver go up my spine as I hear a blood-curdling scream from the hallway to my left.

“Simon!” I hear Alistar call from a distance. I could hear his footsteps running down the hall.

Fuck it. I take off down the hall to my left, determined to find where the scream came from. I hear more screaming as I come to another room of halls. I take a chance and run down the one to my right.

I stop, having reached a dead end, I finally notice how there is not a single shred of light.

My body enters fight or flight mode as I hear a door open. People groaning? I stumble my way in the darkness towards the sound. Giving up, I reach for my phone. Shit, it’s in the car. I let out a groan.

Coming in front of me, I hear other groans join in with mine. Taking a step forward, I move my hands to the side of the wall to find a light switch. Once finding it, I turn on the light, which is met by screeching. I turn and look, only to find a gruesome scene. There were people, some locked in cages, others on tables. I went over to one of the people on a table, and they looked back at me with their bloodshot eyes. They proceed to open their mouth and let out an inhuman scream. That’s when I notice, this person doesn’t have a tongue.

Backing up, my shoes get stuck in something sticky. I look down and I can see a crimson fluid on the ground. Not wanting to stay there, I start to turn around to the door and leave. Walking back to the room with the halls, a siren suddenly goes off, accompanied by a flashing white light. “Code 48” was said over and over again. I could hear footsteps coming from behind me, so I head down the hall in the center.

This hall had light, but more importantly, there were windows all over the wall. Stopping at a window, I peer into the dimly light room on the other side. What the fuck. I feel someone grab me, as I hear shouting, “He’s here!”

Fighting, I try my hardest to get free. The soldier who was holding me growled like a wolf. “Hold still.”

I see Alistar coming from the beginning of the hall. As he got closer I could see two things; Alistar shaking his head, and a syringe in his hands. In a moment, Alistar was in front of me and the syringe was at my kneck. “I’m sorry that it had to be this way.”

 Waking up, I panic. Before I could register anything, I was up on my feet, only to fall again. Someone helped me up. When I looked at the person, I was in fear. “What did you do to me?” I shout at Alistar.

 “Absolutely nothing,” Alistar states.

I shake in anger, fear maybe. “Let me go.”

Alistar smiles, “You’re free to go.” Alistar hands me my camera and motions for me to follow. He walked me out of the building towards the parking lot.

As soon as I hit the parking lot, I run to my car. Throwing my camera to the passenger side, I take off away from the base. Once going a few miles, I stop the car on the side of the road. I grab my phone from where it fell and I dial up Clyde. In a few rings, the call falls through. Sighing, I run a hand through my hair, before looking over at my camera and grabbing it.

Looking through some of the photos I have taken for other news stories, I notice some new ones. There were photos of humans with needles sticking out of them, humans being misconfigured, and there were a few videos.

The first video consisted of nothing but a dark room, and screaming. “Will you shut up?” A person shouts. The screaming stops. “Get up.” Screaming starts again as I can hear a whipping sound come through the camera.

Disturbed, I turn on the second video. This time, I am met with a familiar face, Alistar. Alistar begins talking, “The date is September 14th, twenty-twenty-three this is our first test for project Y-250.”

Alistar moves out of the way, showing a person in a seat, with cuffs around their wrists and ankles, keeping them there, despite their attempts at escape. Alistar puts something on the person's head and presumably turns the thing on.

The restraints are taken off in a second, as the person goes slack. “Stand.” Alistar commands.

The person stands. “Walk towards me.”

The person walks towards Alistar.

“Pick this gun up, and shoot yourself.”

With no hesitation, the person takes, what I presume is a gun, and shoots themselves. I sit there, watching the camera freeze on that last frame. Blood and brain coming out of the person's head. Still in shock, I didn't see the car coming from behind me.

In a second, my window was smashed, and I was being dragged out of my car. I saw Alistar as I was being dragged away. “You shouldn't have seen anything. We could’ve been friends.” Alistar calls out.


It was my first time hosting the annual Halloween seance and I really wanted to impress my coven.

I gathered all the supplies I needed. My book of spells, hexes, and Incantations, passed down through at least the last few generations of Easton women, the bullfrog, and my ceremonial sacrificial knife.

We were proud of our traditional inheritance and were active in the activities of our community of like-minded witches.

The practice nowadays was little more than entertainment. A reason to gather. Much like watching a scary movie, we take part mostly to get a thrill out of it. The scare rush. The sensation that we are alive. Our seances could possibly be misidentified as nothing more than a simple book club for housewives and their daughters, meeting for tea and dessert, discussing how prejudice Elizabeth was or prideful Mr. Darcy was, or vice versa. Did anyone really know? This, however, wasn’t just a book club. The hour had come and I hoped I was ready.

I powered up my computer and opened the link to the scheduled zoom meeting. I positioned the computer so that I was dead center of the screen and the dim lighting of the circle of candles I lit accentuated all the right features of my face.

I’m not usually interested in my own vanity, but when you’ve got a date with the Devil himself, you’ve got to look your best. Not that any of us actually expected him to show up, it’s the idea that he might, that really got the blood pumping.

Most seances we settle for a few flickering lights, ill-timed gusts of wind blowing our candles out, or the ominous knocking on the upstairs floor that in no way could have possibly been the household pets playfully knocking something down out of sheer boredom.

As I waited for the other members of my coven to join the zoom meeting, I watched through my window as the sunset. I listened as I heard the children of the night set out on their candy seeking quests, faintly hearing them scrape the bottom of the bowl I left out front. One by one they popped up in the waiting room with a musical ‘ding, ding’ , and I let them in. First, it was Gwen, who was always first to any event, sometimes to the point of being obnoxiously punctual. Then, as if rehearsed, in quick succession Darla, Eden, Marcie, and Josephine entered first the waiting room ‘ Ding, ding; ding, ding; Ding, ding’ , and then the meeting room. I watched as they connected and their faces populated a small square on my computer screen. Each of the squares they inhabited glowed with the flickering light of candles--a staple of each of our meetings. Darla waved eagerly at her computer, while Marcie adjusted her hood over and over again, trying to cast just the right amount of shadow on her face; Eden picked something from her teeth and Josephine talked with someone off-screen, behind her webcam.

I took a deep breath and called the meeting to order right as the digital clock turned to 7:06, our long observed starting time.

“Good evening, witches of the Leven Coven,” I said hoarsely, trying to inconspicuously clear my throat. “It is in his name we gather. His power we live, and his strength we continue.”

This would mark the first seance conducted via zoom. I was nervous and was extra careful when I pulled out the bullfrog from my sack, making sure not to let it go and scamper free--that would make for a terrible hosting and would no doubt mark me for scorn and ridicule for years to come.

“Take this, our offering of sacrifice,” I say as I guide a blade from the bullfrog’s chin to between its hind legs. I set the knife aside, tip the frog over a small, mortar bowl, and let the blood drain.

The group all unmute and say in unison, “Bless this offering. We offer it to thee.” At which point I, along with the rest of the coven, turn our blades on ourselves, and make a small cut on our palm. This would make the fifth cut on my left palm, finishing my first pentagram. I was now halfway through my journey to becoming a full-fledged witch in the eyes of my Coven. A title, mostly for title’s sake.

I watched and waited for signs that the rest of the ladies were done offering their blood sacrifice for the seance. Once it was apparent, I dipped my finger into the mixture of my blood and the bullfrog’s, and I traced the lines of the inverted cross onto my forehead. This next part was discussed and debated extensively. We reasoned exactly how it would work out and, being left with not many options, we settled on what seemed at the time to be the best choice we had.

After my forehead was marked, the ladies of the coven all leaned their heads forward, and I traced the same symbol on each of their digital heads, leaving red smears on my computer screen.

“Join hands, sisters,” I said in the best solemn voice I could muster. Each of the ladies wrapped their arms around their webcams and presumably held their hands together if they were following the guidelines they had laid out when they convened to discuss their plans for conducting this evening's seance.

The way we saw it if we were in spirit creating circles that were connected via the zoom meeting, like each of our enclosed circles were links in a chain, that we could simulate what was necessary to successfully complete the ritual practices needed to complete the incantation.

All of this was speculation upon speculation of course. I opened my book and turned to the dog eared page near the back. The incantation spell to summon the devil himself. This incantation was reserved for the annual seance and never even spoken of any other time--no exceptions. Those were the rules and no one ever questioned them.

I began to recite the lines of text that were nearly memorized by heart at this time, but I still read them from the book because I didn’t want to leave anything up to chance. Each line was spoken back to me by the women of the zoom meeting. Soft, dull-edged voices poured out of the speakers, slightly off in timing but close enough as to not break the ambiance.

As I continued to speak the text, the candle flames began to flicker.

The blinds in my living room waved to a breeze, seemingly conjured from another realm. The air filled with smells that just moments ago were nonexistent. The battery life on my computer dropped from 78% to 66% in an instant, then flickered back and forth from 6% to 66%.

Goosebumps flooded over the surface of my skin.

I read the next line.

The ladies spoke it back; Gwen’s voice loud and obnoxious, crowded out the others.

I continued.

They repeated.

The flames on the candles grew three times their normal size and I was ecstatic. I reached the last line. Paused for a moment, took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and spoke them from the heart.

The ladies repeated.

‘ding, ding.’ I held my gaze on the backside of my eyelids, afraid to open them and see nothing. Afraid to open them and see… Hovering in the center of my screen was a message that read, “The Real Satan Himself is in your waiting room.” “What?” Darla asked. “What happened?” “Yeah,” Marcie added, pulling her hood back a bit, revealing her soft features. “Did it work?” “I, um…” I debated whether to share or not. Part of me thought that this must have been some sort of joke. A prank on her, maybe. Who was it that Josephine was talking to right before the meeting started? Maybe it was them. I scan Josephine’s face. She’s staring into the webcam, her eyes move back and forth in anticipation of my response--no sign of her knowing what was happening.

“Seriously,” Eden said, “what’s going on, Grace? What’s happening? Talk to us.” “What do you see?” Gwen added.

“It’s, him.” I said, hovering my mouse’s cursor over the ‘admit button’. “What?” “You’re joking?” “No way. What are you waiting for?” Darla asked. “Let him in.” What have you gotten yourself into, Grace? “What are you waiting for?” Marcie pressed. “You don’t want to keep him waiting, do you?” I swallowed hard and clicked ‘ admit’. then waited.

A new zoom window popped up. Muted with no video.

A long, drawn-out exasperation, “ whaaaaaaaaat… ” came from Eden.

We all starred in frightful anticipation. A part of my reasonable brain held onto the idea that this was all just a prank. We would soon see that this was not in fact--” “ Satan !” Marcie screeched, as the video feed connected the new zoom member.

“No way,” Gwen exclaimed, sliding her hand over her mouth.

The nameplate on the video reads, ‘The Real Satan Himself’, and held a dark figure, undefined in the darkness that swirled and flurried within the video stream. Then the face of the figure came into view, slowly at first, as if candles were being moved closer and closer. A mouth could now be seen moving. Words spoken, but not heard.

Marcie unmuted herself, said “Satan? excuse me, Satan?’ Satan’s mouth stopped moving.

Marcie continued, “Um, you’re on mute.” Satan leaned over, looking over the device he was using. A few seconds passed and Satan again began to talk. Moving mouth, but no sound.

“Uh, Satan.”Marcie interrupted his silent monologue, she held her hand up as if raising it in class. “Yeah, um... You’re still muted.” Anger flushed over Satan’s face, twisting it in a tormented, wrinkled mess. He bent over the device, searching for a way to unmute himself.

“It should be somewhere in the bottom left corner of your screen?” Eden instructed. “There should be a microphone icon? Do you see it?” Satan’s face tilted and bobbed until it appeared he saw what Eden was talking about. He nodded, then looked into the webcam awaiting further instruction from Eden.

Marcie giggled and Satan’s head twisted to the side in a quick jerking motion. Marcie’s head followed the same motion, except it spun much further and her body collapsed down into the camera. The soft glow of the candlelight filtered through her hair that laid in front of her webcam.

A shockwave of horror washed over me, my chest filled with hot coals. Darla screamed.

“Oh my God!” someone yelled.

The mute symbol on Satan’s rectangle disappeared and he said, “Gre--” I slammed my laptop shut. My breaths raced in and out of my lungs. I stayed, glued to the ground. Unable to move, speak, do anything.

“What have you done, Grace?” I whispered to myself. Then, as if being blown out one by one, the candle’s flames went out. One after the other, until there was only one left casting out its weak light in a desperate attempt to illuminate its surroundings.

A reply rose up and out from the depths of the unknown that was now her living room, “You’ve Invited me in.” and with that, the last candle blew out.


 -"Old men die, “Nat sighed, "they just die. They must." Nat stood with James, his lawyer, watching his mansion from a distance. Nat lived there alone. He always had. Not that this had been his first choice. But over the years it made him more and more uncomfortable and sad, that his family, and those who believed that they had a branch on his family tree, had but one thought in their head: When will he kick the bucket and how much would he leave me? Nat was a rare individual. Always had been. He was a scientist by trade and had earned a lot of money. All kinds of money. Today he had more money than God. He did not blame his family for just being interested in his money, or for thinking they were entitled to it. It was probably no different with other rich men. Nat was nicknamed Genius. He had been extremely versatile during his protracted career and was responsible for the metals that were not subject to temperature: so-called eternal metals. He was also the patron saint of the science to control mechanical things through thought wave radiation. What was the point? Well, that enabled people to propel large metal ships or other vehicles through the power of thought alone. There were other contributions to the advancement of mankind. But we are not going to list them all here. Now, however, Nat was faced with a mystery that no scientist, no matter how gifted, had yet been able to solve: mortality. Nat was building a door. Or rather: he had paid good money, for others to build it for him.

He looked at the drills, rock cutters, and a giant crane lowering giant slabs of metal. The door itself that Nat wanted to build lay a little further. It had great hinges and some kind of lock. -"What's that going to be, Nat? Are you building a mausoleum?" asked James. Nat did not answer, and the young lawyer didn't push. That would make sense, he knew what the lonely man was like. -"You mean a final resting place for my bones?" chuckled Nat. "Who knows? Maybe." The two men walked back to the mansion together. Nat gave James a drink and an envelope. -"What is this?" the lawyer asked. "You should put that in your safe," Nat replied matter-of-factly. -"Okay, good. Can you tell me what it is?" James insisted. -"Well...something all old men should have: a will. My last will s in that envelope. When I've breathed my last breath, you may open it and read it." Nat replied. James sat looking at the envelope thoughtfully. -"You wonder how much I left you." Nat chuckled "Who knows? Maybe everything." -"You're enjoying this, aren't you, Nat?" James tried to sound as nonchalant as possible. Nat shrugged. "I think you're just as entitled to a chance as anyone else." James sat staring at Nat in surprise. -"I exclude none, and the winner will take it all. Whoever it may be, somewhere there is someone who dwelling on this earth, that´s for sure." after a short pause he continued: "I'm just sorry and even sad that I won't be able to be there to see who wins the jackpot." James put the will in his briefcase, finished his glass and left: "See you next week, Nat!" When he returned a week later, the first thing Nat asked him was: -"And what did you think of it?" -"Think of what?" James asked. -My will." Nat replied. James stared at him indignantly: "You are not questioning my integrity, I hope." Nat handed him a drink. -"Your will is in a sealed envelope, in my safe, just as you instructed me." -"Calm down, don't worry. Finish your drink." Nat watched as James emptied his glass. -"Okay, now tell me what your thoughts are." James felt flushed. He knew Nat loved to play mind games and was not easily fooled. -"Don't even go through the motions!" Nat patronized him. -"I couldn't resist the temptation." James began shyly. -"No need to sit there cringing, “Nat said, "I've always known what a crook you are." James looked at Nat hopefully, "Would you be willing to give me a little hint, old friend?" Nat shook his head: "You get the same opportunities as everyone else." -"This will cause a lot of sensation." sighed James sighed. -"It is a pity that a man must die first, in order to set in motion, the most interesting in his life." Nat said with a sad look in his eyes. -"You're still in great shape." James tried to sound lighthearted, "You will bury us all." "Oh, shut up." Nat snorted. "You're just as impatiently waiting for them to put me under the ground." James wanted to say something else, but Nat stopped him: -"Shut up and have another glass!" Life can take strange turns: six months later, Nat dropped dead in his garden. His obituary caused quite a stir. The relatives, including those who pretended to be family and the press, gathered in and in front of the late Nat's mansion to attend the reading of the will. James went out of his way to hide his excitement. He stood in front of a microphone so that the people standing outside, because they no longer fit in the house, could hear him too. -"As the lawyer for our dearly beloved and deceased Nat, it is my duty to..." People grew impatient and began to mumble angrily before James could finish his first sentence. -"We don't want speeches; we don't have all day. Just read that will!" James asked for silence. “I, Nathaniel, have made a lot of money in my life. What will become of my fortune? I do not know the answer to that myself. The place where I hid it, or rather, put it in safekeeping… Another murmur rose from the crowd. -"Do we get a map?" someone asked. "Well, that's going to be an interesting hunt." James threw his hands in the air, "People, please! A little respect." After the silence returned, James continued: "I had a burglar-proof safe built on my property. There is only one way to open the safe: I have chosen a thought, to which the lock will respond. A thought! A clear thought, which will unlock the safe and open it. There is a bench in front of the safe. Whoever wants to can sit on it and direct his or her mind to the door of the safe. When someone thinks the right thought, the door opens, and that person comes into possession of all my earthly wealth. Everyone gets 30 seconds to try their luck. My fortune lies waiting for the happy thinker. Good luck to everyone in the world. And please, do not kill each other in a stampede. Nat" Reporters knocked each other down to spread the news around the world. Major commercial activities were set up to accommodate the hundreds of thousands who wanted to take their chance. Shady characters made millions selling Nat's thoughts to good and superstitious people. People even started selling their seats in the queue for a lot of money. Psychiatrists and sociologists held endless discussions about the nature of Nat's thoughts. They were convinced that the prize-thought would be scientific nature in nature. Professors and less educated brains spent many hours learning about Nat's life and trying to predict his achievements in the realm of thought. Every morning the gates of Nat's estate were opened, and a lengthy line moved towards the vault. The first man took a seat on the couch, a stopwatch clicked, a silence fell over the spectators and thirty seconds later the watch clicked again, and the person stood up: the safe had not opened. Weeks and months passed. Countless people had tried and failed their luck. Of course, each failure was accompanied by a sigh of relief that passed through the audience. Stalls rose from the ground like mushrooms after an autumn rain, selling sandwiches and coffee. A year passed. The safe remained locked and a rumor started circulating that the whole thing was just a hoax. One day a couple of farmers stood in line. They had brought their ten-year-old daughter Suzy with them. Suzy passed the time telling stories to the doll she held tightly against her. When it was finally her mother's and father's turn to sit on the bench, she held on to the doll a little tighter and told her that they would soon be home again. Suzy's father's thoughts raced as he sat in front of the vault, and he returned with slumped shoulders. Her mother too was told to leave the bench after trying to focus her mind on the door. -"Now it's your turn." the guard said to Suzy. The child replied that she just wanted to go home. -"You're holding the line." the guard snapped, who couldn't understand what was happening. The people started to complain and grumble. -"Come on then, away with you." The guard roared. -"No! Wait!" the girl suggested, and she jumped on the bench. The guard gave the girl a stern look and pulled the stopwatch. Suzy moved her lips: "Dear angels, please make Mr. Nat happy in heaven." She jumped up and back to her parents when she heard the sound of grinding metal: the door swung open.


“He is such an idiot”, said Dennis, my brother. It was the summer holidays, so he was living with us again. I preferred it when he was staying in London with Nan and Grandad. “Mind your language,” said Dad. I could tell that he wasn’t totally in control anymore. Dennis was almost as tall as Dad now. “But he can’t bring the stupid Airfix kit with him to the beach. He’s going to make a mess of things, he’ll lose pieces and get paint on everything,” said Dennis, “and it’s too bloody hot to mess around with plastics and glue on a day like this”.

“I told you to mind your language,” said Dad without conviction. “He’s an idiot.” It was mum’s turn, “Dennis! Mind your language”. +++ It seemed that Mum and Dad were on my side, but when I tried to sneak the scale model of a Supermarine Spitfire into the beach bag, I was intercepted. “Luca, you’re not taking your model airplane with you to the beach,” said Mum, carefully placing the model, the small tins of enamel paint, the glue and brushes on the side-table. “Why not?” The world suddenly seemed very unjust. “Because we’re going to the beach”. Her argument was lost on me, so I complained loudly and emphatically, but there was no shifting her. I was corralled out of the apartment down the stairs and out onto the forecourt of our block of flats on Birkirkara Road. Dad seemed in a foul mood.

“Just stop complaining and get in the front seat. You’re sitting on your brother’s lap”. The back seat was crammed with beach stuff, Dennis’s fishing rod, mum and my little sister, Alice.  I wouldn’t have to sit on the hot plastic seat cover, but on the other hand the seating arrangement meant that my head would be pressed up against the windscreen all the way to Armier Bay.   In the blazing hot morning sun. “Did we bring the football?” I asked. It was like a cauldron outside. The world seemed bleached by the sun. Dust everywhere, the stray dogs were languishing in the shade of the carob trees. The construction workers had abandoned the building site next to our apartment building, so the earthmover was stranded like a dinosaur amidst blocks of stone, piles of concrete and sand. The donkey was neighing in the hut over by the Mintoff estate.  The cicadas sounded like an army of buzz saws. The beach seemed like a good idea because there was nobody around to play football with up on the dirt and stone pitch. We crammed inside the Ford Cortina. I traced some spittle across the dashboard, and watched it evaporate in the heat. It left behind a white smear, which Dad rubbed away with a handkerchief. I could tell he was upset. “Do you think it has enough water?” said Mum, looking over her shoulder in the direction of the donkey as we drove off across the gravel. “Stop fidgeting!” said Dennis, surreptitiously driving a knuckle into my ribs, which only made me squirm more. “Luca! Stop it! I’m driving”, said Dad irritably. “and open the window, let the air in”. Hot air blasted against my face, and I had to squint because the sun was so bright. Mum and Dad were wearing Ray-Ban sunglasses, and looked they like movie stars, Dennis was wearing blue-tinted glasses and looked like a slightly sickly version of a pop star. Mum’s glasses were polarized, which meant that she could see me under water. At what age were you allowed to wear sunglasses? It was a mystery. “Damn!” Dad’s bad mood seemed to thicken. I noticed that he was always irritable in the morning. He smoked a lot, but he always seemed to cheer up when he was with Uncle Gareth or when sitting in the armchair watching the cricket on TV, or when he had a pint of cold beer in his hand. “Damn, Boris is following us!”. This was very exciting news. I craned my neck so that I could look out the back window of the car. Yes, indeed Boris, the black and white mongrel, was bounding along the edge of the road, chasing the car. We were already half a mile from home, and the dog was keeping up with us. “For God’s sake stop Bert!” It was Mum, she was upset. “The dog will die of heat”. “I’m not stopping. It knows its way back home”. Dad stepped on the gas, we sped through a roundabout, and I lost sight of the dog behind one of the ancient stone walls that lined the coast road that run up past Bugibba.

“What are those strange white patches in the rocks over there,” said my brother. I couldn’t believe how ignorant he was, even though he was eight years older than me. Everybody knew about the ancient salt pans, swimming-pool sized carvings in the rock in which seawater was trapped, evaporated, and salt was harvested “Roman salt pans,” I said, “the salt really hurts your feet if you walk on them, especially in the hot sun”. I was feeling quite superior, all of a sudden and didn’t care that he’d seen Charlie George playing for Arsenal, or that he liked the Kinks, or that he’d smoked a cigarette in front of Mum. “Dennis is going to go red in the sun,” I piped up cheerfully. It was like this every time he came to visit us in Malta. His skin was a horrible pale color. He’d go lobster red, peel like a damaged vegetable, go freckly and brown, then he’d leave for England again and send us cryptic postcards that would upset Mum. When we got to Armier Bay, an old peasant man dressed in black directed us to park near the old wharf, which was a long distance from the beach, even though the parking lot was nearly empty. Uncle Gareth’s car was parked nearer the beach, and though he was dad’s boss, this seemed unjust. “What language do the Maltese speak?” asked Dennis. “English”, said Dad. “No, I mean what language do the speak when they are with their own kind?” said Dennis. Neither Mum nor Dad seemed quite sure. Today was Saturday. There would be a few Maltese on the beach, but mainly it would be the Service families, Brits, plus some hapless tourists. The Maltese used the beach on Sundays.

Uncle Gareth had set up the tent already. He was there with Aunty Pamela and their twin sons, Peter and Paul, who were back from University. Dad said they were Socialists and Welsh nationalists, which made them sound very dangerous and just a bit dirty.

“Burning English people’s holiday homes when they’re not around,” he told me, “and they speak in Welsh”. “Why?” “They want independence from the United Kingdom”. That sounded entirely unreasonable, even unnatural. The Union Jack was the best flag in the world.

The twins both had long dark hair and beards, which I imagined made the heat unbearable. They were in the water, hairy-chests, standing in the shallows, talking, and I could tell they weren’t very good swimmers. I imagined that they were plotting the overthrow of the monarchy, right there and then, and decided that I should keep an eye on them. “Ow. Ow. It’s so hot”. I jumped from one foot to the other on the dirt of the parking lot. Dennis threw a pair of flip flops at my head. “Make sure you put lots of suntan lotion on” said Mum to Dennis, “I don’t want you getting burnt”. It was, however, a foregone conclusion that he’d get toasted. I was already “as brown as a berry”, according to Mum. “Carry this bag,” Dad gave me a heavy canvas bag full of beach paraphernalia. It smelt of warm rubber, wet towels, and of freshly made Cornish pasties, which I spotted in a Tupperware container, tucked beneath some swim fins. This was encouraging. “Well, I’ll be damned” said Dad, staring off into the distance. “You have got to be kidding me”, said Dennis, sounding like an American gangster. “That poor dog,” said Mum. Boris the dog was hurtling down the rough road toward the parking lot. The dog had run all the way to Armier Bay from Sliema. Dad reckoned it was five miles or more and mopped the perspiration from his balding head with his hankie. I was not at all surprised. “Maltese Pointers have a tremendous sense of direction,” I explained to my brother as the black and white mass of muscle barreled into Mum, knocking her against the car. Alice started crying. “Too hot, too hot”. In all the excitement, Mum had put her down on the ground without shoes on her chubby little feet. I grabbed Alice’s jellies and threw them at her head. Dad walloped me on the back of the head. “You stupid boy”. “What about Dennis? He threw flip flops at me?” We trudged toward the beach, the dog jumped about like a kangaroo. Patty was there with Eddy. Patty, who was Gareth and Pamela’s daughter, had false eyelashes and wore a bikini. She was bronze brown all over, and had a long, flat tummy which looked nice to touch. Eddy was Maltese and was the best swimmer in the world. Eddy always spoke in English. Patty and Eddy were going to get married. Dennis seemed upset by Eddy’s presence but perked up a bit - a lot – when he spotted Jenny. Jenny was Patty’s friend from England. She was pale, like Dennis, and was wearing an orange frilled bikini, which looked like it might slip off at any moment owing to the smooth roundness of her body. I’d long since fallen in love with her but Dennis had first dibs, being a teenager and a smoker and all that.

I left them to it and went down to the water, which lapped warmly over my toes, and made my feet slip and slide on my flip flops. “I’m going for a swim,” I declared. Nobody was paying attention. Aunty Pamela held Alice while Dad poured water into mum’s hands and the dog went berserk lapping at the paltry offering. Dennis was already lying on a towel next to Jenny. Patty and Eddy went off to the lido to get ice drinks. Peter and Paul were plotting a revolution in the surf. Uncle Gareth looked like he’d fallen asleep in a deck chair, his enormous stomach was a massive shining orb that radiated heat. Nobody was paying attention to me.

“I’m going for a swim” I said, this time a bit louder.

The yellow sand, the turquoise water, darker green out where the seaweed patch grew. I could see small silver fish flipping around in the shallows. I would put a bit of bread in an empty Fanta bottle later, and catch one or two, and pour them into Alice’s swimsuit, but for now, there was nothing for it but to take off for an epic swim in the open ocean. Out to where the swordfish thrashed around in the deep dark blue water. There was a gray haze on the horizon. Mount Etna was erupting according to Dad. I sometimes found floating pumice stones in the ocean. Africa and the Sahara lay in the other direction, accounting for the heat and dust, according to Dad. Malta was just a barren rock in the blue sea, burning under the sun, according to Dad. I’d swim later, before lunch, when I could race Eddy or snorkel over the weed-bed or catch an Octopus or find a treasure. I needed witnesses. I went back up to the family encampment, digging my feet under the sand where it was cooler. “Look Dennis, look Jenny!” I said. I placed the football on a small pile of sand, backed up a few paces, and when I was sure that they were watching, I ran at the ball. I would kick the ball a mile or more and they would witness the most astounding feat of skill and strength, “Bobby Charlton!” I shouted. My toe collided with the sharp and heavy rock that was concealed in the pile of sand. The ball bobbled along the beach a few yards, and I collapsed in agony.  When I looked at my big toe, it was like it belonged to someone else, ragged flesh, torn nail, blood oozed then gushed. Jenny was watching, so I tried not to cry, but within seconds I was surrounded by a group of adults, blotting out the sun. They evaluated me like a wounded animal. I whimpered like a wounded animal. Jenny looked horrified. Dad carried me back to the car. I could smell beer and tobacco smoke on his breath. Mum pulled Boris the dog with one hand, carried Alice in the other. Loose strands of blonde hair stuck to Mum’s sweaty forehead and neck. “But we’ve only just arrived. Can’t I just stay here and come back later with Uncle Gareth?” said Dennis, pleading his case. He was lugging a ton of beach stuff, including his unused fishing rod and the un-eaten Cornish pasties, and he looked very sore. “How are we going to get this all back into the car, including the dog?” asked Mum. “Please Dad, I’ll get a lift”, insisted Dennis. He probably wanted to hang out with Jenny.

The hairy-chested Welsh twins were still arguing in the shallows, uninterested in my plight. It’s like that in revolutions… the fate of the individual gets lost in the bigger picture. It was so damned hot. The old peasant was sitting on a concrete wall, smoking a cigarette, wearing a black woolen jacket. He stared at me, blankly, but smiled at Mum. He was missing several teeth. “Do you think I can have a Pepsi?” I said. We were walking past the Lido. I could see iced bottles of soda pop glistening with moisture on the counter in the shadowy interior, near the foosball table. “Will everyone please stop their bitching and moaning!” said Dad, more irritated than usual, and that was saying something. “He’s a complete idiot,” said Dennis, firing a vicious look at me. Neither Mum nor Dad reprimanded him for his language.

I made a mental note of this. Justice is a dish best served cold, according to Dad.