Halloween in a hotel, that’s what we’re doing this year since no one ever has enough room for the entire family to sleep. At first mom didn’t like the idea but she finally agreed, with the one condition that I had to do the planning, which I did. I found a gorgeous old Victorian home that was recently developed into a hotel and from the pictures I could just tell everyone will like it. It is in a safe area so the kids can go trick-or-treating. There is a charming brick fire place and a library to keep the adults busy. What was most striking to me while viewing the photos on the internet is that the interior looks so much like the Salvatore mansion from The Vampire Diaries. For all I know, it might be the place where the series was filmed. “Babe, we’re going to be late and you know how your mother feels about that.” Alex bursts through my thought bubble and through the bedroom door. “Just in time, please take my bag to the car while I grab my cardigan and vanity case. I’ll be down in a sec.” “Anna, do we really have to stay here? Look at this place! It gives me the chills.” Alex shrugs deeper into his jacket. “Look, I know you don’t like old homes but this was the only place I could find with fourteen rooms available and I already booked and paid all of them so there’s no turning back now” “Darling, you’re here! This place is amazing and the staff is so welcoming. Did you know the inside looks like the Salvatore mansion? I just knew I had to leave the planning in your hands.” Grace is clearly very excited. “Hi mom. Thank you, I’m glad you approve and yes I saw photos on the internet about the interior. Is everyone else here already?” I hug my mother and turn to grab my stuff from the car. At the top of the stairs of the wooden porch, lit up by tea light candles in mason jars hung from the ceiling, we are greeted by an elderly man who takes our bags. “Good evening and welcome to Happy Holidays hotel. You must be Anna and Alex, I’m Wilson. I am the butler and here to makes sure everything in the hotel runs smoothly. Come now; let me show you to your room.” Walking through the door I am amazed by how beautiful the place really is. The photos don’t do it justice. There are 8Cherry-wood furniture where you look and the most amazing rugs and carpets that simply invites you to lie down. Around the corner from the living room there is dark wooden spiral stairs which Wilson starts to ascend. Three storeys up, at the very top of the tower situated in the middle of the house, a huge solid wooden arched door awaits on us. Wilson opens the door and I’m left in awe. My focus is immediately pulled to the high four-poster queen-size bed in the middle of the room, complete with beige and blue Victorian bedding. In the far end a big cherry-wood vanity and chair. I step into the rom spinning around slowly taking in all the sights and smell. I smell coffee and get pulled back to reality. “Thank you Wilson, this room is fit for a queen.” I still can’t believe my eyes an feel a little absent-minded so much so that Wilson had to repeat himself. “Dinner is in half an hour if you want to freshen up. Are you alright, miss?” I simply nod and walk towards the bed where Wilson put our bags. Everyone is already seated at the large mahogany dinner table when I walk into the dining room. Everyone looks very festively but there’s something missing. “Wilson? Why didn’t you put up any Halloween decorations, it is all Hallows eve after all.” I ask while taking place at the table. Wilson smile and clap his hands together two times and like some sort of metamorphosis the house starts shifting. The kids scream, at first frightened but when they realise what is going on they start giggling. The table turns into a giant tree stump as the rest of the house, everywhere spider webs appear with realistic looking plastic spiders, in one seat at the table a skeleton falls into place as well as on one of the sofas in the living room. Wilson puts a cape on and show his vampire fangs and I can’t be sure whether or not it is real but it really looked that way. “It’s not Halloween if you don’t experience the transformation yourself, miss.” Wilson says while taking his seat. “Thank you Wilson, it was a nice surprise. Trick-or-treating is at seven right?” “That’s right miss, I’ll stay here and hand out candy.” The kids plunge down on the sofa when we get back to the hotel. Walking around the neighbourhood for an hour is not easy even for me but it was a lot of fun. There were some cute angels, a few ghosts and Frankenstein’s and even a devil and so much other monster and fairies and princesses. There was also one family the dressed like goldilocks and the three bears. The kids received a lot of candy and other treats toys and ghostly story book and as a tradition mom took everything so it can be divided equally between them and so that the amount of candy they eat can be controlled. “Come on kids. Fun’s over. Time for bed you know the rules and don’t forget to brush your teeth.” At once they all get up dragging their feet with their bag of treat under one arm but eventually they were all in bed. I decided to follow by example and head upstairs as well except I can’t manage to fall asleep. I can hear the floorboards creek throughout the house and somewhere a ghost is howling but that has to be my imagination right? Eleven in the evening, Alex is out like a log and my imagination is running away with me. A thousand thoughts and questions cross my mind but one remains – Is Wilson really a Vampire?


Evelyn Harper stood in the middle of her new, old house, hands on her hips, surveying the chaos around her. Dust motes danced in the rays of the late afternoon sun that filtered through the grimy windows of Hawthorne House, a crumbling brick 150-year-old Tudor-style home she saved from demolition a month ago. Like her, it had seen better days—weathered by time and neglect but still standing, resilient. The house was a reflection of her current state: aged, weathered, but not without hope for restoration. Recently divorced after 25 years of marriage, Evelyn was grappling with the aftermath of her husband leaving her for a younger woman. The parallel was painfully clear—both she and the house had been abandoned, deemed outdated, and past their prime. She rolled up her sleeves and decided to take on the renovation herself, not just to revive the house but to reclaim her own life. Stripping it down to the studs felt symbolic, a way to lay bare her soul and rebuild from scratch. With a hammer in hand, she began to shatter holes in the old, stucco walls in the living room, releasing decades of rot and forgotten memories. As the material broke away in brittle, yellowed chunks, Evelyn’s hammer struck something solid and unexpected behind the wall. She paused, curiously prying at the wallboard until a small, hidden compartment was revealed. Inside, wrapped in a tattered cloth, lay a manuscript. She carefully unwrapped it, revealing a sheaf of aged papers handwritten in an elegant script. The title, scrawled across the top page, simply read: "The Mirror." Intrigued, Evelyn settled into an old armchair with the manuscript, the room silent except for the occasional creak of the house settling around her. The story began innocently enough, describing the life of a woman named Constance. But as Evelyn read on, a chill ran down her spine. Constance's life mirrored her own in uncanny detail—her struggles, her heartbreak, her resilience. The more she read, the more she felt an eerie connection to the character. Constance, as it turned out, had lived in the house nearly a century ago. Her husband had left her for another woman, leaving her destitute and alone. Desperate to make a new life for herself, Constance moved into the old abandoned house, hoping to restore some semblance of it and herself. The structure had seen better days and was dilapidated even then, according to the narrative. Its very origins seemed to be shrouded in mystery. Evelyn paused her reading to retrieve and inspect the closing documents for the house. Inside the folder her realtor provided was a yellowed document—the house’s deed, revealing that it had stood for over 150 years. The property had passed through many hands since its beginnings, each owner seemingly drawn to it during times of personal crisis. There was one peculiar clause in every transaction: the mirror above the mantle must remain. Every owner had agreed to keep it there, including Evelyn. She found herself staring at the ornate fixture, sitting on the oak mantle above the woodburning fireplace, its gilded frame tarnished but still striking. It was as if the mirror held the secrets of every soul who had ever lived there. What stories had it witnessed? What pain and suffering had it absorbed and reflected back at its occupants? Determined to uncover more, Evelyn resumed her renovation work, now with a heightened sense of purpose. She found herself frequently drawn back to the manuscript after a long day of demolition, piecing together Constance’s tragic story. Constance’s journey mirrored her own too closely to be a mere coincidence.

As she tore down more walls, Evelyn discovered hidden compartments and items left behind by previous tenants. An old pocket watch, a child’s toy, a faded photograph—each relic told a story, adding layers to the house’s history. It was as if the place was a living entity, its walls imbued with the memories of those who had once called it home. The manuscript described how Constance had discovered similar items, reminders of previous tenants, during her renovation. Each discovery brought her closer to understanding that there was a dark presence haunting the house. Constance believed the restless soul of the house’s original owner, a woman named Eliza, who suffered a great betrayal and loss, was attached to the house somehow, perhaps through the mirror on the mantle. Evelyn felt a growing unease, but she couldn’t stop reading. The manuscript had a strange, almost hypnotic pull. The story of Constance’s confrontation with the spirit was both terrifying and compelling. The more she read, the more she felt the boundaries between her life and Constance’s blur. One evening, as Evelyn was reading, the lights flickered, and a cold draft brushed past her, raising goosebumps on her skin. She glanced around the dimly lit room, her breath floating on the air as if it were winter, yet it was the middle of summer. Was it her imagination, or did she hear whispers? Determined to shake off the fear, Evelyn continued reading on the off hours of her work. This manuscript was simply the ramblings of a lonely old crone, yet it was compelling. Constance recounted experiences similar to Evelyn’s as they practically mirrored each other’s efforts in turning this home into something worth celebrating versus another forgotten relic.

Evelyn reached the story’s last pages just as she brought down the final wall and began to plan for the house’s upgrades in plumbing and electricity. In the story, as Constance also approached her renovation’s turning point, she was faced with another setback. One of the men she had hired to help with some of the more technical work had run off with the money she had fronted him, along with some of her most valued possessions she had locked in a trunk in the basement. In her anger, Constance picked up a hammer and threw it at the mirror on the mantle. To her shock and horror, the hammer bounced off the frame and hit her right between the eyes. She dropped to the floor in a daze. As she lay there, certain death had finally come for her, Constance swore the mirror followed, hovering over her body as if someone were holding it aloft. Unable to look away, she was forced to confront her deepest fears and face the parts of herself she had hidden away. Paralyzed, either by terror or her wound, she watched as it revealed her darkest secrets and most painful memories. She saw herself as a young woman, full of hope and dreams, then as a heartbroken wife, and finally as a lonely, abandoned soul. The mirror reflected her insecurities, failures, and the pain she had tried to bury. It showed her the moments she had been too afraid to face, the decisions she regretted, and the love she had lost. Constance had to confront each of these reflections, acknowledging the pain and guilt she carried. The mirror demanded that she accept her past and the choices that led her to her current state. It was a brutal, emotional battle, each image a blow to her already fragile spirit. But as she faced these impressions, she began to understand that the only way to free herself—and the house—was to let go of her despair. Evelyn glanced at the mirror and thought of her despair and unresolved pain. Did the house, like her, need to be cleansed of its past to embrace a new future? With trembling hands, she turned the page and read the final words Constance wrote. As her eyes flew over the words, the house seemed to shudder. The air grew thick, and the whispers she'd heard over the weeks of reading and demo turned into a cacophony of voices. Evelyn felt a surge of energy, a powerful force pushing against her. She held the pages firm, rereading the final verse when the lights blinked out. A popping sound and the shattering of fine glass pulled her from her trance. Then, complete and utter darkness like none she'd ever experienced. “It appears to have been some kind of power surge. Not surprising in a house of this age. Although, my guys swore they had disconnected the main circuit from the grid outside before they left. In my twenty years as a general contractor, I’ve never seen every light in the house shatter at the same time,” Dave, the project manager, explained to Evelyn the next day. She swallowed a lump in her throat and nodded. “I was using battery-operated LED lights throughout the house. It doesn’t make any sense. Literally, nothing was turned on.” “You’re lucky it didn’t start a fire!” “Yes,” she whispered, looking at the mirror on the mantle, then down at the wrapped pages she held against her chest. “Is it fixable?” “My guys are double-checking everything right now before they bring in the new meter and wiring. We’ll have this place lit up like a Christmas tree before you know it.” The thought sent a profound sense of peace through Evelyn. With the house filled with light and warmth, it would no longer feel neglected or abandoned. A light breeze blew through the open front door, rustling her hair. It was as though the end of Constance’s story had released some terrible blight from the very fibers of the house. Evelyn smiled, feeling a renewed sense of purpose. The house, like her, had been given a second chance. She knew there was still much work to be done, but for the first time in a long while, she felt hopeful. The past, with all its pain and heartache, had been exorcised, leaving room for new beginnings. As she looked into the mirror above the mantle once more, she saw not a reflection of despair but of a woman and a home reborn, ready to face whatever the future held.


Prologue An Italian Villa Italy Her tiramisu now a decadent constellation of espresso-soaked crumbs across a vast nine-inch expanse of luxuriant eggshell Milanese Corel, the tip of her newly Botoxed tongue delicately savored the exclusive nespresso the Giardino Degli Ulivi shipped in daily from the Cluni di Vito Valley. She could be forgiven her cosmic meanderings – the renowned Dr. Tyson had addressed the conference this morning, and the former boxer and honorary doctorate in pugilistic romance had closed his keynote with a random prose recitation of When You Wish Upon a Star . Donatello, the muscular young waiter who’d earlier decanted her moscato with a deft twist and a tug, removed her dessert plate, accidentally touching her hand from the opposite side of the table. It lingered for a moment – the ristorante had earned five Michelin and four Goodyear stars for its exquisitely tacky raspberry drizzle. She yanked free first – she’d already enjoyed the favors of the bronzed and reticent boi di pool  Leonardo, the masseuse con lieto fine Raphael, and village travel agent Michaelangelo, who’d sold her her Vespa rental policy. Tan aged muted insured tourists were normally her taste, but it was the off-season. “And how does the signora like the tiramisu Toscana di buoza con java a la madonna ciccione ?” Donatello purred.  “I (***)  it -- it called to mind my favorite pasteria cucina di casuale off the Newark Airport Turnpike,” she murmured, savoring the memory of perpetual zuppa and breadsticks and the quaintly homicidal calls of the Jersey villagers. “Ah,” Donatello smiled radiantly, squeezing her thigh in the continental manner as he replenished her water and swept the crumbs from the Napolese red-checked table cloth. “As my people say, when you’re here, you are like famiglia.” She looked down blushingly to retrieve her Discover Double Platinum card, but when she looked back up, he was gone, as was the local custom whenever one was ready to pay and vamoose . Though there were only three empty tables on the terrace and two inside and Donatello’s five brothers working the front of the house, she settled in with her ’22 Moscato for the customary 35 minute wait and gazed off at the Tower of Pisa and the Coliseum and Vatican City and Tuscany and the canals of Venice to the east. The woman appeared as if out of nowhere, like a wraith from the pearly gates of Hell. Bundled in cloak and shawl and an ankle length skit and blocky goat-leather shoes, the blocky, compact woman swooped in nose-to-nose with the four-time National Book-ish Prize winner. Her eyes, set in a flat froggish face, were goggly and dead. “You (***)  your tiramisu?” she sneered. “You (***) your continental breakfast, your morning McCafe di Latte , your how you say conference bag of swag. You (***) the crazy tattooed man with the voce di una bambina and the Jiminy Cricket.” “Mike Tyson is a global treasure,” the author whispered. “ Basta fondu ,” the crone shrieked. “Your kind, you talk of (***), you write of (***), you fill the Hallmark and the Lifetime and the Prima di Amazona with (***), but you know nothing of it. You take all meaning out of it, you sell it like lire candy at a 100-Lire General or a Euro Tree. It is an obscenity from your torta hole. “No longer! By the gods of Daniella Steel, I curse your tribe, your famiglia, your entire genre and your publishing casas! Only death and misery will come to you who henceforth blaspheme this most sacred of words. Salagadoola mechicka boola bibbidi-bobbidi-boo!” “Hey, you!” a strong, ruggedly masculine voice roared. “How dare you terrorize this bella signora , the generosa tipper, this Rewards Club Triple Titanium member! Scram, you!” She couldn’t understand half of Donatello’s threat, but she felt a throbbing pulse of gratitude as the hag glared back and disappeared eventually after fumbling with the terrazza gate latch. Her eyes locked with Donatello’s, and their bodies quickly became as one on the checkered tablecloth until the first screams echoed from the Motel Sei/Boyardee Arena-Convention Center below… Chapter 1 Alexis Integra Chatt muted her office/parlor TV as the Best of CNN scanned across the Boyardee Center ballroom, littered with the corpses of 323 of the world’s premiere romance writers sprawled amid blood and mimosa. “I came to you as a sort of last resort,” “Bridgit Towne” admitted. She’d been a hometown gal-pal from A.I.’s cupcake scone days, but they’d drifted apart after Alexis severed all cozy ties and set up shop in Atlanta as a steamy-adjacent paranormal investigator and notary. After the tragedy in Italy, Brigit had gone off the grid and abandoned her famous nom de plume . “InterpolCon was going on at the Extended Stay Italia next door, some old Belgian detective was investigating a murder on an overcrowded gondola, and this meddling mystery writer from Maine was visiting her great-aunt-cousin in Tuscany,” Bridgit resumed. “But none of them had a clue. Why I came to you.” Alexis noticed the writer worrying a beaded WWJCD bracelet. She’d never been particularly religious before, aside from a controversial wooing scene between her heroine Shonda and a brawny, no-nonsense Anglican vicar in The Christmas Wood . “You think this woman was some kind of supernatural manifestation?” Brigit grinned sheepishly as she spotted A.I. spotting. “I know it sounds crazy except maybe to you, but I always ask myself, ‘What would Jackie Collins do?’ I think she’d want to consider the possibilities. The old woman had eerie, soulless eyes, and the restaurant patio gate had a fairly simple latch mechanism, but she couldn’t seem to work it. As if she’d never before encountered a human patio gate .” It seemed like flawless logic, but A.I. needed to dig in on the specific non-human entity with which she might be dealing. “Look, you want a glass of wine? I’m out of white, but Dvlknish found an old Amontillado behind one of the walls.” “I’d lo--, I mean, I would appreciate and enjoy some, but I gave up the booze after Italy. I’m a sloppy drunk, and I can’t afford to get loose-tongued – at least in the verbal sense. This thing has been a nightmare. We’re all running scared. I had to buy a Roget’s Thesaurus, and half my readers say they’re having trouble getting soft because of confusing synonyms and nuanced emotions. Try getting the juices flowing when Kristen looks deeply into Cody’s cobalt eyes and declares her ‘intense interpersonal regard.’ “Without beach reading, tourists are venturing too close to the sharks. Tastefully Aroused Mothers for Editorial Decency have boycotted the major romance publishers. The TAMED wackos said we’re now promoting ‘sex without buffers,’ and as a result, there’s an epidemic of embarrassing moments at afterschool waiting zones and on public transit.” “And just what do you want from me?” “Find that old witch and make her lift the curse,” Brigit demanded.

Chapter 13

“So she what, smelled like an animal, had BO?” More and more woke were-creatures were going the Thinner / Drag Me To Hell route rather than simply dining and dashing.. I considered the possibility of full-moon shape-shifters until Donatello roared with earthy, robust, Old World laughter. “No, no, my lovely signora! When I was a foolish young man, I sought to become a fragrance millionaire, until I realized food service and customer seduction were my noble calling. And that the only, er, how you say, tail one finds in the perfume trade are financially strapped mid-life actresses. There is only so much Natalie Portman one can withstand, capisce? But I have retained one very specific talent — the ability to identify any fragrance, from Stetson to Obsession 5: The Arousing. This old village woman fairly, how do you say, reeked of Pfish.” “Fish??” “No, no,” Donatello chuckled hononymically. “Pfish, by Zuckerberg. ‘Hack into her IP.’ It’s very popular with one of our Premiere Molybdenum Reward Abusers; as I said, musky. And there was a faint note of sulfur — she reminded me of my precious Zia Maria in the village of Catania. Well, she was not precisely my ‘aunt’ — more like my nonna Sbarra’s nurse. Well, nursing student, well, pre-nursing—“ “Whoa-kay!” Alexis sang, ringing off. Chapter 25 It was unusual to see the Italy area code on her phone twice in a single day. Dvlknish was an ursine lump next to her, rumbling in post-coital contentment somewhere between a badger with a deviated septum and a woodchipper snagged on a driftwood badger with a delicately carved deviated septum. The Syburslovenian hacker/plagiarist was a manly sleeper and an earnestly motivated lo—, er, partner. Now

I’m  doing it, A.I. thought. Then she remembered the phone call, and slipped into the hallway to connect. “Bon giorno, Signora Chatt?” the policeman inquired. “I am so sorry to interrupt your, ah, shift at the lumberyard? You talked to a Donatello Gnocchi today. I regret to inform you Signore Gnocchi was murdered this evening. With his dying breath — well, his next-to-final breath — he asked our responding officer to tell you he knew how it was done, whatever

it  was. “Sadly, with his actually dying breath, he died before he could finish his final message. He seemed to indicate his, how do you say, grandmama, committed these horrific murders at the Boyardee. From what his manager told us, Sbarra Gnocchi died in Catania in 1921, when Etna erupted during her weekly trip to the Mercato Della Spazzatura Sfusa a Buon Mercato, or as you call it, Costco. Crushed after knocking over a palette of panini makers – you cannot make sudden geological noises around the old, you know?” “But he was positive his grandmother was responsible for the deaths?” “He looked straight up at my officer – he had very striking azure eyes, as deep nearly as the Corsican coast, by the way – and moaned ‘Nana’ before perishing. We will miss our young Donatello – no man was more skilled or generous with the parmesan grinder. Or with certain other implements of his trade, if you catch my--” “Whoaaakay.” ** Dvlknish grunted as Alexis squirmed anxiously beside him on the couch she’d snagged at Lovecraft and Derleth’s downtown . He’d always looked forward to NCIS Monday, Wednesday, and Thursday, especially after struggling all day with a new genre. Romance was the Syburslovenian immigrant’s meat – along with wild marmot, javelina, and ring bologna – and the growing wave of authorial panic had spread to the international bootleg underground. Her Knish had little knowledge of American law or justice, and he’d written himself into a corner following the Chapter 1 mandatory street execution of The Audi Attorney ’s jaywalking client. Syburslovenians were soft on toxic microchip dumps and bioweapons storage, but they respected the yellow lines and the thin blue line that protected them. As Alexis’ cheek and Dvlknish gnawed distinterestedly at his third heron leg, she became concerned over his peckish appetite. She patted his thigh, felt the hollow clonk of titanium, and patted the other one. They locked eye and eyes, and he grunted with a contrite grin, slurping heron skin into his maw. As the Eskimos have literally dozens of words for snow, so the Syburslovenians have more than 100 guttural expressions for that deepest of human emotions. More confusing, all meant roughly the same thing. A broasted marmot, a coral sunset, an adorbs feline video, A.I.’s fingers on the pelt of his shoulder, L.L. Cool J charging into a hijacked luau on behalf of an obscure law enforcement agency that, oddly, every cop and civilian alike seemed to recognize – all were articulated within the same spectrum of affection. A.I. knew from her recent brief experience as an investigator of the arcane and uncanny that there was no value in playing chicken with the unknown. She grunted her desire throatily, and suddenly, Dvlknish abandoned all hope of discovering who the poi smuggling ringleader was. During the commercial break, pulling a jagged Cool Ranch from her sweaty hindside, Alexis filled Dvlknish in on Donatello’s murder and the mystery surrounding the untraceable mass hemorrhage of the world’s most distinguished romance writers. Her soulmate stirred and grunted contemplatively. “I know,” Alexis said. “It bothered me a little, too. He’d called his grandmother Nonna during our earlier conversation, and yet he used the non-Italian term ‘Nana’ with the policia . And there was the matter of the old woman’s and, presumably, the killer’s perfume…” Dvlknish struggled from the couch and ambled for the bedroom. He returned a moment later flapping an Eastern European men’s fashion magazine, Coat and Coverings . Dvlknish located a center spread ad featuring a flamboyantly dead-eyed Mark Zuckerberg brandishing a slim flask of amber liquid, as a gaunt but blocky Syburslovenian supermodel fawned at his flank. Dvlknish scratched vigorously at the ad and pushed it into Alexis’ face. Her eyes widened. “Pfish,” she murmured. “I detect floral notes, an essence of lightly singed motherboard, but there isn’t anything remotely musky, as Donatello suggested.” Alexis paused. “But maybe Donatello was simply being more direct. And the vague side note that reminded him of his family in Sicily. Donatello’s nonna lived in the shadow of Italy’s tallest volcano.” A.I. bounced up and scrambled to her office laptop. Dvlknish attempted to reconnect with NCIS: Montpelier as she rapped away at the keyboard. Soon, Alexis reemerged bearing a sheaf of paper. “I got it! I jumped onto House Hunters’ list of dormant volcano-adjacent megahomes in the $1-$10 billion range. Donatello didn’t realize how on-the-head he actually had been. And there’s the final piece of the puzzle.” Dvlknish followed her index finger to the TV screen, where thanks to Amazon’s cutting-edge Fortuitous Network Crime Show Timing technology, a sturdy, bald man with an elaborate roommate-prank facial tattoo and the voice of some forgotten Warner Brothers cartoon character was hosting the Nobel Prize Awards live on Nickelodeon. As a  rivulet of green slime doused a group of Stanford astrophysicists, he grunted excitedly. Chapter 47 Like most volcano lairs, mandatory safety exits were discreetly located at the base of the cone –you didn’t fuck with Micronesian building codes. The supervillain’s base was not terribly difficult to locate, thanks to the corporate logo carved into the side of the hardened lava slope. It was a Sunday, and she knew her prey was not about to pay overtime for a special forces-trained security detachment. The few dozen tech-slaves docked into their coding stations or playing foosball on their three-minute meal breaks were easy to dispatch or bribe with energy drinks and Takis. “I heard Mike Tyson was scheduled to officiate the Nobies, and I stopped to wonder why he hadn’t died with the rest of the romance writers,” I said to the man in the huge chamber next to the executive Starbucks, who peered at a bank of monitors now displaying dead and hyperactive Gen-plusser nerds. “Ms. Chatt,” Elon said, an Angora cat in his lap. He placed the steaming platter of feline au poivre on his mammoth desk, and his goggly dead eyes narrowed. “Do you realize how many Indonesian fifth graders I’m going to have to hire to make up for this loss in productivity?” “That’s why you did it, am I right?” Alexis forged on. “You dosed those poor simpleminded saps’ mimosas, but Tyson was keynote. Mike would never have drunk before a PowerPoint.” “My understanding was the authorities have been unable to trace the substance used,” the first man to ding the Moon with a recreational shuttle murmured. “Because it wasn’t a ‘substance.’ That sweet, hot cheese-grinder you murdered? His dying message suggested his grandmother had committed the conference slaughter, but I realized he was identifying the method of murder. Not Nana, nor Nonna, but nanobytes . You or your employees at Tesla’s Tuscan mimosery injected millions of destructive microrobots into the writers’ brunch booze. They deconstructed organ and membrane walls until the victims hemorrhaged to death, then exited through their capped and bleached orifices, blending into the eventually cleaned-up blood. “I knew we were dealing with some implausible tech-thriller weapon when I realized Donatello meant the old lady on the terrazzo smelled ‘Musk-y.’ SEC and CNBC filings show you bought and replicated Zuckerberg years ago – he’s so obviously AIed. As the staff at the Motel Sei will attest, Pfish is their sole Premiere Molybdenum Reward Abuser’s favorite fragrance.” “Very good, Ms. Chatt,” the Space X sky jockey and fire car maker purred. “Love -- exciting and new, right? Not for me. Employee families and external relationships, coitus in the server banks and cloning labs, three-minute lunches that turn into five-minute lunches as team members linger over their ramen and gruel and the latest Kristin Hannah or Celeste Ng or Susan Wiggs. Employees calling in sick to catch Hallmark’s third-quarter Christmas and first-quarter Valentine’s marathons? Love hurts – the bottom line. I cleared barely 18 figures this fiscal month, and the Dark Old Ones – er, I mean the board and stockholders – are extremely unhappy. Fortunately, you have no proof of your ridiculous allegations, so I won’t even bother to kill you.” Then Elon blinked as the item in my right hand glittered in the lair’s blue light. “You would have gotten away with it,” Alexis smiled tightly, “except the execution of a perfect mass murder and your role as the old village witch sapped your blood sugar and you grabbed a quick snack at the Giardino Degli Ulivi. Namely, their signature after-dinner Andes Mint. An Andes Mint degrades in roughly 3.14 minutes, or 10 seconds inside an expensive suit or pants pocket, and this wrapper from the scene of the curse is coveed with your chocolatey prints.” Before Elon could leap for his phone and his attorney’s programmed number, three dozen Mossad-trained, taurine-fueled TMZ correspondent and gossip wranglers rappelled into the volcano. “You forgot,” Alexis ginned. “When you’re at Giardino Degli Ulivi, even illicitly, you’re like family.”


Prologue It's difficult being the funny guy.

The guy who is always down for a good time, ready to be the life of the party.

"Hey Johnny!

Sing us a song!"

Or, "Hey Johnny! Moon those girls over there!” Or, my personal favorite, “Hey Johnny!

You got the blow?”

I smile.

I laugh.

I perform.

Like a monkey trained to do tricks, or a circus freak. Don't get me wrong - being the life of the party is better than not being invited at all.

In fact, more often than not I enjoy myself.

But sometimes...sometimes I think it would be nice to just fade into the background.

To be on the outside, tapping on the glass, waiting for the apes to do something cool. That's hard when you live a life like mine. I'm blessed, really.

I have a career I love, a partner I adore. But there is still a void. An emptiness to fill. With religion. With drugs. With alcohol. With sex. With money. With adrenaline. With more emptiness.

Thankfully, I’ve learned how to keep my mask in place. I hope it holds. One “Have you seen my purple tie? The Armani one?” David enters the room wearing nothing but a towel, lovingly places the tie around my neck, and kisses my cheek, then disappears back into the en suite of our master bedroom. I love David. I hate award season.

It reminds me of my mom. Every year since I was eight she had been my date for awards ceremonies.

Even at 15, hormonal and madly in love with my young ingenue, it was my mom on my arm for the red carpet. Now, at 35, this is the first time I will attend an award show without her on my arm. Not that she was June Cleaver or anything.

Maybe if June Cleaver had trouble with day drinking and made a habit of bringing home strange men...but she was my best friend.

The one who gave me my first drink, then paid to have me sent to rehab after my fifth DUI. The one who helped me key the car of the first boy who broke my heart - then found someone else to blame for it.

The one who would walk through fire if what I needed was on the other side of it.

David is great.

He has never been jealous of my mother, but I know deep down he is excited for his red carpet debut.

He has this kind of effortless charm and swagger that makes him somehow youthful and wise simultaneously. The cameras will love him and the fans will eat him up. Maybe his presence will overshadow my mom’s absence.

If another reporter asks me what it’s like to go through award season without her I might take out my grandfather’s pocket knife and slice through their carotid artery.

And as if all the stress of my mother’s passing wasn’t enough, I am tonight, for the first time, nominated for an Academy Award.

I take the purple pocket square from my dresser and tuck it into my suit pocket.

I had it made from the dress my mother was supposed to wear tonight- keeping a piece of her close to my heart - for luck. Boy do I need it. Two We arrive at the Dolby Theatre around 6:00.

Our driver steps out to let us in, but before he does, I turn to David. My eyes fill with tears as I confess. “I can’t do this.” David places his hand over the pocket square on my chest, looks into my eyes and says, “Let’s go bitch.” He always knows how to lighten the mood. I give him a kiss, then steel myself for the shutter of cameras and the onlookers calling my name.

I put on my mask - my boyishly handsome grin - and step out of the vehicle.

My AppleWatch reminds me to breathe.

I get it, now leave me alone The first reporter to greet us is from TMZ - my favorite… “How are you feeling tonight Henry? Your mother’s absence is heavy on all our hearts.” No Shit Sherlock So much for David being a good distraction. I reply. “Man, you know...I just can’t stop thinking of how proud she would be in this moment.

I’m sure her ghost is standing right here in front of us posing for the camera.

There’s no way she would let a pesky nuisance like death cause her to miss being here with me tonight. Here I’ll pose with her.” I strike a Charlie’s Angel pose - one that has become somewhat of a signature for my mom and I - and as I do, I almost convince myself that I feel her back against mine; smell her perfume in the air; hear her laugh echo down the carpet. But as quickly as the moment comes, it passes. It’s just me, alone, performing while the tourists tap on the glass. Every other interview goes about the same.

I recycle the same three or four comments about my mom so that different reporters have different sound bites, but my heart isn’t in it.

The truth is, my mom really carried the bulk of these interviews. I never realized how much of it until tonight.

When we finally make it inside, I excuse myself to the restroom.

I don’t worry about David.

He will be happy to play social butterfly and brush elbows with some of the movie greats. As for me - I need to escape. Three I stare at my reflection. My tan skin. My perfect teeth. My hair cut just-so. My clean shaven face. My double chin.

My crow’s feet, subtle, but noticeable. I look like my mother. Except for my empty, gray eyes.

Her eyes were always full of life. Suddenly a bead of sweat drips down my back. I try to blink back tears, but they roll down my cheek. My chest tightens.

I feel a rush of blood to my head.

I’m going to pass out. I shouldn’t have come.

I should have made an excuse to stay home and just accepted an award via Skype or whatever it is they use to make that happen.

That’s if I even win. I reach for my pocket square.

Wrapped inside of it, is my secret. I’ve been clean for almost two months now, but I held on to an insurance policy. Ten blue pills, marked 100 on one side and OC on the other.

Hello old friends. I use a complimentary bottle of water to wash Three of them down.

I splash water on my face, pat it dry, and leave my solace for the hustle and bustle of the lobby. Four I spot David standing outside the doors to the theatre, waiting patiently. The fire in his eyes is quickly doused when he notices me.

He knows me all too well and quickly crosses over to where I stand, just outside the restroom. “You OK?

I’m sorry I lost you for a bit.” “I’m good.

Really.

Just nervous.” As soon as the oxy kicks in I’ll be good as gold. We find our seats.

For the first time, I am seated on the front row, a privilege reserved for the nominees of the “big” awards -Best Actor/Actress, Best Film, etc. As I sit, the effects of my little blue friends take hold of my senses.

My muscles turn from rocks to molten lava.

I am warm all over in the most wonderful way.

My eyes become hooded, my breathing slow and relaxed. Thoughts of my mom, the awards, the anxiety, all are covered with a warm blanket as the world fades away. Five I snap back to reality with David’s elbow digging in between my ribs. I must have dozed off, although I don’t think my eyes were closed.

“Hey babe - you’ve got to pull yourself together. Your category is coming up in 15 minutes.” I know that’s not accurate.

I am certain that several of the winners before the Best Actor category will overstay their welcome on stage and require the assistance of the orchestra to make their exit.

That means it will be closer to 30 minutes.

Just enough time to go top off my high. I excuse myself to the restroom while a seat filler takes my place on the front row.

As I walk down the aisle I can feel them.

All of them.

The producers, the actors, directors, screenwriters - all formerly friends - staring at me.

They hate me.

No matter how often people assure me that my mother’s death was not my fault, I know better.

And I know they do too.

If I hadn’t been at that party…if I hadn’t fallen off the wagon…if I hadn’t driven to her house…then she wouldn’t have died in a car wreck, driving me home. By some miracle, I make it to the restroom without becoming a puddle on the floor in front of my peers, but by the time I arrive, breathing has become almost impossible. I take a bottle of water and pour it over my head, drenching my bespoke suit.

I reach for my pocket square, but my hands are shaking so badly that the pills go flying out of my pocket, scattering across the vanity and the bathroom floor.

I gather what I can from the sink and swallow them dry.

I am unsure how many I took.

Was it two?

Four?

I fall to my knees, desperate to grasp onto all that is left of my salvation.

How many are there?

I took three…then, maybe four more…So only three more pills.

I find one near the drain and rescue it from a fate of sewage and dissolution. The other two are inside the stall.

I try to crawl toward them.

I know I’m moving, but I don’t seem to get any closer.

I find myself feeling an ungovernable rage.

Get over here you fucking bastards! My stomach cramps, like having a knife plunged into it, then twisted. Without warning, I wretch onto the pristine marble floor, then fall into the remnants of my lunch, face first.

I’m suddenly grateful for my depression and lack of appetite.

I didn’t have many cookies to toss. I crawl through my self inflicted quagmire towards the toilet, but before I reach it my stomach is again seized with pain.

I groan and attempt to will myself to move forward.

I am frozen.

In fact, I have somehow ended up on the floor, looking upward at the lights.

I can’t breathe.

I reach to loosen my collar, only to find that my tie is already missing.

As is my pocket square.

I drop my hands to the floor beside me, to find them both, soaked in my own putrid vomit.

I’m sorry… This is my last thought before I lose consciousness. Six I can see myself on the floor.

Covered in bodily fluids.

I see David come through the door, grasping something behind his back, then run to my side, kneeling in the filth.

He pats my face.

He feels for my pulse. He goes to the door, calling for help, then returns to my side.

He continues to feel for a pulse, then cradles my head in his arms, defeated.

It’s at that moment, I realize what he was holding in his hand as he entered.

My Oscar.

He must have accepted for me when I didn’t make it back in time.

And now, I’ll never make it back.

I should be filled with a myriad of negative emotions - fear, regret, guilt.

But I feel nothing. That is until I feel a hand in mine.

My mother - in her favorite Valencia gown - is standing beside me.

As David watches the medics work to revive me, I turn to her. “What should I do?”

I ask. “Baby.

You already did it.

There’s no going back.” She goes to the door, propped open by a paramedic and holds her hand out for me to join her.

“I guess I should have known I wasn’t long for this world,” I say as I take her hand. “You and me both baby,” she coos as we exit the restroom, and into the unknown of eternity.


If you saw the building from the outside, it may not seem like an unpleasant place to live. Windows dotted the structure, each having its own white frame. Through most windows, a set of blinds could be seen blocking out the outside world. Bricks made up the building in an almost perfect pattern, being broken only by the occasional window, door, or other obstruction. The bricks making up the structure varied in color ranging from a dull red to a muddy brown almost black color. The exterior stood out no more than any neighboring building, providing no indication as to the true nature of it .

Upon entering the building, it became clear that the innocent exterior masked a more sinister soul. Various stains cover the wallpaper and carpeted floor, the air conditioning rarely functions as it should, and the smell of cigarettes seems to permeate through every wall. Cockroaches run rampant through the rooms and hallways, and at times it felt more their home than any of the tenants.

The landlord somehow managed to turn a blind eye to these problems. When I first signed my lease, I made my landlord aware of every issue I found. Every little broken blind, or strange leak I came across, I alerted him. I would tell him of my newfound trouble only for him to give me an unconvincing smile and tell me he’d have it taken care of soon. After a few weeks of him pretending to care only for me to find the problem never got solved, I realized my efforts were in vain.

The place disgusted me, so I avoided staying there as much as possible. I slept and ate my meals there, but any excess time I had I spent at the local library or at my job. I worked as a waiter. My manager didn’t pay me much, so my main source of income came in the form of the generosity of strangers through their tips. Most customers we had tipped nicely, adding 15%-20% to the total cost of their meal. Some customers, though, resented me based on some insignificant action I did that they considered a tremendous mistake in their selfish minds. They usually declined to leave a tip based on that incredible act of tyranny I committed by taking too long to refill their drinks or forgetting to remind them of our specials. This type of customer threatened my ability to put food on the table, and for that, I resented them in return. On the social hierarchy, I sat one step above a homeless person begging for money on the streets each day. Not for lack of trying to climb up the convoluted ladder that is our society, but due to my unfortunate circumstance. My mother had raised me with no help from a second parent, even in the form of monthly checks. At times, she would struggle to put food on the table, and as a result, she worked long hours to raise enough money to support the two of us.

I would stay awake until the late hours of the night when the atmosphere was painted a lightless blue and the usual silence only broke due to an occasional insect calling out to its friends or a lone car driving by. I stayed up waiting for my mom to come home from work, so I had the chance to see her before she returned to her job and left me behind for another day. Staying up this late took a toll on me. At school, I tried my hardest to pay attention in spite of the fatigue I felt due to the near sleepless nights I spent waiting for my mom to come home. The tiredness I experienced only made it more difficult for me to learn. I would have loved to feel well-rested, but I couldn’t afford to lose time I could have used to study, so the cycle repeated. My mom wanted me to study hard in order to get good grades, so I might earn an academic scholarship. I didn’t play any sports or belong to any minority groups, so my ticket out of a life of poverty lied in a scholarship based on my academic success. However, I lacked any sort of academic ability. I passed my classes, but with difficulty. My grades hovered around C’s with an occasional A or B. No colleges want to give a scholarship to a kid who struggles to pass mere high school classes. My schooling led me nowhere. I didn’t go to college and I ended up working for little pay at a shabby restaurant while living in an even shabbier apartment. I despised living as I did, and longed for a way out. One night my prayers were answered. I awoke due to a light emanating from my closet rousing me from my sleep. The light illuminated my entire room in a cold blue glow. At first, I attributed it to a symptom of my drowsiness and attempted to fall back asleep. As I slept it became brighter and brighter, until the entire room became engulfed in a beautiful blue luminescence. I tossed and turned trying in vain to ignore the light once again. It gave me no choice but to get out of bed and investigate the source. Annoyed that I had already lost precious sleep, I stepped out of bed and walked to my closet. I ripped open the door ready to confront whatever had caused the light. On the wall of my closet adjacent to my closet door stood a door emitting the same blue light that had woken me from my sleep. Confused, I opened the door and behind it, I discovered another door identical to the first. The second door stood a few feet behind the first, in a space enveloped in black. The area between two doors contained nothing other than the two doors opposing each other. I stepped into the dark gap between the doors and opened the second one. Behind it, I saw a blank expanse identical to the one I then stood in, complete with another door. I stepped through again, and again and saw the same each time. I had made no signs of progress as I trudged forwards trying to find the end of the straightforward labyrinth I had found myself in.

Already exhausted, I made my way forward through the endless mess of doors until a final door opened into a barren room. After I stepped through what must have been my hundredth door, my apartment could no longer be seen through the row of open doors that lay behind me. The room’s walls all matched, each one painted a drab brown color. The room contained nothing more than a window on one of the walls, allowing a view into a lifeless black void. The room appeared lit, however, I couldn’t locate the source of this light. As I turned around to study the room in search of anything more it may contain, a figure materialized right in front of me. Before me stood a man in nothing more than an ordinary T-shirt, jeans, and a pair of pink crocs. No patterns or brand claimed the shirt as their own, the only distinct feature of it came in the form of a singular pocket on the upper chest. The pants had no holes or any other form of damage in them, matching the shirt in terms of plainness. The crocs had a bright pink color to them, that strain the eyes after just a few seconds of exposure. They appeared to contradict the rest of his apparel while providing a sort of perfect balance that completed the outfit and revealed some hidden beauty within each choice of clothing. “Killer,” I said, my attention focused on the really cool and awesome crocs he wore. Many would think this choice of clothing odd, but as I laid my eyes on them, I found the contrast exposed an elegant asymmetry within each selection of apparel. Looking at them I realized nothing I had seen previously compared to them in terms of style. The attire the man wore surpassed anything any ordinary man could put together. The more I thought about the shoes he wore and the fine artistry that resulted in his clothing, I realized I had met no ordinary man.

The man began to speak, stealing my attention from his shoes and putting it on his voice. “Aw, thanks,” Said the man while suppressing a bashful smile. Although stylish, the crocs offered no explanation as to my whereabouts, or origin of the strange portal that I had found in my bedroom. “Where am I?” I asked, hoping to find an explanation or way back home. The man appeared uninterested in my question, as he walked towards the one lone window on the wall of the room. As he peered out into the abyss, he offered me a deal. “I could make you a millionaire,” Turning to face me, a comforting smile spread across his face. “There’s only one condition.” “What is it?” As I showed my interest, his smile grew more sinister. All my life I’ve been pushed around, and stepped all over. Having millions of dollars to my name would solve all my problems. This could be my ticket out of a life of poverty. This could be my chance to finally be somebody.

“You can never own a pair of crocs.” Those last words felt like a punch to the gut. For a moment, I thought some god had summoned me to answer my prayers, but when the reality of the situation hit, I realized the devil had actually come to torment me with a bargain too good to be true.

After I told that fashionable demon the conclusion I had come to, I awoke back in my apartment. Feeling content with my decision, I donned my crocs and drove to work.


The day my daddy lost his laugh Wordcount: 2835 Written by Johan van Rensburg It’s a stare-off. Little Steward stares at the man in the doorway -and the man stares back. It’s kind of funny, the seven year old braveboy in front of the dirty somewhere-around-thirty fellow.

More awkward than funny, though. Little Steward beholds the torn and muddy shoes, from which the big toe clearly gasps for fresh air, to the two sizes big jacket that clearly dated at least three centuries ago which stinks and clearly cries out for Nenna’s wash, to the long bushy brown beard. His gaze lingersin the  cautious eyes, which seems so humiliated, eyes that are the brightest blue he has ever seen on a man. Where have he seen such eyes?

A vague memory dissappears in his mind as he remembers his eticet. “Good day, sir. Can we help you?” The wonder of the moment disappears like a shooting star when daddy flung the wooden front door wide open. It was a peculiar sight. Little Steward cautiously seeks the safety of his father’s legs and creeps in behind them. When his father pulls his blue eyes like that, there is trouble on the horison. His fathers stares at the man, maybe just a little too long for comfort’s sake. Then, as he clears his throat in a clumsy effort to break the awkward silence, little Steward can feel his daddy shaking the sight off of him. “You are on the wrong side of town buddy. “ He lowers his voice to a bare whisper. Little Steward leans forward to hear his following words. It snaps through the fresh Sunday morning:“This suburb is no place for beggers and bums...what do you think?” Daddy didn’t even linger to hear what the filthy man was about to utter. Little steward is sure that  he saw the man opening his mouth to say something when the  big wooden front door closed with a sure bang and shuts him out of their sight. Little Steward comes out from behind his daddy’s legs. “Who was that man, daddy?” “It was a bum.” Just that. Daddy’s face predicts that nothing good will happen if little Steward persist with more questions about the matter. “Go get dressed boy, I hate beingtlate for church.” With his heart still overflowing with questions, little Steward turns around and strolls off to his bedroom. Mommy laid his clothes neatly on his bed. He looks at his red spiderman socks. He looks at his shiny black shoes, his white collared shirt, and his neatly pressed trousers. His shoes have no holes and smiles brightly up to him. Nenna polishes them every week. His shirt is just the right size and the aroma of stasoft still hangs around it. It smells like wild flowers.

The poor bum. He clearly have no Nenna to help him with his clothes. Little Steward dresses himself. He is old enough. He can do many things for himself now, he is seven years old! And he’s been in school for a whole two years now! He looks at himself in the mirror. Wow, he is getting big! He is a handsome guy. Smiling at himself the vision of the dirty bum jumps forward again. The man’s teeth were yellow, not pearly white like his. Do the man have a toothbrush? Here comes mommy. She’s beautiful too! She always smells so nice! She always does the final check on little Steward’s “look”. She stretches out a loving hand and brushes her fingers through his neatly shaved hair. “Come on, daddy’s waiting.” Little steward hears the loud footsteps of his daddy as he is making his way towards their car. By the sound of it, daddy is not in a good mood. Is he ever, these days? Little Steward runs out of his room. He do not want to get on his father’s wrong side if he feels like that! The car pulls out of the driveway with screeching tyres. The silence insid the car bangs against little Steward’s eardrums.. Little steward sits in the back of the car next to the window, eyes looking to and fro, as he searches... for any trace of the bum. At last. Little Steward found him. He stands quietly in the shade of an old oak tree a few blocks from their house. He looks at the car, and for a brief moment, locked eyes with little Steward. Little Steward sees the man lifts a hand in a greet, but is too scared to greet back. Daddy might see. His curiosity gets the best of him. “Mommy?” Mommy tries to put on her lipstick in the little mirror on top. She smiles at him and catches his eyes from the mirror. “Yes, sweety-pie?” “What is a bum?” Mommy lowers the hand that holds her lipstiffy. Little Steward sees her peeking at daddy through the corners of her eyes, Little Steward notices  how his daddy’s knuckles turns white as he clenches the steering wheel as he tries to remain calm. Little Steward wonders what he said wrong now. Then daddy breaks the silence. “Its got nothing to do with small boys.” Mommy looks at little Steward through the mirror and puts her forefinger agains her lips. Little Steward understands. He should not say anything more. Church is full, like always. Little Steward walks silently next to his parents. His father smiles as if he is having the best day ever. He is even holding mommy’s hand as they are walking through the people, greeting them heartily , making all kinds of smalltalk. Little Steward wonders about the bum. What if they brought him with to church? Little Steward shakes his head.No. That will wil not work at all! Look how neatly dressed these people are, all look beautiful and they are so loud! Bum is dirty and quiet, the church people will scare him to death! They will never accept him the way he is... They enter the church and walks right to the back, where their seats are. Now he should be very quiet. As he sits down, daddy hands him his tablet to play games with. Their seats is so far at the back of the curch, he can hardly see the reverant on his pulpit. Daddy lets him play games on his tablet to quiet him down for the hour of church. He doesn’t want to be embarresed by a little boy not able to sit still in church. Little Steward shakes his head again. Daddy obviously do not know that he is big now! He can sit still for hours and hours... Clever fingers direct his questionss towards aunty Google. Little Steward smiles. She will tell him the truth. She will not quiet him down. She will satisfy his curiosity. The ...meaning...of...the...word...bum...enter...wait... Google is ready with her answer: a bum is a poor person, from the very bottom class of the society, a person that has no job,a person which have no home to go to and and lives in the streets and sometimes turns out to be a bully, fighting for his survival on the streets It takes little Steward quite some time to read through these difficult words. Some of the words have to be spelled out almost loudly, and mommy pokes him once or twice as he forgets to be super quiet in church. Little steward doesn’t fully understand the meaning of most of these difficult words. Two words that he does understand, is “poor”, and “bully”.

He knows that the bum is very poor. He could see that in the way he looks. But being a bully? It doesn’t fit. This bum was very friendly. After the hour of church the family rushes to the safety of their home. Daddy is tired of people now. Little Steward knows. Their lives follows the same routine, Sunday after Sunday. Mommy would disappear into the kitchen to prepare Sundaly lunch, and daddy would go to their bedroom and hide behind the Sunday newspaper for hours. Little Steward goes to the kitchen to help mommy cut the veggies for the day. Mommy is quiet today. On other Sundays she would humm a happy tune, but not today. She is deeply thinking about something, something tat makes furrows on her forehead, and makes her biting her lower lip. Little Steward jumps on the table and starts chewing on a raw carrot.

Mommy sees him, and weighs her words for a split second. Then she starts telling little Steward the heartbreaking story of daddy’s brother that chose to live his life as a bum.... Little Steward listens attentively. Bum has a name...it is Herman. Uncle Herman. Uncle Herman didn’t know that they were living at this address when he decided to knock on the door earlier this mornng, begging for bread to eat... Apparently daddy immediately recognised him. It was a great shock. Daddy tries hard not to think back of his past, there are things that he tries to forget. Now uncle Herman came and opened old wounds... Mommy asks little Steward nicely not to ever mention the episode again...and little Steward nodds. He is a big boy. He understands. What he doesn’t understand is why daddy closed the door in his own brother’s face? How can he be so rude? Why didn’t he invite him for breakfast, let him have bath and borrowed him some of his clothes? Why can’t he live with them in the spare room? Why didn’t daddy invite his brother to go with them to church? Why? Little Steward has to get out of the house. He needs to feel the wind in his face to clear the cobwebs that is starting to blur his vision. He has so many questions, but he dare not ask any! Not even aunty Google has an answer to these questions! He needs to go to the park. He takes his bicycle and rides off, as swift as the wind. Mommy thinks he went playing with friend a few blocks from the house. Let her think that.

The public park is not really a place for small boys to hang out. Bigger children hangs out here: they play soccer on the lushes green grass, or sit under the shade of the trees and smoke cigarettes and other stuff, and some hangs out here to have a good time with their girlfriends. It is also the place where bums sleep and faggotsspend their days... Little Steward is on a secret mission. His eyes are frantically searching the trees for the blue eyed man that he now knows shares his blood.Little Steward needs answers. Suddenly he notices the man. Little Steward brakes. His throat is dry and his hands are sweaty. For a moment he just stands next to his bicycle, looking at he man in silence, wondering what to do now that he is so near. Uncle Herman is sitting under a big old oak tree on a rock. In front of him is a fire, and on the fire little Steward notices some sort of tin in which something cooks. Uncle Herman stirs the tin’s insides with a stick.

Little Steward forgets to whisper. “I shouldv’e brought uncle Herman a cooked lunch!”The words echoesthrough the quiet park. Some birds rise disturbed from their nests in the tree above uncle Herman and take flight. Oom Herman looks up and sees him standing besides the bicycle.. Little Steward is scared. Oom Herman stirs for a last time and stands up from the rock. He walks toward little Steward. “Can I help you, boy?” Little Steward looks at oom Herman. The voice is the same as daddy’s,  but without the angry pitch that always creeps in his daddy’s. Their eyes are exactly the same, clear blue sparkiling eyes! It is the truth, this is his father’s brother. Little Steward stretches his hand forward, the way mommy taught him. He is not scared anymore. He offers a friendly smile. “Good day, uncle Herman, my name is Steward.” The man’s eyes dimmed for a moment. He looks at little Steward. He shakes the outstretched hand . “How do you know my name, Steward?” “My mommy told me. She says that you are my daddy’s brother. You were at our house earlier this morning.” There it is. Little Steward blurted it all out in one gasp. He feels mcsh lighter now as he looks up in the frienly blue eyes and the load he carried disappears behind the moving leaves, in the lush summer air. “Oh.” Oom Herman just smiles and then turns around and make his way to the fire again. Little Steward wanders if he should follow him or flee home. He decides to stay. He parks his bicycle and follows the man into the trees. Little Steward find his seat on a nearby rock in front of the fire and watches silently how oom Herman stirs his soup. Oom Herman has great peace. He can feel it. Little Steward feels safe with the man. “I wasn’t aware that my brother lived at that house. I would have never knocked on the door if I knew. I am sorry for the embarresment I caused.” He talks while he tries to take the tin off the fire without burning his fingers. Little Steward wonders what the leafy soup would taste like. He shouldv’e brought the man of their Sunday lunch. Will he be having desert? Little Steward also feels how his tummy rumbles and realises that he is hungry. He remembered that mommy said that he shouldn’t play long, he should be in time for lunch. He definitly will not eat of oom Herman’s soup. Maybe oom Herman is a vegetarian. His friend Marble’s mom is a vegetarian too... He stands up from his rock. “I have to go now, oom Herman. Mommy said I shouldn’t be late for lunch...” He left the sentence hanging after uttering  the word “lunch”...knowing that this leafy broth will never measure up to the lunch that he will get at his house.... Oom Herman also knows it. He looks at the tin’s insides andignores little Steward’s final greet. He is so hungry... Little Steward fights the urge to  invite uncle Herman to lunch with them. Therefore he rides away like the wind, so that the wind can dry the desperate tears on his cheeks. Daddy sits on the bench on the stoep as little Steward enters. Little Steward swallows dry. He will have to lie to daddy today. “And why the hurry? You are kicking up dust!” Little Steward thinks. “I won the race, daddy! For the first time! Marble got second place!” Daddy laughs. When he laughs he looks just like oom Herman. His eyes wrinkles on the sides and he looks friendly, just like oom Herman looks...when will daddy get his laugh back? While he helps mommy with the dishes later in the afternoon, he prompts her again. “Mommy why is daddy’s brother a bum?” Mommy doesn’t know. Daddy never speaks about his past. Little Steward realises something. Daddy lost his laugh when oom Herman became a bum. He have to get daddy’s laughback. The answer lies with oom Herman. He visits oom Herman again the following day. And the day thereafter. On the third day the answers came. Daddy and oom Herman stayed in the same house on the  big family ranch, some twenty years ago. They were farming with wild, and they loved working so closely together, building a beautiful place for their families to come. The unforgivable happened. Oom Herman smoked cigarettes. One day, when the grassfields were very dry and the rains stayed away, he caused a field fire, by the flick of the cigarette in his hand... It was all over in a few minutes. They lost their inheritance and  the work of their hands turned to ashes right in front of their eyes. Nothing coud bring it back. Overcome by shame and guilt, oom Herman disappeared for good. He made a choice to never own land again- and become a bum. Daddy lost his laugh and chose a life of wearing a suit and working behind a computer. And this is how it is. Little Steward doesn’t understand. With a heavy heart he rode his bicycle back home. Daddy sits in his chair on the stoep. His daddy – without the laugh. And he so wishes he could help his daddy find his laugh back. Little Steward realizes the fact that he is not big enough to understand all of these things. But he knows of someone that is big enough. God is big enough. He will pray. God will give his daddy his laugh back. And God will give oom Herman a forgiveness for what he did. The next day oom Herman is nowhere to be found. And the next day. And the next. Little Steward keeps on praying. Although little, he is a man of big faith.


The Talking Door This is story of a boy named Joy. He used to live with his mother and father next to Petersberg also known as Stromberg. Stromberg is a mountain in the Siebengebrige mountain range near Bonn, Germany. They were a small and content family who were very hard-working, including Joy. Mrs. Jhonna, Joy's mother, was a production manager at a chocolate factory and his father Mr. Jacob ran a shop which was at a distance from their house. The family had a fixed routine. They were early risers. They’d wake up, get ready for work, and get Joy ready for his school, and leave the house by 8 am. They used to walk together till the main street, and from there, Jhonna would kiss Joy goodbye and hug her husband and take on her path to work. From there, Joy and his father would continue walking together, to their destination. Joy’s school was on the way to his father’s shop. While walking down the street, Jacob used to wave and greet at shop mirrors since all those shopkeepers were his friends, and he was a well-known person in the area for his ancestors were the ones who had built the very first house down the lane in Petersberg. Joy was just 10 years old, but he would notice each and every inch of his step, and was always cautious. He was a person to never question any doubt that occured to his mind. He would just think about it to himself about it, but never ask anyone. He was an introvert, and did not like to interact with people. He was always found daydreaming and would often be in his own fantasy world. He was an average student in school. While walking to school, he would notice everything that happened around him. How his father smiled through the windows, how other people on the street were busy walking, some to their jobs, some to school and some to keep themselves fit. Despite the daily ruckus around him, he would be lost in his own thoughts. One day on the way to school, Joy noticed a tiny shack that had a huge vintage lock hanging on it’s door. Just outside that shack was an old single seater bench. This shack and the bench got Joy curious. Jacob would drop Joy at the school gate, and go to work. But that day, Joy was still lost in thought about that shack. After school, Joy walked back home with his friends everyday. While walking back home from school that day, Joy’s eyes again rolled towards the shack and his gaze was hooked at the huge lock hanging on the door. Years passed by, and Joy’s journey to school was just the same. But he couldn’t muster up the courage to go closer to the shack. Joy was now in college, and his curiosity shot up. He would get terrified every time he walked past the shack. Life was good, but he would often get upset, because he wasn’t a bright student. His friends were scholars. But he was never pressurized by his parents. He’d be alone at home for hours because his parents were busy working and had no time, they even got promoted and got increments at their workplaces, which led to bigger responsibilities and more workload. They would get back late from their jobs, when Joy would be busy with his homework and assignments. One such evening, while completing his assignment, the shack struck his mind, and in that moment he felt a little helpless because he never usually shares what is on his mind. That evening, he decided to go and see what’s behind the door of that shack and why it bothered him. And he murmurs to himself, “I’ll go there after my college, tomorrow”. The rest of the day was very hard for him, he couldn’t complete his assignment because of the thoughts that caught him off guard early that evening. He was upset after college the next day and didn’t want to go home, so he aimlessly started walking and got tired by his thoughts, and sat on a bench wondering about his life. While he was in deep thought, he happened to turn around and see that shack right behind him. He was unknowingly sitting on that bench outside the shack. He was shaking and shivering and started sweating, but this time his curiosity was above his fear. He was shaking, but he continued to sit there. While his thoughts started to take a toll on him again, he heard a voice that asked, “What has happened? Why are you so quiet? What are you wondering?”. He was terrified by the voice and those questions. He stood up, and within the blink of an eye, turned around and stood facing the shack. He saw no one, got confused and sat back. Just as he settled, the same voice repeated the questions asked before. This time, he chose to reply, and even though he doesn’t open up to any other human being, he thought of talking to the voice. He whispered, “I am scared of you, but I just want to confess that I am someone who keeps pressuring myself, and often asking myself, why can’t my thoughts be subtle? Why am I like this?”. To this, the voice replied, “You always try to be what you are not. You try to compare yourself and your abilities to others.” This way, the conversation goes on and on. During the conversation, Joy didn’t care about how he was reacting, he was so indulged in the conversation that he cried, he laughed and he smiled like he had never before. He may have been a fool to the people who were walking by, but time flew and soon he realized that it was evening and the sun had gone down. He abruptly ended the joyous conversation and said, “Bye, I have to go!”. Joy started running back home. The same night, while lying in bed, he started to wonder about the heartwarming conversation, he had at the shack. Following that day, all his fears faded away, he gave his thoughts some rest, and started to understand his worth. Life was back on track. He fearlessly passed the shack everyday. Joy soon graduated, and scored more than he expected. He got a job offer from Berlin, which was a 4 hours drive from his home. He was now a confident man with a good job and wise thoughts. He lived a beautiful and content life, in a small house, but missed his parents, and could not visit them often due to work. One fine evening, when he was planning to visit home, his thoughts took him back to the shack, and to the voice that made him an independent and wise person. He thought about what was inside the shack, and if there was anyone in it. It was strange to him how he thought about the shack after years. He wondered why he never tried knocking on the door. He was curious to know if there was anyone inside. He planned to pay a visit to his parents, and took this chance to drop by at the shack as well. He applied for his leave and left from Berlin. While driving back home, he was constantly torn between, hoping for the shack to be there and asking himself, “What if the shack is not there anymore?”. He reached home and spent some precious time with his parents. Jhonna cooked his favourite dinner. Even after dinner, no one left the table. They were chatting and catching up. Time was flying, and just like that, it was midnight. Jacob said, “Come on now, let us all sleep. You must be tired after a long drive, Joy.” Joy’s parents went to their room, and Joy went to his. After about an hour, when Joy's parents were fast asleep, Joy quietly sneaked out. He chose to walk, rather than take his car. He walked briskly till he reached the main street, from where he could see the shack. A gush of excitement rushed through him as he was getting closer to it. Nothing had changed, not even the bench. The huge vintage lock was more rusted. He walked closer, his fingers getting stiff, it was freezing out there, but his body was sweating. He finally touched the door and tried to pull it, but it did not move. He pushed it, kicked it, but nothing worked. He sat down after the struggle. Just beside the bench he was sitting on, he saw a big rock. He gathered all the strength he had left in him, grabbed the rock, and threw it on the rusted lock. The lock broke and fell down, the door opened on the inside. He touched the door and pushed it slowly. What he saw next, left him astonished. He saw himself. It was nothing, but a tall mirror standing in front of him. THE END Moral of my story: The truth is that there was no one inside that shack. The voice which he talked to was the voice of his own mind. It is just that we are living in an era, where we want to hear our capabilities, our abilities, and praises from others. We don’t even try to motivate or uplift ourselves, we want someone to talk to, someone who can remind us who we are. We constantly seek validation and tend to rely on others. We start doubting our own decisions, based on how others will react. We forget about the power of our mind. If you are stuck, if you get abandoned by people, if you are lost in thoughts or questions, no one can answer them, except your own mind. The only one who can truly understand you, is you, your inner you. Try having a word with your mind. At least once. It can probably be your life changing moment! Thank you.


The first thing Avery realizes is that an extraordinarily large fist— connected to an extraordinarily large man— is descending towards her head. She leaps backwards, just out of his reach, and lets loose a string of very creative French expletives. The next thing she registers is the fact that her eardrums have been nearly blown out by an incredibly loud boom, and that the asphalt has cracked into a million pieces as a result of the wannabe-supervillain-of-the-week’s blow connecting with the ground. Her fists light up with flames, and she draws her arm back to deliver a punch (hopefully, one that’ll invert Mr. Rage Issues’ nose and set him on fire). It’s a pity that fire-related powers are so goddamn visible, because Lara catches sight of her movement as she runs towards Rage Issues. “Avery, non-violent!” “How am I supposed to be non-violent—” and great, Rage Issues is trying to hit her again— except this time, Lara slides between the two of them like she’s stealing a base, a glowing shield materializing around her arm just in time for Rage Issues’ fist to land on it— “when all I have to use is goddamn pyrokinesis?” The reverberation from Rage Issues’ assault on Lara’s shield makes him stumble back. Lara stands, the shield disappearing into wisps of light, and summons a lasso in its place. She tosses it around the man— casually, like she’s roping in a runaway horse instead of fighting a guy with superstrength— and calls out, “Tell that to the Department, then!” Rage Issues bellows incoherently. “Shut up,” Avery tells him. He spares Avery one incredulous (and rage-filled) glance before he begins to thrash violently, his momentum almost making him fall backwards. To Lara’s credit, she manages to keep a hold on the rope for a solid eight seconds before it’s yanked out of her hands. You should try mechanical bull riding, Avery wants to say. However, there’s a more pressing fact to address: Lara’s glowing weapons all disintegrate after they lose contact with her. (Kind of a critical flaw, in Avery’s opinion.) Which means the eight-feet-tall man is charging towards them again. Lara conjures another shield, and the man suddenly changes course. He grabs Avery’s shoulders, lifts her into the air, and squeezes. Hard. Like, bone-breakingly hard. She estimates she’s got three seconds before her ribs give. She looks him directly in the eyes. “Dude, really?” she manages to wheeze. And then she bursts into flames. He howls and drops her, and Lara, coming from behind, lassos him again. The flames surrounding Avery flicker out as she hits the ground. She inhales deep lungfuls of air. Crisse, her ribs hurt. She watches, black spots peppering her vision, as Lara yanks the rope and brings Rage Issues crashing down. “Don’t think the Department will mind a few burns on his hands,” Avery says, staggering over. Lara pulls the power-dampening cuffs out of her pocket and hooks them around his wrists. “Somehow, I don’t think so either.” “Screw you—” is all that Rage Issues manages before Avery crouches down unsteadily and decks him in the temple. His eyelids slam shut. “What’re we even picking him up for?” Avery asks, accepting Lara’s proffered hand and standing. “Avery, do you even read the dossiers?” Avery squints at her, partly because why in the fresh hell would she read the dossiers and partly because there are still black spots in her vision. “Why would I? We go in, we capture the violent criminal, we get paid. That’s kind of a job of a bounty hunter.” “And you don’t follow the news, either?” “Just tell me. The suspense is killing me.” Lara pinches the bridge of her nose. “Uh, he breaks into houses, snaps the occupants’— well, he’s got superstrength, you saw it. And then he grabs all the valuables.” “Damn.” “Yeah.” “Now I don’t feel so bad about the burns.” “Did you feel bad in the first place?” Avery snorts. “No.” They both look down at Rage Issues, and Avery flips him off. … Avery and Lara drag Rage Issues (his actual name is Bradley Henderson, but Avery can’t be arsed to remember that) up to the entrance of the portable Department-issued holding cells. The guards on duty nod as they grab Rage Issues by the arms. “Now that that’s taken care of, let’s go get a drink," Avery says. “Your mother would very much not approve.” “I don’t give a single solitary shit about her approval, and since when do you?” “Since she hired me, which means she writes my paychecks.” “She won’t notice if you don’t tell her.” “Actually,” comes a cheery third voice, making Avery’s entire body catch fire in surprise, “she has a direct feed of the security cameras. She’ll notice.” “Jesus Christ, Greenthorne, we need to put a bell on you,” Lara says. “Avery, could you—” she motions at Avery’s body, which is still blazing with fire— “it’s really bright.” Avery lets the fire die down. “Thanks. Anyway. Why are you here?” Greenthorne shifts. "No reason." Lara narrows her eyes. “Are you going to ask the prisoner to be your test subject?” “No.” Greenthorne fidgets with her cuffs. “Are you sure?” "Why would I not be?" Greenthorne asks. “That was rhetorical.” Greenthorne furrows her brow. “We should ban rhetorical questions.” Lara snorts derisively, and Avery has to agree with her. “Lare-bear’s right. My mother would have a stroke.” … While this conversation is happening downstairs, Eleanor Knight is in her top-floor office, proving her daughter right. She is perched in her blood-red leather chair; across the (massive, heart-of-oak) desk from her sit Department of Extraordinary Crimes agents Lila Reid and Matthew Clark, clearly uncomfortable. Whether this stems from their view of the multitude of taxidermied animals on the wall behind Eleanor, or from the fact that they're sitting on chairs meant for kindergarteners, it's uncertain. “Do I look like a fool to you?” Eleanor asks. “You think you can take advantage of me?” Clark opens his mouth. A mistake. “Ms. Knight—” “Do not interrupt me!” “Sorry—” “What did I just say? Ugh. Tell the Department to send smarter agents next time. Now, I will not accept a penny less than fifty thousand for this exquisite catch.” “Well, the Department only authorized forty-five grand,” Reid says, even though they go through this routine practically every week (for all her bitchiness, Eleanor Knight runs the best bounty-hunting organization on the East Coast). “Ha! That’s a joke.” “I’m afraid not,” Clark says. Another mistake. A howling noise fills the room, and Eleanor’s irises disappear as bone-white specters start to swirl around her. “What?” Eleanor asks, the specters congealing into one malevolent mass. “I’m sure we can cut into overhead,” Reid says hurriedly. The specters dissolve, and Reid and Clark release their death grips on their tiny little chairs. Clark cautiously lifts his briefcase onto the table, and Eleanor pops it open and pokes her raccoon-like hands through the contents. “I knew the Department would see it my way. You two can see yourselves to the holding cells, can’t you? And before you try to answer that, Matthew, that was rhetorical.” She relaxes in her chair, and Reid and Clark stand up and leave. “Gotta get down there quick so her delinquent kid doesn’t scorch the guy’s face off again, eh?” Reid whispers to her partner. “What was that?” Eleanor calls, her icy voice even frostier than normal. “Pleasure doing business as always, Ms. Knight!” Clark replies. If they walk out of there faster than before, then nobody can blame them. … Reid and Clark arrive downstairs in record time, and when Avery turns and sees them, her nose wrinkles like she’s just stepped into a field covered in horse manure. Well, at least they’re giving her a chance to prove a point. “Hey, assfaces, how many rhetorical questions did my mother use in your little negotiation? It’s for science,” she says, pointing at Greenthorne. Reid rolls her eyes. Clark’s a little more subtle in his disdain, electing to simply cross his arms. Reid ignores her question in favor of asking, “Is the prisoner’s face intact this time?” “Hey, that particular prisoner was trying to choke me to death!” Avery says. Reid scoffs. “You are just a pile of excuses.” Avery’s hair catches on fire (well, the quick-to-anger thing does run in the family), and it takes all her restraint to keep it from spreading to the rest of her body. Reid recoils the tiniest bit. “Don’t make me arrest you, too,” she snaps. Clark frowns. “Hey, ignoring Knight’s bullshit, wasn't there another person here, like, a second ago?” Avery turns, her fire flickering out. Lara doesn’t even bother to look— she just pinches the bridge of her nose and says “God damn it.” Avery snorts. She’s got more than an inkling of what’s going on, and she loves it. Stick it to the man, Greenthorne! “What the hell is going on?” Clark asks. Comprehension slowly dawns on Reid’s face. “Christ. Where’s the prisoner?” “If it were up to me to assume?” Avery says, unable and unwilling to hide her grin. “Stashed somewhere in one of the labs.” Clark and Reid both look absolutely pissed. “Find him, and find him before two hours are up, or you won’t get paid,” Clark hisses. “Wait. You mean you haven’t paid us already?” Avery asks, putting her hand to her mouth in an Oopsie! motion. Pissed has turned into full-blown murderous. Avery can tell that Lara’s struggling to contain her smile. “FIND HIM!” Clark bellows. “Or you’ll never work for the Department again,” Reid tacks on, her voice venomous. Oh, merde, that’s a curveball, Avery thinks, her self-satisfied grin falling. “That’s what I thought,” Reid snarls. “You have two hours.” ... The hallways of T.I.G.R.I.S. are long and high-ceilinged, even below ground, where the labs are. Avery rounds a corner— and walks straight into Lara. “And why exactly are you on the floor I'm supposed to be searching?” Lara asks, completely unfazed. “Got bored. Figured I'd come find you,” Avery replies. Lara shoots Avery an inscrutable look. “Well, you can help me look—” —and then comes the sound of an oh-so-familiar voice, echoing through the halls. “WHERE IS SHE?” Avery and Lara look at each other. Lara’s expression is much more easy to decipher this time. It reads: Shit. “Which one of us d'you think he's talking about?” Avery asks. “Well, given that you set him on fire—” Their discussion is cut short by Rage Issues thundering around the corner. His eyes blaze with— well, rage, and every single vein on his body seems to be popping out. Avery frowns. “Is it just me, or…” “Greenthorne definitely did something to him,” Lara says. “YOU!” Rage Issues roars. “Which— dude, we still don't know which one of us you're talking about.” The man doesn't respond— instead, he charges at the two of them. Lara charges straight back, dropping into another baseball slide and summoning a lance, her standard technique, meant to take out the knees. Personally, Avery prefers just punching and burning, but she can't deny that Lara's method works. Except for when it doesn't. The second Lara's lance touches Rage Issues' legs, it flickers out, and she goes sliding past without touching him. Rage Issues whips around and focuses on Lara— “YOU!” “Her?” Avery says— —and then he's thundering in the direction he came from, towards Lara. Adrenaline shoots through Avery, and she dashes down the hall. The benefit of being a hundred pounds lighter is that she catches up quickly. She lets her arms catch fire as she leaps into the air, trying to trap him in a stranglehold and kick his knees out at the same time, except— oh, merde, she thinks as he whips around and catches her around the stomach. Her fire's out. When did her fire go out? “Aves!” Lara calls. He throws her into the ground. She groans through her gritted teeth— all the trouble she'd gone to earlier to avoid broken ribs was for naught. Something has definitely cracked. Her vision starts to swim, black spots flashing in and out. She rolls to the side on instinct, hissing from the pain, just in time to dodge Rage Issues' fist. His hand comes down again, but this time it's open— and her split second of confusion is all that he needs to get an advantage. His palm slams into her shirt collar with enough force to knock the wind out of her. She tries to set herself alight. It doesn't work. It's as if she's wrapped in whatever the non-flammable version of cotton is. She tries again and again, and nothing happens. Icy fear spears her heart. His fist careens towards her face again, and then— CLANG! A fire extinguisher hits the side of his head with enough force to knock him off of Avery entirely, and she crawls backwards, her ribs burning. Lara offers Avery her non-fire-extinguisher-occupied hand and pulls her up— “Owwww—” to which Lara replies with a glance that’s half sorry sorry sorry and half let’s go, idiot. They limp a few feet away. “Hey, quick Q,” Lara says, watching Rage Issues slowly haul himself up. “Yeah, shoot.” Talking hurts. “Are you just— like, unable use your powers when you're near him? By any chance?” “Yeah. Terrifying, eh?” “Nooooo.” “Sarcasm, that's— ow, my ribs.” Lara shoots her yet another indecipherable glance before hefting the fire extinguisher. She takes two steps towards Rage Issues, brings the fire extinguisher down towards his head— “No!” someone, whose peculiar Central European accent identifies as Greenthorne calls— —Lara's attention divides for a millisecond, and Rage Issues bats the fire extinguisher away. Something in his arm cracks as it connects— Avery feels a sense of smug satisfaction at that, she won't lie— and he howls. Avery darts forwards, doing her best to ignore her ribs screaming and her vision wobbling, and delivers a roundhouse kick to his face. He topples. “Don't kill him, he's our test subject!” Greenthorne calls, reminding Avery of her presence. “Oh. Right. That idiot is here,” Lara says. “What the hell did you do to him, moron?” Avery wheezes. She trains her eyes on Rage Issues, who rises from the ground once again. Crisse, he's like the Hulk. “I'd argue that—” “Shut up and tell us what—” Avery jumps backwards, out of reach of his wild swing, and her world tilts on its axis— “the hell you did!” “Well, I altered the particles in his bloodstream—” Lara ducks under another punch. “What does that mean?!” “Why can't I roast him like a marshmallow?!” He swings again, even more uncoordinated, and as Avery stumbles away, the black spots coalesce at the corner of her eyes. She's never been good at staying on the defensive— maybe this is her body's way of reiterating that point. “He's shielded from your abilities!” Greenthorne hollers. “WHAT?!” Lara cries. Avery would nod, but she’s not sure her brain could handle it. “Basically immune. It's like another superpower.” “WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT?!” Something in Avery’s mind clicks. “Hey, if it's basically another superpower—” —he swings again, grunting like a hog, and grabs Lara around the shoulder. He drags her towards him, and wraps one enormous arm around her throat. “Nobody move!” Avery freezes. “Y'know, I think—” Lara’s voice comes out strangled as she says, “Just—” “Lare-bear, shut up, let me—” Greenthorne takes a step forwards. “I need to take some more of your blood, though—” “Don't move!” Rage Issues roars. “Sweet Jesus,” Avery whispers, exasperated. Her ribs are broken, for Christ's sake, and she is having a hard time thinking, and nobody is letting her ask the one question she has. And on top of all that, her closest friend in the world is being held hostage by some idiot pumped full of steroids. God, she is so angry. “Lare-bear, get your ducks in a row.” Lara's eyes widen minutely. Avery can't blame her— get your ducks in a row is the keyword for one of their most potentially disastrous tactics. No shield, idiot! Lara mouths. Avery raises her eyebrows and presses her lips together— I know that, moron! She raises her foot a centimeter and then grinds her heel into the ground. Lara's eyes follow the motion and then widen even further. Do it, Avery mouths. Lara pauses. Trust me, Avery thinks. Lara nods. In this exact moment, Avery is sure of three things. One: if Rage Issues' shield is "another superpower" of his, then using it with too much intensity will make him pass out. Two: He may be on steroids, but she's trained herself (i.e. tried to see how many Molotov cocktails she could make and then drink in the span of three minutes) enough to be just as strong. Three: If something happens to Lara, she will literally, not figuratively, exile herself to a cave in Iceland and never return. Avery gives her a thumbs up, sets herself on fire, and leaps towards him. She's not fully aware of whatever Lara is doing, but she hears howling and bones crunching (both someone else’s and hers— she’ll be surprised if she makes it through this conscious). She throws her arms around Rage Issues' neck like a child hugging her father and brings up her knees to hit him in the chest like a very vicious child attacking said father. That same suffocating sensation presses down on her skin. She wills herself to burn even hotter in response, to burn through whatever's choking her fire. One of them is going to break, and it will not be her. Her vision fades away completely. A buzzing sound fills her eardrums. She keeps trying. For a second, she loses faith— —and then her skin is ablaze, and Rage Issues is falling to the ground. She extinguishes her fire, her eyesight slowly restoring itself. "I win," she says, grinning dazedly. "Suck it."