Hallvar sat in his office, browsing the police file of suspects and cursing his brain for not remembering anything regarding the incident. The doctors told him the blow to his head was severe - it gave him a concussion, after all - and that it might take time for his memory to come back. If it did at all. “Hall?” Without turning his eyes from the computer screen, he waved a hand. “Come in, Sigfride.” His assistant walked into the office, placing a hand on Hallvar’s shoulder. “How are you?” “Still can’t remember anything,” he said, scanning the faces of every known criminal in Norway. He recognized a few of them, having captured them himself, but none rang a bell as to whom might have killed two of his friends and placed one in a coma. “He’s got to be here somewhere…” “Hall, you should rest,” Sigfride said, placing a cup on his desk. Steam rose from it, spreading an invigorating scent of coffee. “We are looking into every possible avenue.” “I have to regain my memory,” he said, scrolling further. He had to. It was the only way. He must have seen the killer, just before the hit on the head knocked him out cold. His mind held the only real evidence they had. The only evidence to help turn suspicion off of Hallvar himself. Sigfride sighed and retracted her hand. “We talked to Olaf, the studio owner, again. He said he left the place early that evening and didn’t see anyone but you and your friends coming in. Nobody else was scheduled for practice either. The single security camera caught no one else entering the building.” “That camera’s position is awkward,” Hallvar said, rubbing his eyes. He hadn’t slept in a day. He didn’t like what sleep brought. “The killer could have entered through the back or by the window. Did Olaf tell you about his back door? How he’s too cheap to have it repaired? Anyone could enter…” In fact, could the man himself be responsible? He did complain often about the noise of Hallvar and his band playing. Even though they paid to rent his studio for practice. “Hall, I can’t imagine how hard this must be for you. I know how close you were with them, how much music meant to you. I hope that Bjarke makes it. And I hope you get some rest.” Hallvar sighed and listened to Sigfride’s footsteps leaving the office. The cup of coffee rested on the desk, smelling heavenly. He turned to say thank you, but his assistant was gone. Instead, he noticed the pictures on the office walls. His formal detective license, a photo with the whole police department for Christmas two years ago, and a framed picture of him and his three friends playing live at a local festival. Two of them were dead now, one in a coma, the result of some lunatic bursting into the studio, and killing everybody. Hallvar himself survived by sheer luck, it would seem. I’ll find out who did this , he thought, turning back to the screen, and no law or moral code can save them from me when I do . He spent the rest of the night searching through the files, as well as his memory, both seemingly void of the information he sought. Eventually, sleep caught up with Hallvar. And with it, came the nightmare. Each night since the incident, he had been having roughly the same dream. It was almost as if his mind was trying to tell him through dreams what he couldn’t remember consciously.

Hallvar got to relive the murder of his friends every night for the past two weeks. He got to see every bloody detail, but never the killer’s face. That detail always eluded him. And with each dream, he thought he was getting closer to the truth. Each time the nightmare would reveal a bit more of what happened. That was if his mind wasn’t just making everything up out of trauma. In the dream, he was often in the killer’s shoes, after all. But he could never see his face. This night, the dream started as usual. Right in the middle of it and from the point of view of the killer. Hallvar saw himself - as the murderer- picking up his guitar and crushing his friend’s head with it. They were in the middle of practice and were stunned at the sudden outburst of violence by the intruding killer. Before anyone could react, Hallvar smashed the heads of all three of his band colleagues with his own guitar. Then the dream shifted, where he could see outside from himself, how he got hit on the head too by a figure without a face. The prosecutor then ran away, and when Hallvar wanted to follow, the figure disappeared into the shadows.

Hallvar woke up, sweating and breathing heavily. He looked around and noticed he had fallen asleep in his office. The place was dark, no light coming from the hallway - everyone must have left already.

He grabbed a pen and paper and wrote down everything he could remember from the dream, recording every detail. The drawer by his desk was filled with accounts from his dream and he used them to correlate the event, searching for consistent patterns and hints. As incredible as it seemed, his dreams were the only clues he had - but he couldn’t share them with his colleagues. They would never take it seriously. “The killer used my guitar,” Hallvar murmured, comparing tonight’s dream with the others. “But the last thing I remember was playing on my guitar. Then, nothing. So whoever did it, I must have trusted them, to let them have my guitar…”

The evidence found at the crime scene clearly pointed at Hallvar’s guitar as the murder weapon. It had blood and tissue of all four of them on its body, all found on one side, suggesting that the killer used it as a club to repeatedly strike at each one. The guitar’s body was solid steel and hard plastic, and it cracked under the brutal hits but did not break apart, surprisingly. So the killer must have known how strong the instrument was, so he could perform precise strike with it and not have it break in the middle of his assault - that would create an opening for the others to defend themselves. The only person that Hallvar would entrust his instrument to, and who would know so much about it, other than his band friends, was Olaf himself. The studio owner. Hallvar even once took lessons from the man, who showed him a few tricks on the guitar from his hay day as a roadie. It wasn’t rational to think that Bjarke would take the guitar, kill the other two, attempt to kill Hallvar, and then knock himself out - how would he do that?

And it was just as absurd to think that Hallvar himself did it, as was the unspoken suspicion. How would he swing the guitar at himself, knocking himself out with it? The angles didn’t match. But the blood and the concussion did. Somebody else must have been present there that night and the more Hallvar thought about it, the more he suspected Olaf.

The studio was his. He had access to the camera, the band knew and trusted him. He did complain about the noise. But was that reason enough to attempt a quadruple homicide? Or was there something else, a form of jealousy against Hallvar and the band? Olaf did say that he never had a chance to be in a band, but that it was his greatest wish… Hallvar checked the clock. It was something past three A.M. He considered, looking at the photo of him and his friends.

Then, he left his office. Olaf’s house was next to his studio - it was part of the same building complex, just on the other side, so the owner had privacy as well as quick access to the place. Hallvar sat in his car, parked outside the man’s house.

There was a light turned on inside. Olaf was the one that found us, Hallvar thought. He came into the studio and called the police. In the report, the man said he had heard shouts and how the music suddenly stopped, so he had gone to check. The more Hallvar considered the more sense it made. The man pretended to have stumbled upon the murder scene, to have an alibi. Hallvar waited in his car, considering whether he should confront the man. Considering, if he could even do it. As he waited outside of Olaf’s house, the pain in his head from the blow returned. Hallvar took some painkillers and watched the window, wanting to catch Olaf in some act that would rat him out. In a whirlwind of thoughts and with a headache pounding, Hallvar must have fallen in a pill-induced sleep, as suddenly his mind was back at the incident.

This time, he saw more of it. “That sounds terrible, Hall,” Bjarke said, grimacing on the drums. “Are you sure you can play the guitar, mate?” Hallvar ignored the remark and focused on playing the solo. They were working on a new song and it was a pain to get it right. “Sounds to me like he’s butchering somebody,” Demas, the bassist commented. “Must be the stress at work, I reckon?” They laughed, typical guy-talk. Hallvar tried his best but failed. His fingers were just too slow, the solo too technical and complex. His mind was sluggish, indeed from stress at work. There was a dangerous killer on the loose and they had finally gotten a lead. Hallvar just wanted to relax and let go for a few hours with his buddies. But all he could think of was the brutality of the recent murders. “Hey, we’re going to get something to eat,” Bjarke said. “You want something, Hall?” “No,” Hallvar said. “I’m good.” He just wanted to get the damn solo right. “Alright, then,” Bjarke said. “But don’t you try and steal my rolls when we come back!” They left. Hallvar kept practicing. Then, Olaf entered the studio. “Hey, mate,” the older man said, wearing his long grey hair in a tail. “Sound like you’re having some trouble.” “Yeah,” Hallvar said. “I can’t do this transition here. It’s too fast for me.” Hallvar showed what he meant, by playing the part at half-speed. Olaf nodded. “I see. Can I try?” “Sure,” Hallvar sighed. He handed the man his guitar. “Knock yourself out.” “I’ll knock you out, with my veteran skill,” the man said and took the guitar. The dream then changed to Hallvar being in the killer’s shoes and butchering everybody, until seeing himself in third person again, being hit by some man with no face. Hallvar ran after the man and this time, he caught him in a corner.

The man had long hair… Hallvar jolted awake. He was sitting in his car, parked outside of Olaf’s home. The light in the house had turned off. It’s him, he thought, breathing heavily. He did it. Hallvar got out of the car and walked to the studio entrance. He had the key as he and his friends were regulars. It was the little hours of the morning and there was nobody outside, not even a stray dog. Hallvar unlocked the door and removed the police tape, entering the crime scene. He knew that the studio and Olaf’s house were connected by a passage, for practicality. Hallvar used the light on his phone to make his way through the dark interior.

If it really was you, Olaf… Hallvar hurried through the passage, entering the man’s living quarters. He’d been there once or twice when Olaf invited them over for a drink. Building his alibi. Plotting, even then. Hallvar crossed the living room and climbed the stairs to the man’s bedroom. He didn’t think of what his plan was, he just wanted to have a look at the man, to see his murderous face. As he came to the bedroom, where he saw the light coming before, Hallvar paused. He heard weeping from inside. His heart pounded like a drum and he burst into the room. “Feeling guilt for what you did?” The man, lying under the blankets, jumped up in shock. Hallvar turned on the light and noticed he had taken out his gun on instinct. Olaf gazed at him with wide eyes, red, as if from crying. “What…” “Don’t deny it, you did it,” Hallvar shouted, his hand trembling. “I saw you, it was you!” The man’s face was twisted in a mixture of shock and fear. “What are you talking about?” “I saw you in my dream,” Hallvar said. “You took my guitar and-” The man was crying. There were candles placed on his window sill, alongside pictures of Hallvar and his friends. The two that had been killed had a rosary around them. He was... grieving? “What’s all this?” Hallvar asked, pointing at the pictures. “They were my friends too,” Olaf said. “Your band reminded me of when I was young…” His gaze focused on the gun in Hallvar’s hands. “You think I did it.” It wasn’t a question, but a statement. One in which Hallvar wasn’t so sure anymore. “I-” he looked into the man’s eyes and saw sadness underneath all the shock. And betrayal. “I can’t prove it, Hall,” Olaf said, sniffing. “But by God, I’m not the man you should be pointing that gun at.” “Who then?” Hallvar shouted. “Who did it? Who killed my friends and nearly killed me?” He pointed the gun at the man’s head. Olaf began weeping. “The guitar was in your hands when I found you…” “Yes, the killer wanted to confuse the forensics by framing one of us.” “No one else came or left the studio, Hall.” “What are you saying?” Olaf glanced at the gun again, then at Hallvar. “Are you here to kill me too?” Hallvar balked. Olaf pissed himself, a dark spot appearing on the bedsheets. The man was genuinely afraid of him. Hallvar suddenly felt deep shame and he lowered the gun, running out of the room, and out of the house.

No, it can’t be , he thought. If Olaf didn’t do it, who then? He started the car and drove back home, where he took a bottle of scotch and began drinking. He demanded from his mind to remember all of it, to remember things clearly, without dreams and illusions. His head began hurting but he didn’t take the pills; they would only distract his mind. Hallvar emptied the bottle and paced around his room until he collapsed in a corner and wept for his friends. Once again, sleep took over, his body and mind exhausted. This time, the dream picked off as his friends returned with the food.

“Where have you been?” Hallvar asked. They were gone for nearly two hours. Bjarke giggled like a schoolgirl. “We went to get food.” They all had red faces and were snickering like teenagers. “Have you been smoking weed?” “Um, nooo,” Demas said. They snickered some more. Hallvar sighed. “We were supposed to practice tonight.” “You should chill, detective,” Oyolf, their lead singer said. “You can’t play that guitar anyway.” He turned to the other two. “Hey, maybe we should cut his hair. If he can’t play, then he’s not a true metal fan and shouldn’t have long hair.” The three laughed, obviously talking gibberish. But Hallvar, being frustrated by his stressful job, having to deal with murderers and psychopaths all day long, just wanted to lose himself in the music with his friends. But for some reason couldn’t get the creative juices flowing, and had enough. Something snapped. He grabbed his guitar and began playing. The guys turned to him. “Whoa, look at Hall. He’s on fire!” Hallvar played the solo with fury. He struck every note on the spot. “Yeah, man, that’s the thing!” Then he came to the hard part. He followed Olaf’s instructions and sailed through it, racing to the finale. “Seems Hall’s been practicing while we were smoking!” Hallvar’s muscles tensed as he got to where he always failed. He struck the notes one by one, the pick flying over the strings, but his fury was too much.

He broke a string. And the guys giggled. Hallvar smacked Bjarke straight in his laughing face with the guitar. The man fell over, like a chopped log. Then, he hit Demas, who was too stoned to register what was going on. Hallvar repeatedly hit the man’s head until it cracked and the guitar strings vibrated from the impact, playing a sinister echo. Oylof wanted to run away, but Hallvar chopped him down by hitting his side first and then smashing the man’s head. Breathing heavily, feeling all his frustration boiling in him, Hallvar screamed and headbanged into the guitar’s body repeatedly, until he collapsed to the floor, unconscious. The dream shifted outside himself and he could see Olaf stumbling upon the aftermath, mortified. Hallvar jumped up on his feet as the doorbell rang. His fists were clenched as though he still held the guitar and he breathed heavily, confused. He was at home. He just woke up from a dream. Someone was at the door. Did I really kill them? Hallvar ran a hand through his sweaty hair and walked to the door. He took one deep breath and opened it. It was Sigfride with two other officers by her side, Hallvar’s colleagues. “Hall?” she said, her voice painful. “Yeah?” he groaned. “Bjarke woke up. We have some questions.”


Sam slumped in the dugout, the Texas sun scorching his back, yet unable to warm the chill running through him. The sounds of laughter and shouts from the baseball diamond faded into a dull hum as he twisted a worn cap in his hands. His teammates—friends from school—were caught up in the fun of the game, but for Sam, every crack of the bat only tightened the knot in his gut. Today, it wasn’t just his strikeouts at the plate and bobbled balls on the field that had him down. His mind was clouded by thoughts of his parents’ marriage, or rather, what was left of it. He could still hear their recent argument—his father’s biting accusations and his mother’s bitter tears. Then, his dad had stormed out, leaving behind the house, the mess, and Sam. His mother, buried in work and her own grief, hadn’t been able to help him make sense of it all. Most days, she was barely able to help herself. Sam felt abandoned by both parents, his heart aching with a loneliness heavier than the early summer heat. Suddenly, the dugout felt like a cage. Not just because of his bad plays, but because of the guilt gnawing at him, a nagging feeling that somehow, it was his fault his dad had left. What was wrong with him? “Hey, kid!” Sam turned around, startled. Just outside the chain-link fence that separated the stands from the dugout, a man stood, tall and broad-shouldered, in a gray pinstripe suit and white pocket square that ended in three crisp points. His fedora swept across his face that couldn’t hide a sly grin, like he knew something that Sam didn’t. Sam thought he looked like a mobster from a 1930s movie. “Can I help you?” Sam asked, his voice barely above a whisper. “No, but I can help you ,” the man said, his grin widening. “Check your glove.” Sam froze for a moment, his mind spinning. Was this a prank set up by his teammates? He wasn’t in the mood, but curiosity got the best of him. Something about this man felt…different. Cautiously, he reached for his worn glove. Inside, cradled in the leather, was a box of Cracker Jack. The sailor boy on the box, along with his little white dog, smiled up at him, as if they were all old friends. “What the heck?” Sam muttered. ”How did this get in my glove?” “Doesn’t matter,” Gangster Man replied. “What matters is the swell prize inside.” Sam’s instincts told him not to accept gifts from strangers, especially strange men in pinstripes who appeared out of nowhere. But when he looked up to give it back, the man was gone. Just…vanished. At home that night, Sam lay in bed, the Cracker Jack boy and his canine friend staring at him from his dresser across the room. He’d never been a big risk-taker, but at this point, what did he have to lose? His life was already screwed up. He jumped out of bed and tore into the box. Out spilled the usual candy-coated popcorn, peanuts—and the prize of a solid-gold man’s ring with a setting of brilliant gemstones that sparkled like stars, arranged in the shape of a baseball diamond. Sam stared at the ring for a moment. This was no cheap toy; it was a gleaming work of art, heavy in his hand. In the center of the setting, a big pearl sat with two curved rows of tiny rubies, making it look like stitching on a pristine baseball. Sam did the next logical thing. He slipped the ring on his finger. It fit like a hula hoop around a twig. He spun it around a few times. Maybe I’ll grow into it , he thought. Sam was about to pull off the ring when it slowly and visibly tightened around his finger, sending a surge of fear and fascination through his veins. The jewel at home plate suddenly emitted a soft blue glow. Sam didn’t even realize that his mouth had dropped open in wonder as another jewel, positioned at first base, joined in the luminous display, followed by the gemstones at second and third base. The air around Sam seemed to crackle with energy when the circuit of jewels was completed, ending in a brilliant burst of azure fire at home plate. And then, as if on cue, the baseball pearl at the center of it all began to spin. Gracefully, the gleaming white orb rose from its setting, hovering in the air before Sam’s astonished gaze. With a gentle hum, it drifted forward, leaving a trail of sparkling blue energy in its wake. Suddenly the pearl stopped and twitched for a moment before tracing a delicate line of electric-blue fire in thin air. Transfixed, Sam moved nothing but his eyes, following the lustrous jewel as it slowly carved a geometric shape. Sam was so stunned by the hypnotic movement and flaming blue lines that he didn’t immediately recognize the form materializing before him. It was only when the contours of the five-sided figure were nearly complete, the angles of its edges unmistakably familiar, that realization blasted him like a jet of water from a fire hose. It was a giant home plate! Just beyond the mystical pentagon, vibrant red, white, and blue bands shimmered and danced, reminding Sam of a patriotic aurora borealis. “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” played from somewhere in an otherworldly tone. Sam blinked, trying to wrap his mind around what was happening. Was this... some kind of doorway? Suddenly, the pentagon began to shrink. He knew he had to act fast. “I’m probably gonna regret this,” Sam whispered. With a deep breath, he stepped through. In an instant, he was in a dugout, but not the one he’d sat in just a few hours ago. This place was perfect. The dirt looked like finely-sifted cocoa powder, the grass impossibly green. Overhead, the sky stretched out in a deep, unbroken blue, and the air was warm but comfortably mild—not the hellish heat of Texas. It was perfect shirt-sleeve weather, and the ball field before Sam the most beautiful he had ever seen.  	“Hey, kid.” The voice was familiar. Sam turned, his eyes widening in disbelief. There stood the gangster man from earlier–but now he donned a wool-blend uniform with IRONMEN emblazoned across the chest in a sturdy, block font. The flat-topped cap on his head bore a prominent “P.” A bolt of revelation struck Sam.  	“I recognize you now! You’re Grand Slam Granderson of the Pittsburgh Ironmen! You still hold the record for the most grand slams.” Grand Slam gave a regal bow. “But you can’t be here,” Sam said incredulously. “You're…you’re dead.” “Don’t believe everything you read,” Grand Slam said with a beaming smile. He motioned toward the field with a sweep of his muscled arms. “Welcome to the Happy Batting Grounds, heaven for us baseball gods. We help people like you with life’s curveballs.” Sam barely had time to process what was happening before uniformed figures began to materialize on the field. One by one, legends of the game—Babe Ruth, Jackie Robinson, and more—came walking toward him, their smiles broad and inviting. “You're about to find out that these guys weren’t just ball players,” Granderson explained. ”They were flesh-and-blood men. They had battles—just like you.” Babe stepped forward first, his Brooklyn accent rough but kind. “I grew up in a school for wayward boys, kid. My folks sent me away when I was seven. It was tough, but I kept swinging.” Jackie stepped up next. “Breaking the color barrier wasn’t easy. There were so many who hated me for it—angry fans, hostile players, even death threats lurking in the shadows. But I couldn’t let that stop me. I loved the game too much to walk away." His voice was steady, but filled with the weight of his memories. A sweet breeze drifted in as he continued. “I knew I had something bigger to prove—not just for myself, but for my people. Baseball was my platform, my way to show the world what a black man could do. It was about challenging the prejudices of the past and paving the way for future generations. Every time I stepped on that field, I was swinging not just for myself, but for everyone who dreamed of a better future.” One by one, the legends shared their stories—about loss, hardships, and self-doubt. When they were finished, Sam spoke. “Did you ever feel like giving up?” he asked softly. He wasn't just asking about their baseball careers--he was asking about their lives. Jackie was the first to respond, stepping forward with a gentle nod. “More times than I can count, kid. There were days when it felt like no matter what I did, the world was stacked against me.” Babe added, “I’ve been knocked down plenty. I lost my parents when I was a kid; my wife died in a fire; I hit 714 home runs, but struck out 1330 times. You couldn’t beat me, though, because I'd always get back up.” Grand Slam looked directly into Sam’s eyes, his voice quiet but firm. “You have to keep swinging, kid, even if you have two strikes,  it’s the bottom of the ninth, and your team's down. It’s the only way to hit a home run—on the field and in real life.” “Enough talkin’!” Babe bellowed, picking up a bat. “Let’s play ball!” Sam laughed as the legends shrank into kids, ready for a game. He dove in, giving it everything he had. His team lost, 2-1, but Sam scored the only run on an RBI single, and for the first time in a long time, he felt unburdened. He was still sad about the situation at home, but he no longer carried the weight of it all alone. The game had given him something his folks couldn’t provide at the present time—a reminder that life, like baseball, was full of second chances. He realized now that he could keep playing, keep swinging, no matter how many strikes came his way. There was always another at-bat, another chance to step up and try again. And for the first time, that felt like enough. After the game, Grand Slam, back to his adult form, pulled Sam aside. “Take the ring off and you’ll be home. But whenever you need a shot in the arm, you can slip it back on.” Sam smiled as they shook hands. “Thank you, Mr. Granderson,” he said. “Call me Grand Slam,” he replied with a wink. Sam slipped on the ring and, as the cheers of the baseball legends faded away, he found himself back in his room. The next weekend, Sam was on his usual field under the blazing Texas sun. His mom was at work at her job as a hospital nurse, and his dad was who-knows-where. And that was okay. Sam knew now that his mom had her own grief to work through, and he'd be there if she needed him. And he no longer felt guilt about his dad leaving. That was his choice, not Sam's. Sam had his own stuff to work through, and though he couldn't fix the past, he would learn to live with it. As he stepped into the batter’s box for his first at-bat, he thought of the ring—tucked safely away in an old Cracker Jack box—and the legends he’d played ball with. And he knew he wasn’t alone in his struggles. He had his team, hope that his folks would find healing and learn to move forward, and the ring—just in case he needed to return to a certain mystical ball field for some extra encouragement. With new-found confidence, Sam faced the pitcher, choking up on his bat and narrowing his eyes—just like Grand Slam used to do. He didn’t know if he’d hit the ball, but one thing was certain: he’d give it everything he had. Whether on the field or in life, he’d keep swinging. Errors and all.


Where do you see yourself standing in the future, they ask? To them, I say, What are we doing to make a future? Everyone is caught up wondering what the future will look like, but have you ever stopped for a minute to think about what is being done in the present? If calling today a gift is why we call it the present and yesterday changes to history, what becomes of tomorrow? We live in a world of constant fear, wondering if we will live to see the light of tomorrow. No, not you. You aren't born into the families who are left to suffer the pain of corrupt politicians who fled from justice and let their country slip into the hands of terrorism and destruction. You aren't one of those who are forced to choose between family and freedom because here you are lavishly enjoying the presence of both. You don't have to beg on the streets to feed your family for just one meal. You aren't forced to eat dirt or leaves just to stay alive. All you have to do is drive to the nearest fast food venue and casually eat a meal worth someone's monthly income after sleepless nights and fatiguing days. You don't have to watch your daughters being raped by militants or sold as sex slaves. You don't have to watch your sons being murdered in cold blood right in front of your eyes or see their bodies amputated to gain sympathy on the streets for the sake of money. Have you ever really thought about how someone who grew up living in an unstable, life-threatening, always on the run, financially weak household would feel if he or she could live your lifestyle for just one day? For them, it would be a miracle sent from God. Ask them what you see in the future and then ask yourself the same question, will we continue like this until we reach the end? You are the ones who are delusional. The big promises and sanguine words to bring revolutionary change are just ways of claiming power, an old tactic to create illusionary pictures in people's minds. This is what is happening, and you expect me to be hopeful for the future? For so long, we've worried about climate change, and I realize it's still there. How can we help Earth? We can do this by halting the pollution that harms air quality, oceans, groundwater, and soils. We can do this by protecting creation - protecting the forests and natural wildlife populations. The vandalism of Earth is everyone's business, and we need to preserve our ecosystems. Money is manmade, creation is God-given, life is sacred. Our environment determines our social evolution; our social development determines our biological evolution. The need to develop a loving and kind environment that supports populations enables our brains to develop in healthy ways, promoting our empathy, logic, self-control, and ability to be a member of a socially complex species has never been more urgent. Nature has programmed us to nurture for a good reason. Without the richness of the forests, we'd all be broke. We need their leaves to stay, for their roots to hold firm the very ground we walk. Yet this relationship with the trees is so much more than need. For in the company of trees, embedded into the ecology is the soul's coziness, a sense of home, a pure sense of loving joy, instead of sudden changes that could easily be undone, developed methods in every arena that produced a better, more ethical, more wholesome result with each cycle. Whether it was education or medical care, industrial processes, or agriculture, every system was designed to become less polluting and give better results yearly. I've been waiting for, praying for, some kind of top-down change, but now I know it won't happen that way. We're fooling ourselves if we think it will. We'll be watching some stupid reality show or playing computer games the moment the Earth goes past the tipping point and into an unstoppable greenhouse effect. We'll still be frightened by the news and placating ourselves with chemical-laden junk food in pretty boxes, wrapped in plastic, of course. We'll still be chasing that lifestyle we've been groomed for from childhood to crave, that life equals consumption, success equals consumption. We'll admire a system with no more morals than "rich is good," and you can do "whatever you can get away with" to accumulate more money than you can ever spend - while others starve. With no change, we'll continue to sacrifice our own children to the "daycare" system and then feel stressed when our damaged kids "act out." We won't even stop to dwell on the fact that our minors' number one cause of death is suicide - yes, children killing themselves. And for the record, that means our culture - the one we accept so passively - killed them. I can't live with that, not anymore, and if you're being honest with yourself instead of swallowing the "I don't care," "I'm too busy to care" party line, then you'll know you can't either. Changing the world was never going to be a task for one person or one type of mind; we are born different for a reason. The creative minds dreamed up new possibilities, new futures, new technologies. The technological minds made many of the dreams and visions into realities. Humanity put a man on the moon in 1969, makes computers tiny enough to go in a pocket, and has mapped the human genome. Still, we can't think of more than two flawed and extremist political systems to run the world? Why don't we fight hard to stop starvation and inequity? Why don't we innovate? Why don't we think? We have everything to gain, our planet to save. Why do we perpetually stagnate on the issues that really matter? There's an inner angel in us all, and finding it was the key to fixing our global mess. Change is always a leap of faith, and it takes an iron will combined with a heart of pure love to do it. Life can only be understood backward, but it must be lived forward. We can't expect to live in a future with new advanced high-tech innovations, flying cars, or robots when we have real crises to deal with in the present. The future is now. The future is us and how we chose to write it. Everyone has their own story of how they want to see the future, but mine is live the present to get a glimpse of how you would like to see your future growth. The time is now. Because once upon a time, I believed in a hopeful future. Don't let Earth slip into doom. Don't waste a day, spend each wisely.


There was nothing festive or Christmassy about lobster, and he would not be convinced otherwise. Throwing a few shrimps on the “barbie” and calling it Christmas dinner was clearly deranged. The sheer convenience of it upset him, never mind the distinct lack of stodge. Bowls of roast veg, glazed in honey, a rich, thick gravy (none of this watery piss either), a tangy cranberry sauce, and the pièce de résistance, in the center of it all. Preferably on a red tablecloth decorated with candles and Christmas crackers. Sunlight shone brightly into his kitchen. It barged in like an unwelcome guest. How could anyone possibly celebrate Christmas in the summertime? Another irksome thing about Australian Christmas, even more irksome than nibbling on a charred shrimp that’d been seasoned with chili and lime instead of nutmeg and cinnamon – though he wasn’t a complete moron, he knew that a chili and lime combo was probably for the best in that situation (dare he admit tasty). But still . Christmas in the sun was a paradox. It could not be done.  Sure, making sandcastles on the beach was fun (for some, he supposed) but it was not the same as feeling frost on your nose and patting together a snowball in wet gloves, ready to launch square between your brother’s eyes.  Nope. No matter how many Christmas songs played in supermarkets, or how many twinkly Christmas trees peered from windows, he could not be tricked. No amount of tinsel or baubles or blow-up Santa’s could conjure the sound of sleigh bells or their ring-a-ling-ding-dong-dings. Not even an angelic church choir dressed as elves with rosy red cheeks and full of cheer could raise his Christmas spirit from the dead. It was staunchly buried, in the bush somewhere. Probably in the knitted red-nosed reindeer sweater that his Grandmother had made him, which he now regretted ever wearing under such duress. Christmas just… didn’t belong here. He was sure of it, but he peeled potatoes and root veg anyway because this year he had been given the task of sharing his version of Christmas – in his opinion, the only version of Christmas. He might not be able to make it snow or bring the cold (he did crank up the aircon, and some might say his personality could do the trick) but he could at least try to recreate the meal. Not to his Mother’s standard, of course, certainly not while maintaining her blood alcohol level – he did intend to sip sherry all day in her honor – but he hoped to get something close to it. Perhaps I can bring the Christmas cheer, he thought, then promptly snorted sherry down his nose. He set the table, positioning the crystal and candlesticks, holly wreath whatever-they-were’s and rolled napkins in ornate holders shaped like deer. He burned incense, some Christmas mishmash but it worked better than he thought. Music played, all the classics. He didn’t mind the cheesy, overplayed ones. In fact, the cheesier the better, much to his friend’s surprise. The kitchen was a steam room. Pots boiled and the oven ticked over nicely. It smelled good, somehow like roasted chestnuts despite the fact he hadn’t made them. Things were going smoothly, and he drowned a mouthful of sherry. He wasn’t altogether pleased with how smoothly it was going – there was a certain jovialness, a frenzied quality that was missing. But he couldn’t help it if he’d executed everything like clockwork – he was an engineer – nor could he help that his own company was not naturally jovial. He needed his friends for that. The doorbell rang just as it occurred to him what a miracle it was that he had any friends at all. He felt a sudden warmness in his heart, a tingling sensation that inspired a feeling of gratitude. Perhaps his Christmas spirit was waking up. “Merry Christmas!” His friends flooded in, all four of them. They took turns to greet him individually, kissing him on the cheek, shaking his hand, socking him on the arm. He was not touchy-feely, but he could make exceptions at Christmas. The commotion of their arrival – how excited they were to spend Christmas with him, their comments on how good the food smelled, their thanks for his hospitality – stirred his spirit even more. He helped them with their coats, which they did not need in 30-degree heat but had worn for his benefit. “Ooh, it’s brisk outside, mate!” said Damo, feigning the cold by hugging his arms.  Damien in Australian is Damo, of course. “Help yourself to some mulled wine,” he replied, gesturing over to a vat of fragrant red wine on the side table, “should warm you up nicely.” They all took him up on the offer, ladling some into glasses and taking a swig. There was a mixed reception. Some had had it before, of course, but he felt they needed to try his mulled wine. He was not offended when they made a screwed-up “yuck” face. Those that liked it, had taste. Those that didn’t, did not. Simple. He told them exactly so and gladly took the heat for it while digging out some cold beers and Jim Beam cans from the fridge. What followed was pure merriment if he did think so himself.  Everyone pulled crackers and delivered the stale jokes, they donned Santa hats (Damo donned his elsewhere but was quickly reprimanded by Suzie, his long-suffering girlfriend). They shouted: ‘I Wish It Could Be Christmas Everyday’ and snapped photos at every opportunity. And then the meal… It was met with acclaim! They were particularly enthralled with the meat, his pièce de résistance – and the part of the menu that took most of the work. “Mate, that meat was just perfect,” Robbo said, spread out on the sofa. “Yeah,” Charmaine agreed, “I expected turkey.” “Me too,” Suzie said, and the rest agreed. “What actually was that shit?” Damo asked. He was pouring himself another rum and Coke, swaying a little. “Aren’t I glad you asked, Damo,” he said, and smiled. He stood up and asked them to join him. He led them out to the garden, butterflies in his stomach. He was excited to show them the effort he’d put in, to serve them a traditional Christmas dinner. He was proud of himself, and not even the humid air could dampen his mood. He could really feel the Christmas spirit this year. He opened the door to his shed with a flourish, and in a magician’s assistant pose, directed their attention to the wonder inside. “Pièce de résistance!” Suzie gasped, clapping a hand to her mouth. Charmaine screeched and turned away. Damo made a loud retching noise, then followed through. Small bodies, strung up, lifeless and naked. It wasn’t obvious what they were at first. The bench next to them was bloody, and the sharp utensils hadn’t been tidied away yet. There was a bucket on the floor, which, on closer inspection, was full of a watery, reddish brown mixture that appeared to have pink lumps floating in it. “Rabbit,” he said, proudly. But no one was very receptive, apart from Robbo who took a swig of his beer and simply said, “Fair dinkum.” “Danke schön,” he replied, then added, “ mate !” in his best Australian accent.

He put an arm around Robbo and brought him closer inside. “This was how my Grandfather prepared Christmas dinner.

I wanted to do right by him, make it authentic, you know?  I must tell you, though, I still have nightmares about the eyes floating in the bucket."

He pointed down, where indeed, on the surface of that sour-smelling mixture, beady little eyes peered up at them, along with a tangle of innards.

"Always seemed to stare at me when I was a kid.”  He shivered, then laughed abruptly and clapped Robbo on the back. “Did you have to show us like that?” Suzie cried. He supposed not. He knew it would be jarring but he couldn’t help himself. Christmas pranks were a thing in his house too.


“Sorry, tell me again what happens when you turn off the lights?” A rattling breath preceded the answer. “Cold… I can’t breathe… The weight on my chest suffocates me… I can feel… the walls of my skull crushing my brain… No sleep.”

An older woman in glasses scribbled a note on her pad, saying in a soft voice, “I see… And this voice you talk about-”

“The voice of the night,” he interjected in a hoarse tone, feeling his heartbeat quicken. “Does he only talk to you when it’s dark?” Her brilliant eyes shone through her glasses.

He nodded in a jerking motion. “Yes,” he whispered. “It’s always him.”

“Jamie, have you been keeping that journal we talked about last week?” she asked, still scribbling.

Another jerk of a nod. “It’s… in my coat pocket.” “Do you mind if I read it?”

Jamie shook his head. “No… Of course not.” His eyes became fixed on a shady area in the corner of the room, and though a blanket of clouds shielded the sun from dancing that day, he thought he saw something move within the darkness. He jolted himself to an upright position, about to cry out when Dr. Abraham cleared her throat.

“This is… very interesting, Jamie…” She ran her finger down the small page and paused, asking, “Can I read this part out loud to you?” He tried to shift his gaze to her, but he couldn’t stop looking at the corner. “Go ahead,” he muttered, his sandpaper voice grating on his own ears.

“This is from last Wednesday,” she began, “‘He speaks to me in shrouded whispers, he says, “I am the voice you hear on the night whispering your worst fears into the depths of your heart. The sound of your teeth chattering as the cold wind bites you and forces your soul to shiver is a premonition of my arrival. When you look into an inky shadow and your mind forms all the fears you hide even from yourself, I am those fears. The flutter in your chest as you hear a rustle in the alley, the half step you walk faster when the streetlights are dim, the reckoning you know you will face in the afterlife… they are me, and I am them. When the twilight drips into the sewers, I will be there to haunt your every move, and when you close your eyes and view the darkness of your subconscious reflected on the backs of your eyelids, I will peel away the curtain and view it with you, for it is me and I will make myself known to you in ways you cannot imagine.”’, and then you go on to add, ‘can’t sleep.’… It’s very poetic. ” Jamie’s face was a deathly pale, his gaze stagnant and horrified as sweat began to build on his face. He pointed to the corner and whispered, “He’s there!”

“Who? Who is there, Jamie?” Dr. Abraham looked at the corner and frowned. “Do you see something there?” The patient shook his head. “I… I feel something there!”

“And what does this thing ‘feel’ like to you?” She pulled out her pad again.

“Like… Like him!” he said, frustration creeping into his voice.

“Like who , Jamie?” “The voice of the night!”

Dr. Abraham penned a few words. “And what does he feel like?” Jamie struggled for words, his hands gripping into the chaise lounge, though there weren’t many places to hold. Finally, he said, “Like… fear… asphyxiation… cold… But so cold that it burns… I… I can hear him now!”

“What’s he saying to you, Jamie?” Jamie swallowed, his brown eyes wide and his eyebrows arched into his hairline. He began in a voice not quite his own, “You can’t… escape… You can’t… hide. The nameless things you keep locked away, I will… make them bare. Sleep… sleep and I will find you in your dreams and make them nightmares of shadow.” “Jamie… Jamie ,” said Dr. Abraham, finally getting her patient to turn his head slightly towards her. “I thought you said this voice only comes to you when it’s dark. It’s two in the afternoon.”

“It’s dark,” whispered Jamie, tears welling up in his eyes. “I’m… tired… so tired, and the shadow is everything now… it’s dark.”

“Can you confront the darkness? Can you close your eyes?”

He shook his head hard, his hair swirling around. “He’ll find me.”

Dr. Abraham stood up and knelt next to Jamie, quietly saying, “Please try, Jamie. Please. You’re focusing on the darkness, but you need to be able to close your eyes. Try and find that within you. Remember when we talked about your favorite places?” “Yes…” She smiled and said, “You told me your favorite place was Hawaii-” “Waikiki Beach…” “Yes, Jamie. Can you go there right now? In your head, can you find the beach?” “It’s too dark to swim.”

“Think of a hot summer day… The sun a blinding beacon in a clear blue sky, the softness of the white sand beneath your feet, and the sweat cooling you down as a salty breeze hits you from the ocean. Lapping waves of clear water against a silky shore… Can you picture that?” “Uh-huh. But the clouds-” “There are no clouds, Jamie,” said Dr. Abraham. “Take yourself there…” “Okay…” “Alright, now… close your eyes.” “What?” Jamie’s voice was sharp.

Dr. Abraham pursed her lips and said, “Close your eyes on Waikiki Beach… Just follow my voice. Hear it over the kids laughing as they play, the music coming from up the shore, and the birds… Can you hear all those things, Jamie?” “Yes,” he murmured, finally closing his eyes, though his knuckles were still white as he held onto the couch.

“And can you hear my voice over those things?”

Jamie nodded. “Yes, doctor, I can hear you.” “Am I the only person whose voice you can hear clearly?” As tightly as Jamie gripped the couch, Dr. Abraham clutched her pen.

“No… Someone else…”

Jamie’s eyes almost opened, but Dr. Abraham swiftly replied, “Keep your eyes closed and focus on my voice. I’m there with you, Jamie, walking along the beach. The sand’s pretty hot, isn’t it?” “Yes… Can we… walk closer to the water?”

“Of course. Let’s go there.” Dr. Abraham paused and then said, “Can you feel the coolness of the water? How about the small waves just coming up to your ankles, testing their strength as they climb your shin with gentle fingers?”

“I can feel that… I like it.”

“I do too, Jamie. Now, I want you to keep your eyes closed, and just keep walking on the beach and following my voice until I say so, okay?” Dr. Abraham’s heartbeat was rapid as she looked at Jamie’s pale face beginning to relax.

“Now, you said there’s another voice. Whose is it?” Jamie frowned. “Deep… It’s… too deep.” “What’s too deep? The voice?” “No… the ocean. The water’s up to my waist… I don’t like it.” Dr. Abraham nodded. “Let’s walk back to the shore a little.” After a brief pause, she said, “There. Can you feel the water on your feet again?” “Yes.” “It’s no higher than my ankles, is it the same for you?” He nodded. “I like it.” The doctor smiled and adjusted her spectacles. “I do too. Why’d you go so deep into the ocean, Jamie?” “That’s where the voice is,” he replied. “It’s in the ocean… way out there.” “And you don’t like the ocean?” “I like the beach.” “Yes, but what about the ocean beyond the beach? Can you look out there for me now?” Jamie’s face tightened as his eyes turned beneath closed eyelids. “I don’t want to.”

“Are you scared?”

“Uh-huh.” Jamie’s voice gained an octave.

The doctor wrote furiously, trying to keep the pen light on the paper to avoid perturbing the scene. “What about the ocean frightens you?” There was a pregnant pause where each person took a few breaths; Jamie’s were rattled and Dr. Abrahams were constricted. At last, he replied, “I… can’t see in the ocean. My feet, my legs… what’s out there.” “So you don’t like that you don’t know what’s in the ocean?” “Yeah… It hurts me.”

“That voice you were talking about earlier, how does it sound?” Frowning, Jamie muttered, “Sounds like… me…” “What does that mean?” “I don’t know. I thought it was… you know, but maybe…” “You think the voice out there is you, Jamie?” asked Dr. Abraham. “Why do you think that?” “I… I don’t know. I like this place, but I don’t like the ocean.” “Because the ocean is unknown, but here you know everything?” Jamie took half a breath and said, “Yes…” “Did you feel that wind, Jamie? It came from inland… It’s warm.”

The patient smiled. “Yes, I felt it.”

“When you picture the ocean, is the sun there?” “No… no sun.” Dr. Abraham ticked off a few things. “What about clouds? Are there clouds?” “I… I don’t think so…” “Why are you so uncertain?” “I… the sky is black. There’s no light to tell me if there’s clouds, I can’t see anything-” Dr. Abraham noticed his knuckles go white and interrupted, “In the ocean it’s dark, but here where you are, Jamie, at the beach, it’s nice and bright. Can’t you feel the sun on your face? I can feel it.” For a horrifying moment, Jamie looked lost in the dark, but he relaxed and said, “I feel the sun here, doctor.” “Jamie, while we’re walking on the beach, can you tell me about your job?” “My job?” “Yes,” said Dr. Abraham, trying to push her heart out of her throat. “You’re a detective, right? I heard you’re pretty good.” “Detective… Yes, I think I am.”

“How long have you been doing it?”

Jamie frowned. “Six years… Why am I on the beach?” “We’re on vacation, Jamie. You and I. Look over to the left, what do you see?” “The ocean.” “Alright, and what do you see to the right?” “A white hotel.” “We’re staying there,” said Dr. Abraham, trying to refocus the conversation. “Can you tell me why you like being a detective?” “I… I like solving puzzles, and I like when people who have bad things happen to them… get justice.” Jamie’s face, though sweaty and fearful, began to show pride through the sternness of his chin and the furrowing of his brow.

“I think the tide’s coming in, Jamie, can you feel it?” “Yes… the water’s up to my ankles now.” “Please, tell me about the first case you solved.”

Jamie paused to ponder, and then said, “It was a burglary with vandalism… Over at the Conways’ place, d’you know them?” “I think I do. Continue.” “We found some prints. Turns out it was a maid they’d fired the year before who wasn’t happy with her severance pay.” Jamie smiled. “Pretty cut and dry.” “I bet you had a lot of cases like that.” “Oh yeah. It’s not exactly NYPD stuff.” “What does that mean?” Jamie chuckled and said, “Well, those guys have to deal with serial killers, mass shootings, gang violence… that kind of stuff. We mostly have small time break-ins and some car crashes, y’know?” “Hey Jamie, can you see those kids playing with the beachball over to your left?” After a moment, he said, “Yes…” “I think it’s cool how light it looks with the sun glancing off the side as it floats in the air. Do you find that interesting?” “Yeah, I suppose…” Jamie’s voice was slow but a smile played on his lips.

“Now, you were saying you mostly dealt with small crimes as a detective.” “Yes.” Dr. Abraham pursed her lips and asked carefully, “But not all the cases were like that, were they, Jamie?” His eyes moved from left to right beneath his eyelids. “No… No they weren’t.” “Can you tell me about your last case?” Jamie shifted uncomfortably in the chaise lounge, scratching the gray stubble on his face. “I… I don’t think-” “Focus on the tones of my voice over everything, Jamie,” said Dr. Abraham in a stony voice. “Hear the waves, the breeze, the birds, the people, and your breath, but follow my voice over all of them.” “Oh… okay.”

“Now, while we’re on this beach, do you think you can tell me about your last case?”

Jamie’s hands balled into fists, though his knuckles did not turn white. “The voice of the night… that was his name.” “Whose name?” “Dorian Smith… the night watchman.”

Dr. Abraham shook her pen to get the ink to the front, trying to write her thoughts down as fast and quietly as she could. “Who was the night watchman?” “Serial killer,” whispered Jamie, his voice no longer hoarse.

“And he killed at night?” “Yes.” The patient remained still in the chair.

“Had you dealt with a serial killer before, Jamie?” asked Dr. Abraham.

“Yes…”

“And why is Dorian different?” Jamie shook his head slowly. “I don’t know… We caught the other ones before…”

“Before what?” “Before they hurt someone in the department.” Tears began leaking out of Jamie’s eyes, but he didn’t wipe them.

“Who did they hurt in the police department?” Dr. Abraham waited for Jamie to answer, but when he did not, she asked, “What happened to Dorian Smith?” “We caught him… He’s in jail,” said Jamie, adding, “The water’s getting too high, doctor.” “It’s fine,” she said, “It’s just the tide.”

“Okay.” “Now, did he hurt someone in the department?” Jamie’s tears dripped on the chaise lounge. “Yes… Matty…” “Matty… Matthew Johnson? He was a detective, wasn’t he?” “My… partner,” he choked, “and his daughter… my godchild.”

Dr. Abraham paused and put down the pad and placed a delicate hand on her patient’s forearm. “Can you feel my hand on your arm, Jamie?” He nodded, so she finished, “I’m so sorry. Have you lost a partner before?” “Once,” said Jamie after a few deep breaths. “The water-” “That’s just the tide,” repeated Dr. Abraham. “What was your other partner’s name?” “Gary Smith…” She picked up her pad again and jotted down a few notes. “Did you seek help after Gary’s death?”

“No… I didn’t.” “I see. Why is that?”

“Didn’t need it.”

“You two weren’t close?” “We were close…” Dr. Abraham frowned. “Then why didn’t you need help? You didn’t hear voices after him, did you?” “No…” Jamie took a few thoughtful breaths, adding, “Gary died in a random shootout with some druggie who came up from the city to rob a place. It was an accident, and there’s nothing I could’ve done. I wasn’t even there… He was off-duty.” “Wasn’t Matty off-duty? He was killed in his home, and you were at your own home, right Jamie?”

“Yes, but…” he again took a few breaths before continuing, “There were clues… things I should’ve known that I didn’t. If I’d worked harder… If I was smarter, all the clues were leading to a cop being the next victim, and since we were the head detectives on the case, it was clear he or I was gonna be the target, but he had a family - wife, two kids… I had nothing. Dorian’s MO was big, flashy kills… I should’ve known it’d be Matty. I could’ve protected him.” “You think Matty died because of what you didn’t know?” asked Dr. Abraham. “I’m sure of it.” Dr. Abraham smiled. “Can you feel the water receding, Jamie? I think the tide’s going out.” “I… I feel it.”

“See, that’s what the tide does. It comes in, and sometimes it comes in quickly, but it goes out, too. The ocean can’t hurt you like this, when you know about the tides. Matty’s death wasn’t your fault. This ‘night watchman’ was - is, a criminal, and he’s been brought to justice because of work you did. Jamie, you saved countless lives when you brought him into custody. Thanks to you, that man won’t kill anyone again.”

“I… I guess.” His tone was uncertain.

Dr. Abraham silently took off her shoes. “You know, there’s a similarity between the darkness and the ocean, Jamie. Can you tell me what it is?”

“I don’t know.”

She padded over to the shadowy corner, finding the lamp with her hand. “Just like the tide, the darkness also recedes. Every night has a dawn.” She turned the light on.

“Why do you sound further down the beach?” asked Jamie.

“I’m just walking a little faster. You can follow me if you open your eyes .”

His eyes fluttered open, and he squinted in the light. “Doctor… Dr. Abraham… is that the same-” “The same corner, Jamie.” She walked back over to him and knelt by his side, smiling as she said, “Every time you close your eyes, I want you to go to the beach. Remember Matty, but remember all the good things about his life, not the circumstances of his death, and use it as a light. Can you do that for me?”

Jamie looked at the corner. “Yes…” “Now, I want you to go home and try to sleep. I’ll call you tomorrow.” Dr. Abraham stood up and led him out of her office.

Somehow, Jamie made it home in a daze as the sun set over his lawn. He went to his bedroom, lit by a hundred light bulbs, and began turning each one off. He closed his blinds and made his way to the bed, the last lamp on his nightstand fighting a losing battle with the shadows in his room. His heart began to beat quicker, a voice seeping into his mind, but he thought of the beach and of the tides, and the darkness retreated from his perception, the voice fading into an afterthought. Jamie slumped into the pillows with a small smile on his face, falling into dreams undisturbed by the voice of the night.


We stared at the highway, adorned with colorful graffiti, marred with cracks. The old section of Route 61 had been shut down for over a decade, and neither one of us had been back since when we’d left, forsaking the place of our youth, our home. Now, we stood upon deceiving colorful pictures and words, the silence surrounding us suffocating. Eerie. As if in just one more moment, the world would warp, or the ground would give out and we’d plummet into the darkness, our screams growing fainter until they went silent altogether. Or perhaps, we would just stand in silence forever, staring at the empty stretch of road, pondering what it meant.

“Well shit,” Nathan said finally. There was laughter in his voice, but it was uneasy. He nudged a crudely drawn heart with K+E written it with his foot. “Wonder if they’re still together.” A sly smirk played onto his lips, and he snickered, “Wonder if they even made it past high school.”

“Nathan,” I said. We had just gotten here, but I was already drained as if the trees took in my energy instead of carbon dioxide. Greif clung to my bones, glued my feet to the asphalt. In my mind, I could see everything as it had been back when I was a kid, back when there was more life than just shrubbery, when there was laughter and neighborhood barbecues, birthday parties and joy. Nathan’s mouth slipped back to a straight line. “Sorry,” he said softly. He slung an arm around my shoulder. “It’s okay, Conner.” “Yeah,” I murmured. Despite leading to the bones of a city, life flourished on both sides of the road, bright green just in time for spring. It was the kind of thing you saw in an instagram post along with a stupid caption like, “If the path is beautiful, ask not where it leads- Anatole France”. The path was beautiful all right, but all it led to was destruction and disaster. Smoke drifted lazily between the cracks in the ground- a painful reminder of the coal seam fire that raged on below our feet, licking away at the walls of the underground tunnels of our old mine town. “I can’t believe it.” I didn’t bother specifying what I meant, I wouldn’t have been able to. My heart was so heavy that I wondered if it’s weight would make me fall to my knees. My tastebuds screamed with the bitter sweet taste of nostalgia, mixed with something that felt like melancholy. Trees swaying in the wind, a perfect blue sky overhead, I wasn’t even sure this was reality anymore. “Is this real?”

Nathan gave me a weird look, shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket. “Yeah. It’s real.”

“But…” Nathan let out a heavy sigh. “This is where it all started.” He spread his arms wide and a pained smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. “This is Centralia.” The name of my hometown send a made my heart pang with a longing for something long lost, something that would never be found. Never be saved. “It’s not anything anymore,” I said, the words hollow, just the slightest bit sour. “Sure it is,” Nathan said easily. Like the trees, he swayed in the wind, not a worry in the world despite the fire roaring beneath our feet. It had burned for 27 years. It could burn for centuries more. “This is where you and I were born, where we grew up.” “That was twenty five years ago.” “Damn. I feel old now.” He nudged me with his arm. “But seriously Conner, you’re missing the point.”

“Mmm.” My thoughts were spiraling, down down down. Straining to reach the ground of a bottomless pit, they would go on forever. As if reading my mind, Nathan placed his hands on my shoulders and forced my eyes to meet his. “Don’t get in your head about this or I’m never taking you anywhere again.”

I shook his hands off me. “I’m fine with that.” He rolled his eyes. “Don’t take the fun out of this.” “This isn’t fun ,” I spat. “Are you forgetting the shit we saw here? We watched out neighbors cat fall into a sinkhole, hell, we saw a kid fall into a sinkhole. And, down the road, our old elementary school is crumbling down to the ground, and a few streets from that, there’s an empty lot where your house used to be, before it was plowed down, just like mine, just like every other one on the street, in the neighborhood, in the whole goddamn town . Our entire childhood doesn’t exist anymore, Nathan! The playground is rusted, the arcade is gone. Even the literal air we’re breathing is tainted. There’s smoke rising from the ground because the places we loved is burning from the inside out.” I shook my head, my anger evaporating, tears in my eyes. My heart had stopped clenching, had stopped doing anything for that matter. It’s familiar pulse had come to a halt, my fingers and toes felt cold from blood loss. In its place, an emptiness swelled, only to deflate and start it’s cycle again. “I don’t know why you wanted to come back. There’s nothing left.”

Eyes cast to the ground, Nathan spoke in a quiet voice. “I know. I know the bakery on the corner is gone; so is every other building. And I know everyone left, except seven. And I know it kills you to see all this graffiti, because these people didn’t care about Centralia until it was burning itself down. Truth be told, I wanted to come back to see if maybe it was all a lie. I wanted to find everything intact, and it’s not, but you’re wrong. There’s something left.” He looked up, eyes meeting mine. “Buildings don’t make it home, Conner. Neither does a zip code, or an address. Centralia doesn’t have any of that anymore; it’ll never have anything but toxic gases. We had to leave; you know that. We didn’t abandon it.” “I know,” I said finally. The words were swallowed by the breeze. A grin found its way to Nathan’s eyes, making its way to his mouth. “And besides, the best Centralia had to offer is still here.”

I rolled my eyes, fighting back a smile. “And what’s that?” “Me.” I laughed, and slowly but surely, the warmth returned to my body. “That was disgustingly cheesy.”

“Better than a fucking graffiti heart on an abandoned highway.” He cast a pointed glare to the red shape. “Wonder what happened to K and E. You think they got married?”

I snorted, heading back towards the car. Maybe at some point, Centralia would just be a folk tale; maybe it would crumble to dust, or be consumed by the fire raging beneath its surface altogether, but Nathan was right. Home was more than a point on a map. “K and E,” I mused, opening the car door. “You know, I have to say, I doubt they even made it past high school.”


   Every Halloween this happens. Some of the family believe it’s a gift and leaves treats for it, although others think it’s a bad omen or a curse. I’m the last of this family generation to get their “gift”. None of my family knows about Her. I don’t want them to, but I can’t even blame the stupid Black Cat because it had never shown up for me.     Anyway, my mom hurried me out the door so I wouldn’t be late for school. My mom’s ability was one that people called a blessing, she can change the color of anything she touches. I walk out the door with my younger sister, Lilian, even though she is younger than me she had been given her gift by the Cat before me. Her gift was a lot like our mother's where it involved colors. She could add color to things that were black and white and take color from things too. I was terrified to be given a gift. Everyone had to do something or some kinda test before they could use their hidden power.     My sister skipped ahead of me. We walked past the Kinder home, in front of the spookily decorated house sat a black cat with glowing yellow eyes. It sat so still I thought it was a statue, then it moved, its head tilted and tail flicked almost as to say “Your next”. I blinked and it was gone. Shuddering I raced to catch up to my sister.     The principal had wanted the small middle school of Rhaninege to be “spooky, fun, and festive” as she put it. One of the blow-ups was a man in a black hood with flashing red eyes, it looked to be on the verge of falling over in the wind.

   “That one’s new,” I said to Lilian, pointing to the man. We had made it a game, seeing who could find each new decoration that continued to appear each day. “I wonder why everyone thinks red eyes are so creepy?” I heard my voice say. Lilian looked at me with a curious face, one that was surely panted on my own.

   Someone behind me sneezed, causing both of us to look. It was one of my only friends, Neveah, who was almost always sick or with allergies. She was one of the few people who even noticed me let alone talked to me. I was seen as strange even though I was more normal than the rest of my family, but since I would say things like I did just now no one knew what to do with me. Everyone in my family had gone through training when they were young on how to conceal their powers. Yet I’m the odd one out even when some of my relatives go to the same school as me because I, the oldest one without powers have a hard time acting normal.    No one knows about Her and they can’t, not even my family would understand. If I started talking about another world or a different life I would be exiled from home and seen as a psycho.

   “Go on.” Said Lillian as she rolled her eyes and walked off to go be with her “popular girl”, friends. We stood there awkwardly for a few minutes until I broke the silence “Do you want to go to class?” As soon as I said it I knew how ridiculous it sounded, but Neveah just nodded and started to walk to the front of the school. I had to run to catch up.

    I loved English class it was one of the only times I could be myself. My teacher Mrs, Bill encouraged my stories and told me to put my creative imagination into them. From a valiant knight fighting an evil sorcerer to a humble youth pastor named Bert Rand. It was the only reason that I wanted to go to school. It was also the last class of the day and I could never believe how fast it went.

   I walked home alone. About halfway from school to home I started to get dizzy. Tripping on my own feet I fell, but I never hit the ground. After several seconds of black, I stood up and blinked as nausea faded. Shaking slightly I looked around taking in the large glass dome above me and the rows of children my age standing next to me. I was in the third row from the front. I didn’t understand, even if this was the doing of the Black Cat it wouldn’t have happened now, the tests have only ever happened on Halloween. A woman in a silvery dress walked up on a platform. She must be someone important because guards flanked where she was standing.    “Welcome, children,” She said speaking into a microphone, “My name is Aadya,” Aadya beamed at the crowd, she looked harmless but the way she held herself, it gave her a powerful feeling, like this woman was the one in charge. “We are looking for someone, someone to help us advance our kind and give us new talents and abilities.” She paused as if expecting us to cheer but when no one did she continued. “I know that some of you have these extraordinary talents but some of you need to be… returned. Speak up now or,” She waved her hand and soldiers grabbed the front row and pulled the kids forward. They then raised their weapons, I recognized one of the kids in the front on the far left, it was Neveah. I had to do something It didn’t matter if I exposed myself. Just as the soldier pulled his sword back readying to impale her, I flashed teleporting in front of her and taking the sword. A fierce pain erupted out of my chest. No matter how many times I have been stabbed it still hurt. When I didn’t fall over dead but instead pulled the sword out, the soldier started to panic. Something flew through the air and hit my neck, once again the world went dark.

   I woke up in what looked like a hospitable room thinking that maybe I had fallen and hit my head on the sidewalk but when my eyes came into focus I noticed Aadya and she looked mad. Once she saw that I was awake she put on a sugary sweet smile. “Good, you're awake. Let's begin,”

   I drifted in and out of consciousness for what seemed like weeks, every time I opened my eyes a new doctor was there. They were draining my blood I could see the tubes coming out of my arms. One time Aadya came in she wasn’t happy, she yanked me up and screamed at me, the doctors had to hold her back or I think she would have tried to kill me. Once she had settled down a bit she walked stiffly over to the bed, so close I could smell her perfume.

   “What did you do to the blood, you witch.” She snarled, I was confused I had no idea what she was talking about. She must have noticed the look on my face because she continued. “Our machines are of the highest technology and yet they can’t read your blood. Why?” It took me a minute, probably from the loss of blood, to realize what she was talking about.

   “I don’t know.” I lied, before she could question me further and discover my bluff the doctor came in and told her that she needed to leave. After giving me one last glare she walked out, slamming the door behind her. Not long after she left I passed out again.

   The next time I woke up there was a commotion that sounded like fighting. I wondered if Aadya was getting into a fight with the doctor. That idea was dismissed as soon as someone came crashing through the door. In my drowsiness, I didn’t know who it was but they pulled the tubes from my arms and yanked me up. I don’t know what happened next because I slipped back into uneasy unconsciousness but I got the feeling that I was teleporting and suddenly someplace place sunny. Not too long after maybe ten minutes I regained enough consciousness to sit up somewhat. Blinking as my eyes adjusted to the bright light I saw five people all with worried faces. I tried to get up but stumbled someone caught me.    “Here, drink this,” the voice said handing me a bottle, I took it eyeing it suspiciously. The liquid was a reddish pink and shimmered slightly. Even though I hadn’t seen the person who gave it to me, something told me to trust them, so I drank it. It tasted so bad, like spoiled milk but worst, I almost spit it out. Thankfully I didn’t because whatever it was after I drank it my head started to clear and the pain faded.

   “Thank you,” I said turning to look at them. I froze, in complete shock.    “You didn’t think I would just let you die, now did you?” Said the stranger. I knew them, but I didn’t even know what to say. I kinda just stared at him. The other people there watched me to see what I would do.

   “Stella, are you okay?” It was Nevaeh who spoke as she put her hand on my shoulder. I still didn’t know what to do. On one hand, is people who know me as Stella, kids who I go to school with, Nevaeh, Ella, who I was friends with, Chris, Preston, and Logan, who I didn’t really like but had classes with, and then on the other is Uriko who knows me as Star what am I supposed to do. If I say I know Uriko who is clearly not from our world with his red eyes and what people would consider strange clothing, I would expose myself in front of everyone and who knows what they do. What if when we get home they tell everyone? Not even my family will be able to protect me. So instead I cover it up.    “Ya, I’m just still a little dizzy, but we should get going so no one finds us.” I put on a smile and started walking toward a line of trees not far from where we started.

   “Wait,” I turned It was Uriko who had spoken, for half a second I was afraid he was going to say something like ‘don’t you recognize me?’ or call me Star, but instead he pointed in a different direction and said, “There is an abandoned house that way we can stay there until we find a way to send everyone home.” He started walking and everyone followed.

   “He’s so creepy, right?” Nevaeh said once she thought we were out of earshot. Some of the others were talking to each other it was clear that no one knew what to do other than follow the person they were all terrified of.

   “What do you mean? He saved you right?” I asked giving her a confused look she nodded. “I’m going to go talk to him” Now it was her turn to look at me with curiosity.

   “What he’s so strange, he just appeared right after they took you away and teleported all of us away. He hasn’t really said much.” She sounded concerned for me but she also gave the impression that she wasn’t going to stop me and when I walked ahead to talk to him she didn’t follow. It was a good thing that she didn’t because there were some things that I wanted to talk to him about.     “Uriko,” I started he looked at me but kept walking “Do you know why we’re here?” I asked he shook his head. I felt bad because he’s normally more talkative but I maybe I hurt his feelings by not saying I know him. Just as I was about to apologize he stopped and looked at something in the distance.    “There it is.” He said pointing to a small structure. It was getting dark and everyone was a little on edge. We walked up to it and everyone went inside except me and Uriko. “Are you ok?” He asked I did something between a nod and a shake.

   “Sorry,” I said looking at the ground. He gave me a confused look, almost as if to ask why. “I didn’t want them to know.” I stammered. He rolled his eyes. Even though his eyes are solid red I could always tell when he was rolling them because he would make a huffing noise at the end.    “Really? Do you really not think I know you by now? Literally every time you tell me about these kids you make it so obvious that you don’t want them to know.” He said pulling his hood over his head making him almost blend into the darkness that was deepening around us. “Good night Star,” He said retreating into the woods, the moon reflected off the sword strapped to his back. I walked into the house. Everyone was already settled and didn't see me make my way across the room. I fell asleep to the sound of someone snoring.

   I woke up late and everyone was in what looked like it used to be a kitchen crowded around something. I got up and walked over trying to see what everyone was looking at. It was Logan, he was holding what looked to be a dairy. When he saw me he shoved it into my hands, “Read this, out loud,” He said I gave him a look but I started at the top anyway.

   “‘September 15, it comes every night and for two nights it just stands there looking through the window and won’t go away. Some of the men had gone out to try to kill it but they didn’t come back. It is taller than my dad and he’s 6' and all you can see is its outline and glowing red eyes. Even though it's terrifying to have it just stand there it’s the third night that everyone fears. That's when it comes in and destroys everything. We hide in the attic and lock the door.’” I read aloud and looked at them.    “Do you know who they're referring to?” Asked Logan they all looked at me like the answer was obvious. When I didn’t answer, Logan garbed the book back and started reading “‘It is taller than my dad and he’s 6' and all you can see is its outline and glowing red eyes.’ Who does that sound like?” I finally realized who he was talking about.

   “You think it's talking about Uriko,” I asked afraid of what the answer would be. He nodded “But that doesn’t make any sense,” How could they think he would kill people for no reason? I started getting mad and confused. He saved them and they still think he’s a bad person.    I spent most of that day avoiding everyone. I did find Uriko and had a conversation with him. I wasn’t accusing him, I didn’t even bring up the idea that it could be him but I did tell him about the diary. He wasn’t mad at them for thinking it was him but he did look confused and said that he was only in this realm a week before we all showed up. He asked me why I cared what they thought about him and I had to explain once again that if they thought he was terrifying then they would think the same of me. He only laughed.    That night everyone ate fruit they had found and even though they were terrified they still ended up sleeping. I woke up in the middle of the night, figuring that I wouldn’t be going back to sleep anytime soon I walked to the front room and sat down on the torn-up couch. I heard something, it sounded like breathing and it was coming from behind me. I turned, standing outside of the window was a creature that matched the description of the thing in the diary but it was a lot more horrifying in person. Even though the window was broken and it could easily come in, it just stood there. I slowly got up and walked into the other room.    The closest person to me was Preston. I said a quiet apology and woke him up. He murmured as I pulled him into the room. Turning him around to face the window he spotted the creature, unlike me, he couldn’t see in the dark but it was light enough that he was able to see it. Instead of screaming or fainting like I thought he was going to do he just sat down and started crying. I felt really bad but I needed someone else to see it because no one would believe me. He eventually cried himself to sleep but I just sat there staring at it for the rest of the night until it turned around a left.

   That morning Uriko woke everyone up saying that he had found a way home. Everyone still thought that he was the monster. That didn’t change when I told them what happened of course no one believed me but Preston backed me up.

  “Why do you still defend him?” Chris asked me. At this time I was done.

   “Wouldn’t you defend your Father?” I yelled at them turning my eyes red and standing next to Uriko. At that moment everything went dark. When I could see again, I was in some sort of throne room. Sitting on the throne was the Black Cat, it jumped off and shifted mid-air into a black-haired woman in a black dress. She smiled at me. “Congratulations, you’ve completed the test.”


Half an hour has passed, and the entire cast's seething resentment towards Owen , the now former actor of main character Hamlet, remains unabated. Owen was expelled after allegedly disfiguring a fellow student in a horrifying act of bullying that shook the entire campus since the news broke out. To make matters worst, the expulsion occurred as the cast began wrapping up the final chapter of the famous Shakespeare tragedy, which means they have to start all the way over from the beginning, and a new actor needed to be picked, dragging Director Judge into a dilemma of whether to cancel the play entirely, or risk a major pay cut and rehire Hamlet . "We're not getting shut down, are we?" Horatio's actor Tim asks, distraught and choking up over the shocking incident. "Please don't cancel, we'll do it over again!" Ophelia's actress Violet begs. From Judge's understanding, the entire cast still want the show to go on, making the latter the best option, even with just 2 days on the clock. "Let's return to Act 1, Scene 1, Elsinore," Director Judge hollers at the cast, dialing the school telephone with a Student in mind, one who initially didn't get cast for the play despite knocking the audition out of the ball park due to being a girl, while Hamlet was always depicted as male. "Hey, Miss Hamilton," Director Judge starts. "Sorry to bother you, I just wanted to know if you could send Avalyn to the auditorium?" "Sure thing!" "Perfect, thank you so much!" Miss Hamilton hangs up and points her attention towards Avalyn , a girl sitting at a desk in the back of the classroom who has been reading a letter her mother left for her before her untimely death 3 years ago from a work accident. " Avalyn ," Miss Hamilton calls. " Director Judge asked if you could go to the auditorium." The request paints a smile on her face for the first time in a long time. She quietly nods and jolts out of her seat before sprinting out the door like a linebacker. "Careful, ma'am!" Miss Hamilton shouts as the door slams behind Avalyn , and she continues to barrel down the hallway towards the audition. Due to the school's massive size, it takes the average student six minutes to get all the way across the school by jogging, but Avalyn was filled with so much excitement from being called back into the auditorium- a room across the school from her classroom- that she wastes no more than two minutes despite tripping and colliding with the hallway tiles several times during her run to the auditorium. eventually, Avalyn is able to shove the main door open, startling the entire cast and even cancelling Tim's crying completely, replacing it with silence, accompanied by a thousand yard stare. "What are you doing here, emo girl?" Violet asks in an unkindly manner. " Be respectful, Violet, unless you wanna join Owen out of the play! " Director Judge shouts, fully aware of her terrible attitude but tired of it nonetheless. Violet snickers and moves on to her script. "Don't mind her behavior, I'm happy you showed up!" Director Judge tells Avalyn. "I tried to get here as fast as I can. What did you want?" "With Owen officially out as Hamlet , I would love if you could take on the role." Director Judge continues. " Your audition is still one of the best I've seen from a female student in all my years as a theater director, so it would be an absolute honor if you could give me the opportunity to work with you! " As someone who knew about the news surrounding Owen, Avalyn knew fully well that she was called into the auditorium to play Hamlet. Still, the update coats her entire body in goosebumps. "Thank you," Avalyn says more than a dozen times at rapid succession like a broken record. "I won't let you down! I've been a big fan of Hamlet ever since I was a child, my mother would read it to me all the time, even my dad would reenact the ending duel with me when I was thirteen," Avalyn rambles on until Director Judge politely interrupts her with a smile. "I'm happy to have you aboard," Judge says. "Stand right here." Judge points at the red plus sign shaped tape on the stage. Avalyn waddles onto the red tape. "Boys and girls!" Director Judge loudly starts. "Meet Avalyn Evelyn, The new actor of Hamlet!" Violet was deeply disappointed because she and Avalyn have never gotten along, but everyone else's faces lit up like a christmas tree as if Avalyn's very existence gave everyone a second chance at life. Tim charges Avalyn with the utmost delight. "Dude, you have any idea how happy we all are right now because of you?" Tim poses, looking at everyone but quickly noticing Violet's look of dread and anger. "Well, mostly eveyone." Avalyn shakes her head, bummed out that Violet still has a grudge against her. The biggest issue, however, is finding out why. Then she finally utters. " How on earth did she get the role of Hamlet? " Violet kicks off her rant. "For one, she isn't even a guy, so as a girl myself, this feels like pandering, and two, We literally hate each other!" "I don't hate anyone," Avalyn interrupts. "Why do you hate me , besides the fact that my character's a guy?!" Director Judge had enough of the arguing, as did everyone else who grew annoyed with Violet, so he snaps the fingers of his left hand and aggressively point at the hallway beyond the main door, signaling both Avalyn and Violet to head out. Violet storms out in a huff, and both Avalyn and Judge follow behind. "What is it this time?!" Violet shouts, echoing the vacant hallways. "We need to squash this feud once and for all because I only have 2 days left, and an entire month's worth of hard work is down the drain because one kid couldn't be bothered to be a good person," Judge stops to take a breath while pacing back and forth in the hall. "Why do you dislike her, Violet?" Judge asks. "She abandoned me at the movie theater three years ago when I needed her the most!" Violet begins to let it all out. "I was cheated on, and when you promised you would pick me up, you instead left me there! All by myself!" "I didn't mean to leave you there at all, Violet!" "So why did you abandon me? What could you have possibly gotten into that you had to do that to me?? I had to hitchhike home because of you! I was across the city from my home!" Avalyn begins breaking down into tears before snapping. "Police told me my mom was killed at work that night! No offense to you, but I couldn't do anything about it! I'm sorry! I tried to tell you, but you blocked me soon after I was supposed to get you!" The hallway grows silence yet again, the disbelief on Judge's face was clear as day, and so was Violet's. For a long moment, they stood still, locked onto each other's eyes. "I.. I never knew." Violet utters. "I know, because you blocked me. I would never try to hurt you, but that's all you did to me!" Avalyn looks at Judge. "Can I go back inside?" "Sure, we can go back inside," Judge says just before being cut off by Violet , who quickly jumps at Avalyn for a hug. "I'm so sorry. Is there anything I can do to fix this?" Avalyn pulls away from and looks at Violet. "Give me time. Let's finish the play. Just give me time." The girls calmly walk back inside and retrievs their scripts. The cast notice Avalyn's red eyes but decide in unison that it's best to move forward. Everyone opens to the scene Hamlet first appears in, and make an honest attempt at working together.