“SPLASH!” Was the sound of once living flesh and bone being transformed into water molecules, soaking into the dry, parched floor of the desert planet – some twelve light years from Earth. “Hydro, what have you done?” The elder-looking statesman alarmingly asked. “That was the high priest of Orr. There will be repercussions now from the Orronauts.” “So what!” Came the impetuous reply. “If their guards get anywhere near me, I’ll lay my powerful hands on them and turn them into vapour.” “Stop! Wait!” Came the outcry from the furrowed brow wizard. “That’s not your superpower, Hydro-Man. You turn people into water when you touch them. You are water, not vapour. And why are we so far from Earth?” A small curious crowd mingled, listening to the bickering voices of an impromptu skit taking place on a small side stage at Oz Comic Con 23 - Melbourne’s ultimate pop culture event. Showcasing all the latest studio activations, comics, anime, cosplay, and video games, it provided an ideal escape for visiting fantasists of all ages to act out an alter-ego existence within a safe environment. “Yeah, nah, mate.” Hydro responded. “When I heat up, I turn people into steam.” “Have you even read your backstory?” The wizard-looking statesman rhetorically quizzed. “Yeah, mate. But I thought I’d just improvise.” “That’s not how it works,” Nico, the grey unicorn declared while watching on. “We’re all given role guidelines and rule nine-dash-three states cosplay improvisation is encouraged but not at the cost of cross-character spillovers. If you had done any research, you’d know that when you heat up, you evaporate. Heat is your weakness.” “If we’re sticking to the rules, mate. Where’s your handler?” Hydro immaturely demanded to know. “Why do I need a handler?” “Well, mate. The rules also state that large costumes must have a handler with you as a guide.” Dumbfounded, Nico huffed an exasperated frustration toward the self-appointed leader of their sector of the convention. “Whizzo?” “He’s new.” Turning to quietly address Hydro; Whizzo explained the sensitive and iterated issue of Nico’s predicament. “Look Hydro. First experiences aside, Nico’s costume is a… how do I put this politely? It’s a form hugger.” “What’s that, when it’s at home, mate?” “It’s true to size.” Hydro’s elucidated eyes darted from Whizzo to Nico, then back to Whizzo again – taking a moment to digest the sensitive explanation. Then, quickly darting his eyes back toward Nico once more, he took in Nico’s whole appearance from head to toe, then back up to head. “So, he’s a fat bastard, then.” Hydro commented. “We don’t call Cozplay performers, fat . We say worldly – on account of his broad girth.” “Yeah, nah mate. Fat is fat, and he’s a porker.” “That’s Blackfacing, Hydro,” explained Whizzo. “He don’t look like a black fella to me.” “No, Hydro. That’s just an idiom for a derogatory term,” Whizzo calmly clarified, before explaining further in a staccato cadence. “And it’s against the rules to Blackface – verbally or cosmetically.” “You mean, there’s some Drongos out there that try to pass themselves off as…” “Yes, Hydro,” Whizzo intervened - preventing Hydro’s lack of political correctness from offending anyone listening. “But they always get turned away at the door.” “Yeah, nah mate. That would defo put me in a cranky way, as well.” “Nice to hear you share our sensitivities,” Whizzo smiled. “Yeah, nah mate. If I’d spent hours of hard yakka sewing up a costume and applying black make-up to me face, travelled days to get here, only to be knocked back at the door, coz my face was the wrong colour, I’d look a right Galah. So, I reckon my fist would be in someone else’s face, mate.” “That would be extreme,” Whizzo dismissed. “But race reversal is a serious matter at Comic Con. We want everyone to enjoy their time here, without discrimination toward their chosen character or costume. Some visitors may look menacing in their home-made attire, but this is a safe place where participants can mingle with like-minded people – without judgement, without prejudice, and without the threat of violence.” “What about Nico, over there?” Hydro questioned, while still scrutinising Nico’s appearance. “He falls on anyone, mate, your safety record is out the window.” Whizzo’s exasperation snapped back at the flippant comment. “In such a scenario, that would be an accident, Hydro. We’re insured for that.” “I could turn him into water,” Hydro joked. “But I reckon he’d drown the whole place and everyone in it.” “Stop it! You’re blackfacing again.” “Nah, yeah mate. Apologies.” “So,” Nico interrupted impetuously. “Are we going to continue the rehearsal or not?” “Too right, mate. I’m ready. What’s your character’s name, again?” “Nico,” he insolently spat out. “Oh, I thought that was your real name.” “It’s short for Unicorn .” “Oh, yeah. That explains the horn sticking out of your lemon spread. With the size of yous, I thought you was a rhino.” “A grey rhinoceros with hoofs, wispy white mane, and a bushy tail?” Nico intolerantly asked. “It’s Comic Con, mate. Earlier on, I saw a rainbow-costumed He-Man posing as He-She-They, Non-Binary Person. There’re all kinds of weirdos here.” “There is indeed, Hydro,” Whizzo interrupted. “But we don’t call them that. Everyone here is a Cosplayer.” “Nah, yeah. Reckon I’ll use that word when someone back home does something strange. You bloody Cozplayer! I’ll yell. That’ll get ‘em thinking.” “As a matter of fact,” Nico pointed out priggishly. “I am a returning champion.” “That right, mate?” “It is,” Whizzo confirmed. “Two years ago, he was Jabba the Hut and won best costume and best cosplay skit competition.” “Yeah, well in that current horse’s costume, he’ll probably win the best shit competition this year.” “I am not any old horse,” Nico protested. “I am Alphabittle from the My Little Pony series.” “Well, not to boast myself, but I’ve made today’s cosplayoff. Against you, you oversized donkey! They’re reinforcing the stage now, to support your heavy hooves later on.” “Aren’t you a bit too old for all of this?” Nico tried an insult. “Mature is the word you’re looking for, mate. Didn’t see no age limit on the application. If anything, and by the looks of yous, you lot shouldn’t be out without your parents being present.” Irked at the derogatory nature of Hydro, Nico trotted aggressively towards him, but Whizzo managed to intercept, before any feelings were further bent out of shape. “Nico,” Whizzo playfully intervened. “Why don’t you canter along and brush your mane for the cosplayoff. Get a nose in front of Hydro-Man.” Smiling at Whizzo’s intended puns, Nico threw a snout up at Hydro, then headed off to get ready for the skit competition. Watching him trot off with real and animated legs in perfect harmony with each other, Whizzo commented on his impressive costume. “Amazing mechanics inside the belly of that thing.” “The costume or the bloke, mate?” Hydro flippantly asked. Ignoring the comment, Whizzo continued to espouse the genius of Nico’s costume. “Notice how all four legs move in synchronistic poetry. The way his head bobs up and down and the fly-swishing tail swinging from side to side. It’s going to take something spectacular to beat that costume.” “Yeah, nah mate. Typical horse’s arse, he is. Needs to grow up. Wait until he finds out that I’m packed with water balloons that burst when I touch my finger to someone.” “Bursting water balloons,” Whizzo pondered. “What happens, then?” “…They get wet.” “Oh? Nothing more?” “They turn to water. What more do you want?” “But that’s just cosplay, Hydro. What other features come with your costume? Can you levitate?” “Can anyone?” Hydro countered. “I mean, can you appear to levitate? “Mate, I’m literally one big shower of wet. You lift me off the ground and it’s gonna rain. Every padded six-pack looking stomach, bicep, and thigh muscle on this costume, is a water chamber. I can soak people for hours on end with these water pistol rings, see?” Pointing to one side of Whizzo, a spray of water escaped from the palm side of Hydro’s hand, sprinkling the small, assembled crowd, which prompted the last few hangers-on to disperse – giggling and feinting fear of getting wet. “That’s entertaining enough,” Whizzo admitted. “But isn’t that a lot of weight to carry around?” “Nah, mate. It’s all evenly distributed. Plus, I’ve been weight training for the last three months, carrying thirty-kilo weights on my back while bushwalking.” “Like I said,” Whizzo repeated. “You’re going to need something spectacular to beat him.” Dropping in on the two men unexpectedly, another Cosplayer in a very impressive Spiderman costume fell dangling from a wire-like device onto the small stage, then took up the typical one arm, two-legged crawl pose normally associated with the comic book hero. Positioned almost parallel to the ground, Spidey looked ready to do a one-handed push-up. “Look, Whizzo!” Hydro exclaimed in an amateur dramatic way – trying to create an improvisational moment. “It’s me arch-nemesis, Spiderman!” “Other way round, you clown,” the fully costumed comic hero belligerently spat through their face mask, while standing up. “I’m the superhero, so that makes you the villain. Superheroes can’t be an arch nemesis.” “Yeah, I knew that,” Hydro embarrassingly contradicted. “Was just testing to see if you knew.” “How d’ya like my entrance, Whizzo?” “Impressive, Spidey.” Whizzo complimented. “I’m the wildcard entry.” “To what?” Hydro enquired. “To today’s best costume and skit.” “I thought that was just between me and fatso?” “This your first Comic Con, wet boy?” The not-so-friendly neighbourhood superhero teased. “The skits are always full of surprises.” “Does everyone just make up their own rules, here?” Hydro lashed out. “He’s still getting his bearings, Spidey.” Whizzo inserted. “But he’s done well for a first timer to get to the cosplayoff.” “Step aside, Hydro Man.” Spidey musically commanded. “Let a professional through.” Pushing a button situated on Spidey’s wristband, the webslinger leapt into the air and disappeared over the stage backdrop. “How’d he do that?” Hydro asked Whizzo. “Cirque De Soleil. Came with an accompanying entourage who have rigged the hall at certain points to create the illusion of swinging from spider silk.” “Yeah? He allowed to do that?” “Within reason, as long as the apparatus doesn’t endanger anyone. Spidey covered the insurance premium and signed a waiver of indemnity. If anyone gets hurt, Spidey pays.” “Bloody hell, mate! That’s defo pro, there.” “I told you.” “Well,” Hydro enthusiastically stated. “I can’t hang around here chewing the fat all day. I’ve got a competition to win.” “Let me show you the way,” Whizzo kindly offered. Guiding Hydro to the performance stage, the water-carrying anti-hero, laughed, berated, and marvelled at some of the cosplayers he passed along the way. There were numerous Star Wars characters – including a very impressive Mandalorian who shot sponge arrows from his arms, a witch on a broom that made her look like she was flying just above the ground, a collection of Doctor Who Daleks, and a plethora of fantasy characters from cartoons to video games created a surreal but juvenile atmosphere of fantasy role playing. There were characters from Chainsaw Massacre, Ghostbusters, Game of Thrones, Scream, Harry Potter, IT, The Matrix, Alien, Predator, and many more. To Hydro, it looked like every character of every popular comic, movie, and tv series was passionately represented. However, the one that caught his undivided attention was Harlequin, and Hydro shared his approval with the whole floor by pretending to dry-hump Whizzo’s leg - as he watched her pass by. “Hydro,” Whizzo corrected him. “Blackfacing?” Hydro presumed. “Blackfacing also covers behaviour,” Whizzo pointed out - while unpeeling Hydro from his leg. However, there was no time for lectures, as the Tanoy system interrupted them, inviting the skit finalists to the stage. “ Hydro Man !” Came the call through the speaker system, as he ascended the eight short steps to the tall stage. “ Alpha…Bittle !” The announcer introduced the already in place Nico, prancing and using his front hoofs to mimic counting, by scraping them on the stage platform. “Ladies and gentlemen,” continued the announcer. “Guys and Ghouls . Presenting a first for this year. Swooping in on their own apparatus, I give you… Wait! Do you feel that tingling at the back of your neck? Like you’ve just been bitten by a radioactive spider? Yes, she’s back from last year’s best cosplayer as Poison Ivy... casting a tangled web of deceit, by switching allegiances from DC to Marvel, it’s Spider Girl!” “Crikey!” Hydro shouted down to Whizzo – who was standing at front row centre. “A girl…! Had me sucked in, mate!” “We cater to all,” Whizzo directed back his reply to Hydro. “There’s no preconceptions here at Comic Con.” “With that high-pitched voice, I just thought his balls hadn’t dropped, yet.” A crowd converged around Whizzo, in front of the stage, grouping together like room to stand was running out. It wasn’t. Mob rule had taken over the youthful excitement of escapism, and jamming themselves like someone had lassoed them together, increased their level of fervour. This was a convention for the young, where they could dress up and behave as someone completely removed from the humdrum of daily life. Where the abnormal is imitable and fantasy is the new reality. So Hydro thought - before his mental summation of the crowd was abruptly interrupted by the feet of Spidergirl clipping his head, as she swung down and onto the stage to a raucous reception. “Outta my way, Wet Boy,” she sang. “You’re in the big league, now.” “Let’s hear it for Spidergirl!” The announcer yelled, prompting more cheers and whistles of approval to ring out. “Can we please have the cosplayers on stage walk in a single-file circle. It’s time for best costume award!” Complying, the three contestants walked in an encircling pattern around the stage. The crowd cheered Alphabittle, screamed at Spidergirl and playfully booed Hydro, irking him just enough for him to stick his tongue out at them and grab his crotch. At the announcer’s command, the three competitors lined up arms-length from each other for the judging. Hydro found himself stuck in the middle of the other two – who were hamming it up for the audience by acting out various poses associated with their characters. Hydro just stood with arms raised slightly above waist level, squirting water at the audience – annoying some of the satin-wearing cosplayers when staining sprinkles of water landed on their costumes. “The judges have voted for best costume,” the announcer commented. “In third place is… Hydro Man, and the winner is… Alphabittle!” Nudging the disappointed Hydro, Nico took a pony-styled bow. “Not bad for a grey Rhino, hey?” “Well done,” Spidergirl congratulated Nico, as the announcer initialised the Cosplay Skit part of the competition. “What a waste of sowing thread, Hydro,” she added. “Now, watch what I have in store for these amateurs.” “That’s Blackfacing,” Hydro replied - right before he spitefully leaned across and pressed Spidey’s wrist button. Before Spidergirl could react, the wire she was attached to recoiled and yanked her off the stage, swinging her screaming in a circular direction. Then, returning in an arc back towards the stage, she swung straight down toward the panicked Nico, whose four hoofed extremities scrambled to get out of the way. In a microsecond of regretful malaise, Hydro threw himself in-between them and was hit full force by Spidergirl’s momentum. The impact burst every water chamber on Hydro’s torso, creating a wall of water flung into the air, masking the fallout of the impact. Teetering at the back edge of the stage, Nico fell backwards and out of view of the audience, while Spidergirl slid and landed on him unceremoniously. The crowd hushed, some brushing themselves down from being splashed. Hydro stood alone in a pool of water that began to drain from the slightly tilted stage. “Cosplayers and alike,” the voice from the stage speakers announced. “This is a first. Staying true to his superpower by touching his opponents, Hydro has turned them into water, and I don’t think anyone in this building will deny that Hydro is the winner of the sewing machine prize!” Before Hydro could argue that only he can turn himself into water and not anyone else, the crowd erupted into a frenzy of cheers and whoops that silenced his protest. He had won something, and he was determined to revel in it. “A few words, Hydro.” The announcer prompted him, as she passed him her microphone. “Nah, yeah. I erm just wanted to thank me erm, mum for the use of her sewing machine.” Accepting an envelope from the announcer with the prize claim coupon inside, Hydro tearfully waved it in the air. “This is for you, Mum!” He shouted loudly. “Sorry I broke yours when it fell off the back of me Ute, but I’m bringing home a new one for ya! Latest model too!” As the crowd began to disperse, Whizzo greeted Hydro at the side of the stage. “Congrats, Hydro. That was spectacular.” “Yeah, nah. One use only, mate. All the chambers have split. I’m done. There’s no time to come back for the grand final tomorrow. Are Spidey and Nico okay?” “Nothing but pride dented. They’ll regroup,” Whizzo replied. “No doubt, one of them will win it all.” “I reckon I would have given ‘em a run for their money.” “There’s always next year, Hydro.” “Yeah, nah. Too many immature ankle biters here thinking they’re more than what they are.” “Hydro,” Whizzo admonished. “Remember your decorum.” “Yeah, nah mate. Fuck that. I won, mate! Whoo! Yous can all kiss my wet bum!” Disappointingly shaking his head, Whizzo watched as a drenched Hydro squished his way toward the exit, waving his prize coupon at every cosplayer he passed. Turning to shout back to Whizzo, a child-like expression decorated his face. “Me mum likes me singing. So, next year, I’m off to X-Factor as Elvis.” Faking a smile, Whizzo muttered under his breath, “God help Simon Cowell…”


This story contains references to violence and mental health issues, and mentions of blood. I take my mother's axe from beside the door. It's heavy in my hands, the wood smoothed from use and yet still rough enough to cause blisters. The blade is dulled, like my reason. We’re about the same age, this axe and I. It makes sense that we would be a little worse for wear.

I'm not used to the idea of weapons, especially in my own hands. It's not a thought that's crossed my mind until recently. Momma would not have categorized this as a weapon. It was for chopping wood, that was all. In a fight, she would have preferred a gun. My empty hand flies to my pocket. I find the cigarette packet in my overalls and breathe a tiny sigh of relief. I don't use them–never have–but even if I did, I wasn't going to be the one smoking tonight. It was Momma who used to smoke. She'd sit in that old plastic porch chair, in her overalls like mine, huffing and puffing away. Entertaining visitors with exaggerated stories narrated by a husky voice that only years of huffing and puffing on cigarettes can bring about. I can hear it now as I stand in the driveway. Not audible words, or even individual ones. Just the sound of her voice. The cracks and creaks of it. No one can stop me from what I am about to do.

There is no one left. It's sort of comforting. Mostly, though, it makes me ache in a hollow place, and when I start to feel that ache I give the ax a little toss and catch it again in my hand. It almost falls to the ground, but I do catch it. The leaves whisper as I shuffle over the gravel driveway. Because it is summer, they are soft and green. I can move fairly quietly. Not that I need to. There is no one around for miles. Momma would have stopped me from leaving. Would have made me do the dishes, probably, and then told me to get gas whenever I took the old truck to town. Gasoline. Why didn't I think before? Here I am with a lighter and some cigarettes when I can really start a blaze with gasoline. I stand still for a minute, contemplating whether or not to grab the full can, which I know is sitting in the shed. That's when I realize how quiet my brain is. I listen closer, lean forward a little even though that makes no sense because my thoughts are inside my own head and not out in the woods. Silence. May's voice is not there to reproach me. Maybe the echoes of her tangents have finally died out forever. Just because I can–just because they don’t come on their own, and I have the power to summon the words–I imagine what she would say if she were here. Sammy? Where are you going? Immediately I regret it. Now the memories of her will come flooding back. I had known it would happen. Playing with fire will get you burnt. May, with long chestnut hair and deep dark eyes. Clacking away at her typewriter–the one she bought from a thrift store–sweeping the floor to soothe Momma's bad moods, nervously bringing up getting a boyfriend for the first time at dinner one night. Momma's fork had clattered to the plate. Where are you going? Rich, I thought to myself, and I might have said it out loud, too. I had said the exact same thing the night she left– “Where are you going, May?” “Not really sure right now. Don’t worry about me,” she had said, pulling my forehead towards herself to plant a kiss on my hair. For once, I let her, and didn’t fight. May left. Momma left. I am alone. I decide against bringing the gas. Don't really need it. When I reach the road, the darkness has grown heavier, and the stars are peeping out of the sky. A clear night. No cars pass me by as I go along. No one drives along these roads at midnight for no reason, unless maybe they’re characters in a horror movie. A flash of headlights would be an anomaly right now. For some reason I don't feel chilly in the evening air, and the idea of wild animals never crosses my mind. Even if it did, I doubt I would care, now that I have the axe. Their house isn't far. Only a mile, maybe a mile and a half down the road. Don't do this, Sammy. As if May could ever understand anger. That must be what this is–anger. It does not light me on fire the way it used to. It courses coolly through my blood, as though it has been with me so long it is now part of me, inseparable from my existence. I don’t even notice it’s there until I identify it for what it is. Momma wouldn't want this. As if May could ever understand loneliness. Momma understood that, at least. Did she die lonely? I was by her side, but was I enough? Maybe Momma would want it. I don't know what she would have wanted. May doesn't know.

She has no right to talk. Doesn't matter, May. This is what I want. You don't mean that. You left. You don't get a say in this. I was going to leave anyway. You don't have to do this, Sammy. I'm doing it for you! My impatience leaps up and I repeat it, whisper-shouting out loud. "I'm doing it for you!" I can see it now, May's ashen face at the news of Sarah's death. The tears that fell behind closed doors. She was always afraid to cry in front of people, even Momma. Probably the one thing we had in common. I can see it now, the police knocking on our door. May, interrogated, because some blonde girl at school reported seeing her with Sarah that night and the news had spread like wildfire. In a small town, people talk. May was innocent, of course. I knew it, Momma knew it, the police knew it. The blonde had lied. Jealousy, I think. Lying Dahlia. Monstrous Dahlia. The gossip flew out of control and May was left to deal with the consequences of it, until finally she couldn't anymore and she left town. As I walk in the darkness, surrounded by the looming shadows of trees and the hum of the crickets, I watch her pack the car. I watch her kiss Momma goodbye. I feel her lips against my hair. I watch her disappear down the road in the station wagon, kicking up dirt as she goes. Innocent, but exiled. Finally I arrive at my destination. Here stands Dahlia's house, at the end of a much shorter driveway than ours, one made of real blacktop, pavement, whatever it’s called. Not gravel. No car there, but that's the way I planned it. The Beaufords are away, visiting their oldest daughter somewhere in another state. The house is empty, its windows dark, its whitewashed porch gleaming in the moonlight. My footsteps don’t crackle over the gravel pathway like they do at my house. I stop once I have reached the top of the porch steps, which don't creak under my weight like the ones at my house. Figures. Everything here is new, expensive, well-kept. The lighter flashes to life, and I watch as the little flame dances in the breeze, casting shadows across the siding of the house. Now is the time. I light a cigarette and resist the urge to put it to my lips, just to see what it's like. Arson is not beneath me, but for some reason I draw the line at smoking. Probably because growing up the smell made me feel sick. Sammy. I groan. She's back. Please don't do this. I drop the cigarette. All I have to do is light another, and another, and another, till the pack is empty and the wood begins to burn. I can plant them inside, too. The axe will help with that. Sammy! No! It is her fault. It is her fault the porch is beginning to smoke. Dahlia's fault. Momma's fault, for leaving me alone like she did. It rises in the air, quicker than I expected. I should have started inside. I hear Sammy screaming at me as I crash through the front door, and pieces of wood and plastic and glass go flying.

Then, real screaming. Audible screaming, coming from upstairs. Momma’s axe drops to the floor. "Mom! Dad!" No. They're not home. I planned it that way– Smoke stings my eyes. My arms smart from splinters and bits of glass, and in the flickering light of the fire outside I can see little drops of blood trickling down my legs. Dahlia screams again, and that is when the worst fear comes to mind, the one that makes me seize up like a statue. I will become what May never was. I scream, too. "No!" The tears are falling in rivers, all of a sudden, all down my face. I race up the staircase, fumbling around looking for her. There–an open door. It’s hers. Into Dahlia's room, where she cradles herself on the floor beside her bed, dead cell phone in hand. The smoke has driven her downward.

It spread so fast, much faster than I had ever imagined. "Dahlia, come on. Let's get out of here!" Her eyes are wide. She does not know who I am.

For a moment I stare at her. This is the girl who drove May away, who caged me in an empty house. Every bitterness I held against her disintegrates and flies away like the ashes past the windows. What have I done? "Help me!" she begs. "Help me!" I grab her arms and pull her off the floor. Clutching one another, we fly down the staircase, sobbing into each other's hair. Down the stairs, out the back door, around to the front again where we can see the massive wall of fire that is Dahlia's house. I fall to my knees, burying my face in the grass. Snot mixes with dirt and I try to hide it from Dahlia, but she only stands with tear-streaked cheeks as she watches her home go up in flames. "I'm sorry," I choke, over and over. To May. To Momma. To Dahlia. Everything blurs. Eventually red lights flash and I know the police are here, the firefighters, the ambulances. I sob to them as they patch up the cuts running down my limbs. Dahlia is silent. And then, as the sobs have finally begun to cease and every tear has been racked from my body, there is May in the old station wagon. She takes me in her arms and for a moment, I see myself again, like I used to be before everyone disappeared. I smell the autumn scent of her perfume, the cinnamon spice of it. She whispers in my ear, comforting words, apologies, when really I should be apologizing to her. The anger is gone. The fire flared and died.

I am truly empty now. She leaves me–only briefly, just for a second–to wrap Dahlia in her embrace. And Dahlia clings to her, just like I did. I don't dare hope for forgiveness from her, the blonde, the one who lied. She is crying, calling her parents, explaining to them what happened without knowing how it happened. “It was me,” I tell her. My voice is raspy. She stares at me, blinks, and then turns away to say something to her family on the other end of the phone. No, I don’t dare hope for forgiveness from her. I will forgive her, though.

I know May did a long time ago.


When Then Was Now Denise A Nisbet Our family’s baby looks at the world with big blue eyes. Fingers in mouth, she focuses on something we can’t see. Then she looks into my eyes and laughs uproariously. I laugh back at her and wonder what her world will become? Because no-one, fifty-odd years ago, could have dreamed of the world we live in now. When I was a bit older than our baby, my family moved to Toongabbie. The name comes from the Toogalal band of the Dharug peoples who lived there. It had good water and food for them, so of course early settlers wanted to live there too. The Dharug didn’t like it much. A Bidjigal hero named Pemulwuy[1] was the first to show the British settlers that the Aboriginal peoples were going to resist colonisation. In one battle, he got seven pieces of buckshot in his head; five others were killed. Despite the buckshot and wearing a leg-iron, Pemulwuy escaped from the hospital. That is because he was a carradhy, a man with magical powers. Although it was now our small farm, I felt the Toogalal still there. I knew them in the gentle wind in those olive-green trees, in the grass paddock beside the house, their soft presence …chattering and singing, whispering. It was their place, their country. They loved it and lived it. We only farmed it. Sacred to all Australian Aboriginal peoples is their obligation to care for their country. This resonates through art, music, folklore and religious beliefs. In Singing Saltwater Country John Bradley[2] describes the importance of song and ritual as keys to maintaining the energy flows that run through country. And now, with climate change, we see just how far short we fall as custodians of the land. The Aboriginal peoples of Australia were truly the first environmentalists and I am a proud supporter of ‘Country Needs People’[3]; Nowadays Aboriginal people are employed as rangers to care for their own country areas. They are busy preserving rare species, showing scientists new ones, and eliminating feral animals that prey on native species. It is a brilliant and perfect blend of the country’s environmental needs and the people who love it and know how to care for it. When I lived in America a friend confronted me about our Stolen Generations. I hotly denied that such a thing ever happened. I told him he was projecting onto Australia his own guilt over their mistreatment of American Indians. The first National Sorry Day was held on 26 May 1998. Could I have been wrong? Then on the 13th of February 2008, Prime Minister Kevin Rudd, tabled a motion in parliament apologising to Australia's Indigenous peoples. 'Indigenous children have been forcibly separated from their families and communities since the very first days of the European occupation of Australia by governments and missionaries’. I am appropriately embarrassed, appropriately sorry and hang my head in shame.[4] What hubris! To think we came here and settled a country we called Terra Nullius , which was already owned by over 300,000 (some estimates are as high as 1 million) Aboriginal people. Then we followed up with the so-called ‘White Australia Policy’![5] The Whitlam Government repealed this in 1975 and Australia's Migration Program allows people from any country to apply to migrate to Australia, regardless of ethnicity, culture, religion or language. Our early immigrants though, had a horrible time of it! When we lived in Toongabbie the Camilleri family from Malta had a market garden next door. I felt so sorry for my mother. Mrs Camilleri would send us over lovely cream cheeses and my mother burst into tears. She didn’t know what to do with them! Imagine that! Nowadays, we’d be lining up for Mrs Camilleri’s cream cheeses. I blame the government of that time. Oh, not for the cream cheeses or Mrs Camilleri but for their failure to teach us about our immigrants, and what we could do to help them. Some talks on radio (no television back then!) would have helped everyone enormously. How were we to know how lonely and hard it was for those early immigrants? From our side, there was a lot of talk about ‘them’ taking ‘our’ jobs, ‘our’ this and ‘our’ that. How could we go from being a largely homogeneous group of people, excluding even our indigenous folk, proud of calling England ‘home’ as my mother still did, to being open and accepting and helpful to the new migrants coming to our country? My loving mother would have helped Mrs Camilleri if only she had understood. I know this sounds stupid and naïve now, if not downright racist, but how powerful our ignorance was. You don’t know what you don’t know. At least we have changed over the years! Although my friend believes there is still a lot of backlash over multiculturalism, I do think that many of us are now proud of our multi-cultural country, embracing not just a Mrs Camilleri and cream cheese, but people and foods and customs from all over the world. Just think of all the wonderful foods that have come to us from Asia, Africa, and Southern Europe, as well as new ideas, new understanding, new tolerance, new vistas of the world. We used to be so insular and now we are on our way to becoming a broad-minded, outward looking country. How lucky we are; I credit our migrants with giving us that. I saw the most wonderful play about 50 years ago called Under Australian Skies [6] . It was brilliant; told in mime with background narration, of Aborigines, immigrants, old Australians using simple props and masks for each character. It captured my heart; the aboriginal woman with her love of country trying to show us how little we understood that relationship; the fear and trepidation of a Greek migrant woman coming here ‘for the children’; and a typical Aussie bloke in thongs and shorts mowing the lawn, up and down, nose in the air, caught in his own little white world. This play was an education in itself about our past. Education for me was Westmead Primary School. I wasn’t taught our own history except for the well-known explorers. But I can tell you lots about English monarchs and their wars. Waiting for the school bus, a bit bored, I’d shuffle my feet through a bull-ant nest. The ants would go crazy and I thought it was huge fun. We’d trundle down the HUGE hill of Binalong Road in the rickety bus (that hill is a lot smaller than it used to be). I went to my Aunty Mary’s house after school, and she would put me on a bus for home. The people next door to Aunty Mary had a sulphur-crested cockatoo in a cage. The phone would ring, and the cockatoo would call out ‘Mrs. G, you’re wanted on the phone.’ Aunty Mary would run out to get her phone call… And laugh, we really did! Not everyone had a phone in those days. You can’t imagine that now can you? Australia has the largest number of mobile phones per capita in the world. I’m not much of a phoning person, but we can’t deny how useful they are. After school, my cousin Errol and I would shoot down the hill outside Aunty Mary’s in his home-made billycart. ‘Police, who have received numerous reports of robberies from garages in the western suburbs, have been surprised to find that numbers of thefts have been committed by boys who wished to assemble billy carts … On Tuesday … police arrested three boys whose ages range from 10 to 14 years. …’[7] And this: ‘Billycart Furore. The serenity of Elizabeth Bay has been seriously disturbed by the heavy holiday traffic of billycarts and many of its unnerved householders have enthusiastically welcomed the reopening of school … we may yet hear of Parliament solemnly debating the question of whether billycarts should be banished from the streets.’[8] Heavens above! What a fuss! Whoever heard such nonsense? I’d love to see more kids out in billycarts instead of seeing babies on iPads. I went back to my aunt’s house recently. The hill we billycarted down has grown much smaller. Otherwise the house looks the same with the old verandah we used to sleep on, winter and summer, in saggy old beds. On a frosty morning, hearing the milkman come, his horse clip-clopping along the road, he’d fill our billycan with milk for the day. This ‘billy’ has nothing to do with billy carts; this is a small bucket with a handle. It was part of the kit for the army and was carried by swagmen to make their tea. A swagman was a man who travelled around the countryside carrying his ‘swag’, his bedroll and billycan, selling his labour sheep shearing or cattle-herding. He’s become famous in the song ‘Once a jolly swagman…’ At Pa’s place there was a swaggie who visited about once a year. Pa would feed him and give him tea and sugar. He’d make his tea in his billy and swing it around and around to draw the tea and dissolve the sugar. He had a hard and lonely life did the swaggie, travelling from station[9] to station for work, often walking great distances as our stations tend to be huge runs of land. I’m sure it’s a lot easier these days. Not the work, that is still really hard yakka, but the travel would be easier with trucks and cars and four-wheel drives. Back in the 1940s we used trains and buses and trams to get around, very few people had cars. A trip to the dentist (whose name by the way was Dr Teeful, I thought it hilarious) was bus to Toongabbie station, steam train to Granville – leave the window open so I can smell the smoke and steam and the cinders flying by. Change at Granville for an electric train to Central and cross Sydney Harbour over the bridge in a double-decker bus. Sitting on the top in front I could see everything; a sleek grey transport ship owning the water, a little sailboat bobbing nearby like a puppy begging for attention, the green and yellow ferries ploughing purposefully between North and South shores, Fort Denison standing guard right in the middle of that glorious harbour. I don't suppose that would be much of a thrill for a child today, but it was high adventure for a little girl from Toongabbie. So, a trip to the dentist... A drill that sounded like those pneumatic drill-things that dig up the road: grrrr-rrrr-rrrr it ground away. My teeth ached, my head rattled, my eyes watered and I felt battered. Now there is something I have no nostalgia for. Just think about the modern dental equipment. I suppose it makes a trip to the dentist a bit less traumatic. Then we went back across the Harbour Bridge to have a special lunch at David Jones. ‘What will you have dear?’ from my mother. A meat pie and peas of course. What else would an Aussie kid have? ‘Are you sure you wouldn't like something else this time?’ My mother would ask hopefully. No. Of course I wouldn't. When else would I get a meat pie? Lovely and round and sloppy with gravy inside and heaps of tomato sauce on it. Heaven! At Christmas time David Jones’ windows were dressed with wonderful scenes; dolls and teddy bears, little toy trains, a model of Santa on his sleigh with his elves, the winter scenes so unfamiliar to us here in high summer. We’d line up, dressed in our summer dresses and sandals, to sit on Santa’s knee and to tell him that yes, we had been good, and ask for what we would like for Christmas. I lost charity with Santa when I got a bike instead of ballet toe shoes. I guess that, just as we did, our little baby will be lining up to see Santa. How lovely that not all the old traditions die out. Well, back to that travel. How it has changed! The Australian Maritime Museum[10] has a replica of one of the ships early migrants came to Australia in. About ten square feet for a family! My family, travelling on the Parsee , was mother, father and five little girls and (I’m sure with great jubilation) my great-grandfather was born on board on the way out. I have a picture in my mind of that sailing ship whipping up the coast from Hobart to Sydney. It might have been rough and windy, with that wonderful sea smell. Seeing land must have been so exciting after a long sea voyage but what a land? Those dull olive-green trees can’t have looked inviting to people used to the brilliant greens of Great Britain. Nowadays we CROOOOSE. The things that strike you on boarding one of these lovely cruise ships is the sense of space and light and luxury. Cheerful smiling staff, white linen and silverware on the tables in the dining rooms, lovely ballrooms, the big theatre, beautiful decks by the swimming pool or sauna, comfortable cabins (even the small ones) with a towel sculpture made each evening by the cabin attendants. Oh, it is lovely. We had the greatest fun on Chocolate Night! ‘Yummy beyond expectation a delight to the eyes and the stomach’ said the baby’s grandmother. The deck was lit with fairy lights, the sky a gentle dark blue, the sea swished quietly in the background, there was lovely quiet music, we were all beautifully dressed and very glamorous. And there was a display of the most marvellous creations! Ice sculptures of birds and animals, chocolate monuments of the Eiffel Tower and the Sydney Harbour Bridge, bread twisted into decorative plaits or honeyed loaves and cakes and cakes and cakes. Sponges with jam and cream, chocolate cakes, profiterole towers covered in caramel, in chocolate, in syrup. The staff made Bananas Foster, Cherries Jubilee, Crepe Suzette… There were jellies and pastries … it was all too beautiful to eat. Almost. We sailed into Sydney at dawn at the end of that trip. The sun was rising behind us, lighting up the Harbour Bridge ahead as we sailed under it, ducking our heads – it looked such a tight squeeze. Every time I came home from my many, many journeys abroad, I felt so moved by my country. I cried flying over the harbour, I cried sailing into the harbour, I hugged trees when I got home, I adored that Qantas advertisement with the song ‘I still call Australia, still call Australia, still call Australia… home.’[11]     Now there are no more swagmen, no more billycans or billycarts, no more milkmen, no horse-and-cart. But these times are the very best of times. See the stunning changes in these last years! I learned to type on a manual typewriter, and now I sit in front of my Mac, using that same skill to write this story. I read a book on a Kindle or an iPad at the flick of a button. I travelled in steam trains, then, as a young woman I watched a man land on the moon, and I now see pictures from Saturn on a television. We had to go to the GPO in Sydney to book a telephone call to The Netherlands to let my Dutch family know when I became engaged. Now I write a note to my friends in England or America or Holland and they respond a few seconds later! And now we Zoom our friends and family. We walk around on titanium hips and knees; we have stem cells to reverse the effects of age or accident. No, we can be nostalgic, even peer a little sadly into the past, but we can’t regret the changes. And, like all of us now, in the future our little blue-eyed baby will see miracles that we can’t even dream of. The End. [1] Kohen JL (2005): Pemulwuy (1750-1802): Australian Dictionary of Biography. National Centre of Biography, Australian National University. [2] Bradley J (2010): Singing saltwater country: Allen and Unwin [3] The Country Needs People campaign is fighting for the growth and security of opportunities for land and sea country management by Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples. www.countryneedspeople.com [4] Based on materials that constitute copyright of the Commonwealth of Australia and is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 Australia license- external site [5] On 23 December 1901, the Immigration Restriction Act came into law. The legislation was specifically designed to limit non-British migration to Australia and allowed for the deportation of ‘undesirable’ people who had settled in any Australian colony prior to federation. www.nma.gov.au [6] I couldn’t find any record of the playwright or the play. [7] Boys’ Thefts: Parts to make a billycart. The The Women’s Weekly, February 1934 [8] Sydney Morning Herald, May 1932 [9] ‘Station’ is our word for the huge ranches we have. [10] Located in Darling Harbour, Sydney. Many and varied exhibits relating to our Maritime history. [11]    Allen, P (1980): I still call Australia home. On the album Bi-Coastal.


We pull her out of the sea as soon as we find her. She looks like she was about to go under. I stare at her as one of the crew members pulls her aboard. They bring her below deck and lay her down in one of the extra beds. The nurse sat in the bed next to her. After a little bit, the nurse shooed me out. I came back the next day. She was sleeping and shivering in her bed. The nurse had left. I threw a blanket over her. She calmed down a little bit. I left to go eat lunch and she was awake when I came back. "Hi." "Hi... where am I?" "You're on the Borealis. We rescued you from the ocean." "oh... do you know what happened? Like, how I got in the ocean?" "No, I'm sorry." "...ok." We went upstairs together. The crew welcomed her with grace. After all, she was one of the only girls on the ship and she was the only visitor. "So, what's your name?" "My name is Olive. What is yours?" "My name is Aiden." She smiles, "I like that name." I smile back. We go below deck again for dinner. We almost always have something bland on our ship. Tonight it was bread and mashed potatoes. Olive snarfed hers down. Some of the crew laughed as she tried to grab more bread but she had already eaten it all. Under the table, I slip her mine. She grins at me as she grabs it and shoves it in her mouth. I give her a tour of the Borealis. We walk the whole deck. Then I showed her a tor of the bottom deck. We even went up to the wheel. I introduced her to most everyone on the ship. Finally, we went up to the crow's nest. It was nearing sunset when we climbed up there, "It's beautiful." "Yeah." She looks into the distance. "I just... I haven't told you but." "But, what?" "I can't remember anything since I woke up. Can you tell me?" "So far, when the crew pulled you out of the water, you were holding onto a board. I think it said something like, tranquility." "Hold on." Olive stared out into the ocean. She looked like she was concentrating hard. "What is it?" "I remember something." "What do you remember." "I remember my father. He is lifting me up in his arms. We are on a ship. The sun is setting. Then it just stops." "Oh. Is that a memory of yours?" "I think so." We go back below the deck and lay down. "Is there anything else you remember?" "Not really." "I guess we should go to bed soon." "...yeah." "Night." "Night."

I wake up a little before Olive and went up to grab some biscuits and coffee. I come down with two mugs and a plate of biscuits. Olive is already awake. "Hi Aiden." "Hi Olive. Did you remember anything else?" I sit down on the bed next to her. "Yes actually." She takes a biscuit and takes a giant bite. "I was sitting on a chair in front of a mirror. My mother stood behind me and was braiding my hair. There were seashells on the table in front of me. I was making a necklace out of the seashells." "Any clues about why you were in the ocean?" "Well, I was on a boat." "*Sigh,* no." "...oh, ok." "Hey! Why don't we try some things to see if it triggers a memory." "Oh, that's a great idea!"

We ran around the whole ship and talked to most of the crew members we saw. We stare over the edge of the railing. "Ugg! All-day and nothing!" "Something has to work." "OMG Look! Dolphins!" We watch as two dolphins jump out of the water and dive back in. Then, a baby dolphin jumps happily at their tails. Olive giggles at my side. Then she stares into the horizon. "What is it?" "I remember me and my parents. We are standing on deck. A whole pod of dolphins swims by." "That sounds fun." "Yeah." For the next two days, we continue to try to trigger some sort of memory. We hear from the crew that a boat would be nearing us soon so we went to the crow's nest to watch it go by. About ten minutes later we see the sail of the ship in the distance. "There it is!" We wave to the ship as it passes. Suddenly Olive's hand shoots to her side. "DAD! LOOK OUT!" She's screaming. Olive falls to the floor. "Olive! Are you okay?" She shakily climbs down back to the deck. I rush after her. She runs below deck and tries to hide under the bed in the corner.

"Olive. You're okay. What's wrong." "It was a boat. We were hit by a boat. My parents were gone. I held on to a board from the boat. 2 days out there."

I run to get the nurse to help. She was the first person I saw. "Something's happening with Olive."

After a little bit, Olive calmed down. "I know what happened. I remember everything." "Do you remember who you are? Any family?" "Yes. I used to live on a boat called tranquility with my mother and father. The only other family I have is my aunt. She lives in Matunuk, Rhode Island." "You should be with her not on this boat." "Let's tell the captain. The captain agrees that we should go to Matunuk. We call Olive's aunt and she agrees to come and pick her up. Her aunt did not know of the boat crash or the death of her brother and sister-in-law.

The next night we arrived in Matunuk. "Soon I'll never see you again." "Well. Let's make the best of it now." We climb up to the crow's nest for the final time. "The stars are beautiful." "...yes, they are." We see a car pull up. "That's my aunt. I'll miss you so much." "I'll miss you as well." She climbs down and runs to her aunt's car. We wave for the final time. She drives away. I hope that her life will get better from here.


“I came as quickly as I could. I’m really sorry.” Cotton Clayborne looks up at Kirk Chapman, his eyes hollow with worry and fear. Clayborne hooks his thumbs in his bib overalls, shifting his oil-stained CAT cap. “You know I want to help, Kirk. I’m a patriot and a veteran like you, and I want to win the war against Zirconia. But she’s a threat to the safety of my family, and that goes beyond the call of duty.” “Where is she?” Clayborne grimaces as if he’s reliving a horrific memory. “In the barn.” “Again, I’m sorry. I know she didn’t mean for this to happen,” Kirk says, putting his hands on Clayborne’s shoulders. Looking up at Kirk’s angelic features, Clayborne feels a sense of reassurance. “You know, I used to feel like I was taking the government’s money, but not now. What my son saw will stay with him forever. He saw her change shape. The last coherent thing he said before he went mute was, ‘I was swallowed up by hell.’ No one should see that.” “Well pay for his therapy,” Kirk offers. “Don’t bring her here anymore.” Kirk enters Clayborne’s spacious barn. Freya is sitting on a haystack, looking forlorn. Wearing a brightly colored floral sundress, her dark hair cascading down her shoulders, and with her light blue eyes pointed toward the floor, Freya looks like a pouting twenty-something with a lot on her mind. “I screwed up.” Kirk sits down beside her, putting a comforting arm around her. “You don’t have eyes in the back of your head.” “Not according to Dr. Mortel. He thinks I’m part insect anyway. I was in a hurry. I could feel the change coming on. I had no idea the boy was in the loft… Last night I was reading him Grimms Fairy Tales. Today I became one of the monsters in their stories. How is he?” “In a state of shock,” Kirk replies. “We’ll take care of him, and we’ll find you another place you can rest between missions. You'll have to stay at the lab for now. I know it’s like a jail, but the director of security doesn’t think you should be wandering around…” “So, I’m going to be guarded, just as if I was in jail.” “You’ll get plenty of tuna, Friskies, whatever you want.” “Then you’ll send me out to spy on someone, or demand I do something worse. I’m just a tool to you.” “No, not to me.” “When is this arrangement of ours going to end?” Freya asks. “When will I be free?” “It’s difficult to say. There’s a war going on…” “It’s becoming harder to control my transformations. I need to be someplace where I can be alone when they happen. I’m the last of my kind, an abomination,” Freya says, leaning her head against Kirk’s shoulder. “Don’t think that way.” “Before I die, I want to know who killed my brother, Talgo.” Picking up a strand of hay, she adds, “But I suppose that would be like finding a needle in this haystack.” “When this next assignment is over, I’m going to use all of the department’s resources to find out.” “You’ve said that before,” Freya replies. “No more assignments until we find out, okay? And I promise you’ll have more freedom.” “…All right… What do you want me to do?” “Win the war.” “Thanks to your brother, we know the Zirconians are planning to build a revolutionary submarine that will turn the tide of the war in their favor,” Kirk says. “My brother gave his life for that information. I’m much more reluctant to do the same.” Dr. Mantel Mortel holds up a cat collar. Pasty, with thick glasses, acne, and greasy hair, the head researcher for Aldoria’s secret service division, prides himself on having traded good looks for an abundance of intelligence. “This will adjust in size whether you’re a cat or in human form. It has a miniature camera and recorder in it. We’ll be able to hear and see what’s going on.” “But your main mission is to get one of the three flash drives,” Kirk says. “Have you memorized the route?” “Yes, of course.” “Then it’s time for you to change.” Freya rises from her stool, trudging toward the bathroom. “Just once, I’d like to see how she does it,” Dr. Mortel says. “It’ll cost you your sanity,” Kirk replies. Dr. Mortel notices Kirk’s dejected expression. “Those pretty blue eyes have got you feeling bad for her, haven’t they? “She doesn’t deserve this kind of life.” “She’s not human, Kirk. She’s a cat on two legs.” “Well, we treat our pets better than we treat Freya. She’s alone in the world. The Zirconians promised her people safety, then slaughtered them for sport. We promised them sanctuary, then turned them into spies and lab rats. Have you come up with a formula that can stop her from morphing and keep her human?” “You might as well ask me to come up with a way to beat the house at a casino. She hasn’t been helpful. We know about as much about her kind as we did when they surfaced six years ago. She’s hiding something. Freya has the ability to change her shape, yet a simple thing like a panic attack can stop her from being able to morph. She won’t tell me if her civilization came from here or another planet, or why her x-rays are virtually identical to ours, instead of those of a cat. Freya won’t even tell us how old she is. We estimate she’s at least three hundred years old. Still want to have a hot date with her?” “Stop it, Mantel. I just want to make sure she’s looked after and treated with respect.” “You’re in way too deep, Kirk. I didn’t want to be the one to tell you this, but when she comes back from this mission, we’re going to study her more closely.” “What exactly does that mean?” “A quick death, then dissection.” “You can’t do that! She’s the last of her kind!” “Have you seen any woolly mammoths lately?” Dr. Mortel retorts. “We can duplicate her body. Thanks to our examination of her body functions, we’re on the verge of making it possible for humans to live as long as her kind. What we haven’t figured out is how she’s able to morph from human form into a feline.” “And you need to kill her in order to find out?” Dr. Mortel slides his fingers through his greasy hair. “It’s not my call, Kirk. We recently discovered two other species that can alter their appearances. She’s obsolete.” The bathroom door creaks open. A black cat pads into the room. Kirk picks up the cat, stroking her fur. Freya purrs contentedly. “You’re too close to this,” Dr. Mortel repeats. Freya sits near the backdoor of the Zirconian military headquarters. She meows loudly when the door opens. A kitchen worker out for a smoke notices her. “You’re a cute kitty,” he says, picking her up. He looks at her collar. “Freya. My name’s Marcel. Nice to meet you.” Freya purrs loudly. “Would you like some milk, kitty? I only have lactose free until the delivery truck gets here, but it tastes the same.” Marcel takes Freya into the kitchen, placing a bowl of milk in a corner for her. The dishwasher looks over at Freya. “Another stray, Marcel? You know how General LaCroix feels about cats, especially black ones. He thinks they’re witches. Remember what he did to the last one?” “…Tortured it… Then strangled it,” Marcel says sadly. “Someone should do that to General LaCroix.” “….Sssh. Shut up.” Freya’s ears perk up. “…General LaCroix…,” she says to herself. Freya laps at the bowl. A tiny field mouse peeks out from behind the nearby refrigerator at her. “Go away, Micky.” Frightened by Freya’s whispered threat, the mouse’s eyes bulge and it scurries away, Freya sneaks through the kitchen and out into the hallway. Passing disinterested guards, Freya climbs the steps to the second floor. Passing gold-framed portraits of heroes, generals, and admirals, she enters the war room. Half a dozen of Zirconia’s highest-ranking military leaders are gathered around a massive conference table, staring at a series of plans. Placing his monocle over his eye, Admiral Brice Berne says, “The X-15 cobalt-powered submarine is the perfect innovative weapon to bring Aldoria to its knees. “It had better,” President Francoise Picardy harrumphs. The heavyset, double-chinned leader of Zirconia glances at Freya, picking her up. “Please put it down, Mister President. Black cats are witches in disguise,” a tall General with a long scar on his left cheek protests. “That’s old-world nonsense, General LaCroix. You’re so superstitious.” Freya’s ears perk up and she hisses at General LaCroix. “Relax, puss,” President Picardy says, stroking Freya’s fur. “It’s strange, General. Cats can sense fear, anger, or happiness in humans. What do you think this cat is sensing in you?” “That I’m the baddest mother…” “GENERAL!” “Forgive me, Mister President.” “Save your anger for the fight against Aldoria. How quickly will the new submarines be ready, Admiral Berne?” “Three are under construction now. They’ll be finished in three months.” “And you say they carry missiles that can reach the Aldorian capital city?” Admiral Berne replies, “Yes, sir!” with boyish glee. President Picardy puts Freya down in a nearby chair. “We have three flash drives with the plans on them,” he says.  “General LaCroix, as my most trusted commander, I’m passing my flash drive onto you, and I trust you will destroy these plans after our meeting. I will say this candidly, gentlemen, we are losing the war. But a submarine that carries twice as many missiles as anything Aldoria has, is twice as fast, and can stay submerged for two years can bring us victory. We will sink their convoys without the fear of retaliation, then bottle their fleets up in their harbors and lay siege to their cities. I think a celebration is in order. I have champagne and caviar down the hall in the library.” Laughing and patting each other on the back, the president and his staff file out of the room. General LaCroix quickly returns. Leaning over the table, he glares at Freya threateningly. “I get rid of one black cat and three months later another one shows up. Soul stealer! I’ll choke you to death and gut you just like the last one. You can’t fool me, witch. I know you’re the devil’s mercenary. I’ll take great pleasure in sending your empty husk back to hell.” Freya hisses at General LaCroix, swiping at him. General LaCroix recoils. “Witch! You scratched me!” He tears the collar off Freya’s neck, tossing it on the floor. “I’m going to take all nine of your lives, witch!” Picking Freya up by the nape of her neck, General LaCroix moves toward the window. Freya meows loudly in protest, fighting his grip. General LaCroix is about to throw Freya out of the window when he hears someone clear his throat. Turning, he smiles weakly at President Picardy, dropping Freya. “Sometimes it’s hard to tell who the real animals are around here,” President Picardy says. Pushing the door open to the bathroom, Freya begins to change. She comes out of the bathroom with her hair up, wearing a tight blouse and a short skirt. Sashaying down the hallway, she passes an admiring young captain who arches his eyebrows approvingly. Entering General LaCroix’s office, she confidently marches toward his assistant’s desk. The woman lowers her glasses, eyeing Freya like a rival. The women exchange icy pleasantries. “I’m here to spell you for this afternoon,” Freya says. “Happy anniversary to you and your husband from General LaCroix!” “I knew he would remember!” Grabbing her coat and pocketbook, the woman speeds out of the office. Freya is studying sensitive information about troop movements on the computer when General LaCroix bounds into the office. His look of surprise quickly turns into a lecherous leer. Rubbing his scar, he removes his hat, tossing it on a chair as if he were hurling a Frisbee. “Well, who are you?” “Your assistant for the rest of the day. Jackie had an emergency and had to leave.” “I think we’ll work well together. Come into my office with me.” General LaCroix sits down in his plush chair. Looking up at Freya he smirks, patting his knee. “…Why, General…” “I can make you a commissioned officer tomorrow if you want.” Freya sits on his lap. Wrapping her hands around his neck, she draws him closer. “I think you can sense how I feel about you,” he says breathlessly. “…Such eyes…” “Almost like a cat’s eyes, eh?” General LaCroix gasps for air as Freya’s hands tighten around his throat. “You killed my brother.” “What? I haven’t killed anyone,” he gasps. “You strangled him, cut him open.” “I did that to a cat…A witch…,” he whispers as Freya crushes his windpipe. “Let me show you how I feel about you!” Freya’s beauty begins to melt away. Her fair skin turns into a gelatinous mass, her arms into claws, and her peerless smile into dozens of hungry fangs. Her silky hair morphs into poisonous hissing snakes that peck and bite at General LaCroix’s flesh. Freya takes the flash drive out of General LaCroix’s jacket pocket. She passes the boyish-looking captain in the hallway again. He pauses to take in her beauty, smiling to himself. Remembering he has a dispatch for General LaCroix, he enters his office. General LaCroix’s once-dark hair has faded to snow white. His chest, arms, and legs are torn open. What’s left of his ravaged face is frozen in a silent scream. Written in his blood on the wall are the words “For Talgo.” Freya quickens her pace, her heels click-clacking against the sizzling summer pavement. Ducking into an alley behind a garbage bin, Freya tries to will herself back into the form of a cat. “…Calm down… Calm down…,” she says to herself, but the more she speaks, the more nervous she gets. Wringing her hands, she heads back into the street. “There she is!” the captain yells. A detail of four other men charges after her. Shucking her heels, Freya races down the street, dodging bewildered onlookers. The men follow haphazardly, knocking down bystanders and barely avoiding groups of curious children. Scampering down an alley, Freya scales a fence, putting some distance between herself and her less agile pursuers. She tries to ignore the glass cutting the bottoms of her feet as she crosses an old football field. Crossing the street, she enters a bodega. The elderly man behind the counter tries to smile at her but can only manage a slack-jawed expression as he watches Freya tread blood across his linoleum floor. Heading out the back door, Freya pauses to catch her breath and get her bearings. A tabby cat rubs up against her leg. “Hello, fella. Can you help a fellow feline get home?” The cat purrs, looking up at her. He begins to walk away, then pauses to look back at Freya. “Really? You want me to follow you? What have I got to lose?” The cat leads her through a maze of alleys, stopping at what appears to be an abandoned apartment building. Freya follows the cat inside. She watches in fascination as the cat morphs into a sandy-haired young man. A group of men, women, and children appear out of the shadows, greeting her. “Where am I?’ “A sanctuary for changelings like us,” the man replies. “How did you know I was one of you?” “Your eyes. They tell a story. Your brother, Talgo, described you to us. He said you were fighting for the Aldorians against the Zirconians like he was. He told us that you were as disillusioned as he was to be involved in a war that had nothing to do with us. He found this sanctuary for us, a home for our civilization to grow while the humans destroy each other. It’s your home too, Freya.” “Who is this?” Kirk asks, looking at the sandy-haired man. “Hoffen. He’s a good friend.” “I thought we were good friends, Freya.” “I’ll always be your friend. But I’m also a changeling, and so is Hoffen. I have to go where I belong.” “This sounds like goodbye.” “It is,” Freya replies, handing Kirk the flash drive. “I know I promised to help you find Talgo’s killer and to give you more freedom…” “I found those things on my own.” “Just as well. Dr. Mortel wanted to dissect you.” “I know. I think he changed his mind. Go ask him.” Kirk is surprised to find the door to Dr. Mortel’s lab open. Broken glass and destroyed files line the floor. “Mantel? Are you here?” Seated in a chair is Dr. Mortel’s shredded, white-haired, moldering corpse. His mouth is frozen open in a silent scream.


There I was just watching the beautiful sunset even tho I should be rushing to get home from work at k-hub at 7:00  on a Thursday after from closing the shop on my own. I look up and see a airship just floating there in the sky  as I stand still to see if it will move or just stay there. It is a dark maroon colour with a bright white writing reading QUEENSLAND, how dumb can I be I completely forgot about the state of origin. This is the last game of the season and  so far it’s a tie of two Games out of three so  whoever wins this next match will be the talk of the town. Boom,boom,boom,boom,boom,boom,boom, the clock strikes seven and flags, banners, fireworks and glitter covers the area from the airship floating in the dark sky covered with bright coloured twinkling little stars. At that point  all the glitter slowly fades and drops to the ground, I turn around and see a dark figure walking closer  I get a strong vibe of a creepy eshay. I decide to walk head and get home quickly before mum and dad get worried. I walk ahead about 50 meters and turn back around to see if the figure is still there. I stand there creeped out too see the the  person had been following me the hole time. I turn around quickly and worried. I start to run. I quickly have a glance behind me and see that they are catching up so I run so fast everything becomes a blur. I run so fast I can’t see the sings that label the streets. I happen to take a wrong turn and go down the alleyway that no one passes trough alone. I turn around and walk backwards and think to myself of how fortunate I am to have…… never mind as the the person comes around the corner well at least I thought it was human but now I realise this is no ordinary person or in fact I wasn’t even sure it was human after all what human has bright blue flames coming out of its hand this creature was hard to see as the cold alleyway was dark and silent after all it is Stanthorpe in the year of 2040 anything could happen, it could a creature on the loose that has escaped from the experimental lab in town square in the known to be rona-free area. It was just the the right time that the street light turned on and ahhh what the hell is this creature. It has one side that looks like it has been completely burned and one side that looks like a cyber ban with shiny grey and  silver with square black eyes. As it gets closer and closer I realise I should be running back for my life from this creature dressed in black,black leather jacket, black  shirt with bright red writing reading FILA, and a pair of black jeans I look down and see he has no feat but has cyborg feet. In that Moment I think to myself what is this creature, was he made by mistake?or to ‘seek & destroy.’ Well whatever it was or whatever it was made for I need to run and quickly and…SPLAT  I run into the stone cold brick wall it felt like I have been knocked out,I look up as I am lying on the freezing cold ground and there it was the creature was standing over me with a knife patterned with skulls and  red belly black snakes I payed there in terror I was frozen In fear I couldn’t move, it’s like my body has already prepared my death and made my  body not capable of moving.I look behind him and there it was the thing that could pretentiously save my life. There it was as it now was clear of what it was it was a portal from another universe. Except instead  of saving my life it was like a vacuum, sucking everything in its path I taking it to another dimension or internal death. I felt like a professional gymnast doing kart wheel after kart wheel after kart wheel except I could either be kart wheeling to my death or safety or a hole clan of unsuccessful experiments. GASP*, I wake up and realise it was all a dream.  I go downstairs and rub my eyes as I walk down the cream coloured stairs, You would never…mum dad I shout as there are freshly sharpened knives and cutlery everywhere, cupboard doors open, plates smashed and pots and pans everywhere. I walk carefully over the broken pieces of ceramics d into the Lounge room where everything is everywhere like a blind robber had tried to find something and walked into the wrong  house. And there it was the thing everyone seems to be afraid of these days….. blood! Like a small trail so I decided to follow it curious of what what be at the end but also frightened of what be at the end. I follow this path of blood past the laundry, past the hallway,past my parents room, past my bathroom and to the spare room into the back of the room where when I screamed at the top of my voice and fall to my knees heavily using all of the emotion inside of my Bode right now pain anger eager to get revenge sadness darkness and like as if the only reason I am still alive to day haas been murdered oh wait it has. I look up again at my parents bodies lying there on the floor grousimly , my mothers neck has a knife the same of what the creature was holding in my dream. Maybe my dream wasn’t just any ordinary dream maybe it was a warning of danger that my only reason to be alive would no longer exist and now I will have to give up but sadly enough I knew this day would occur.I hardly banged my head thinking it was all I dream and in denial of what ha happened.I looked up again to see the one the that gave me an emotion I have never felt. Guilt and revenge. I look up and see the failed experiment, the creature I saw last night in wha tis to believe a dream, or maybe it was a warning or maybe that portal put me into bed in order to make me believe that it was just a dream,  hallucination well whatever it was I believe it was a word of warning, I warning that everything is over like as if I’m in a Video game and is game over. I shake my head right  to  left over and over again like as if I’m trying to wake up out of this nightmare.I notice this knife sharp enough to easily cut through a pile of apples lined up. I know that I’m going to regret what I’m about to do, I pick up the knife like I’m fighting for my life as this dangerous creature is standing at the back corner of my spare room like a devil watching over me waiting for my death to occur. The regret of what I’m about to do is like a bag full of a ton of bricks. I  charge at the creature with the knife in my hand and slice his neck and thick dark red blood oozes out of his throat, I feel free like I’ve been released from the devil but at that moment I knew I was in trouble as the police man shouts,” i I drop the bloody knife and put my hands in the air. He takes my hands and roughly twist my arms and places Hand cuffs around my wrist so tight it feels like zip ties cutting off my circulation. I hesitate to keep my hands still he kicks my legs and I fall to the ground with a loud THUMP!he looks at the tree grousimly murdered body’s assuming that I was the sociopath who without feeling a slight bit of guilt murdered these body’s lying on the floor with blood everywhere, and that’s all it was to him, just random people who have been murdered but to me it was more it was my family, the loving, caring, kind, generous people who are the reason I’m still alive today, still alive today. As he started to claim my arrest rights. It feels so weird say MY ARREST rights, do you seriously think I murdered my own family members,the only thing keeping me dare not only from other people in the world but also myself. I’ve been in a dark place for a while and they saved me but now I couldn’t return the favour.as my head is slammed to the floor I listen to the police man, who’s badge reads Dave,” you have the right to remain silent, anything you say can and will be used against you in the order of caught .” He goes on but I feel no emotion except guilt for the murder of my family, my loved ones. Although I did not physically murder them I could have saved them if I just were awake or listened to the warning if I weren’t so weak and stopped the creature when I had the chance then maybe my family would still be alive even if it meant I weren’t. Dave forces me up and I play along he takes me through the house where there is the broken furniture and knifes,forkes, plates smashed, glass and more all scattered throughout the house. And next thing I know I’m being forced into the back off the patty wagon that they used back in 2021, it’s like if already been put in a jail sell for a crime I didn’t technically commit but then again don’t the town of Stanthorpe doesn’t count technically as an excuse for murder. One thing led to another I was in a holding cell awaiting for a caught appointment with a judge. Rumours around the cell have started to spread that I’m the chick who went on a killing spree, soon enough I find myself trying to prove my innocence in the caught room where it seems that everyone is against me but the again I have felt like that my whole life. I try to tell my side of the story, where I had a dream where this miscreant tried killing me with the same knife was used to kill me mother and farther and how I killed the creature that stood in my spare room but somehow turned to look human when killed but yet again who would believe me. I was then ordered to  4 years I juvenile detention centre until I’m 18 and then I’ll be transferred to Launceston reception centre in Tasmania. So there I am in a old bus with all of the widows covered with bars and next thing I’m already being transferred to Launceston reception centre and then one

Thing led to another and the next thing I knew I was 74 years of age and put on hous arrest. I was putting out my bins when I saw someone running past and stopped and said hello, for once I thought that someone didn’t recognise me for the first time for ever. For the first time in forever I feel like I belon. While I was in jail I had time to think, think about how I need to focus on the positive of my my life instead of the negitive and also need to stop relying on others to help me stand up and fight for my own life not rely on others to.. THE END…… SIKEEE when all of a sudden I see someone standing there with a 12 gauge single shot shotgun and then next thing I know they start going on how I killed her daughter,Catherine,  ur I think and remember that that was my mother’s words but no time to explain when I believe she thinks I’m a murderer and that was when all of a sudden it hit me………bang my ears ring and I get pounded to the ground with a bullet wound in my chest and blood oozing out of my chest but I didn’t even hesitate to hang on to the life I have I know that it’s my time so I just relax and close my eyes.

 THE END


“You can’t keep me here.” “Please, Mr. Van de Kamp. Take your seat,” ordered the imperturbable headmaster, black eyes narrowing over his hawkish nose. The boy stood in his office. Out of uniform. Insolent.

“You can’t keep me here—” the boy repeated. “I assure you, we can,” the headmaster flatly stated. “Your father—” “My father can eat shit and die.” “Mr. Van de Kamp, such language will not be tolerated here. You are well aware of our Code of Conduct.” “You are well aware of my Code of Con dick ,” said the boy, lewdly grabbing his crotch. “Mr. Van de Kamp! Govern yourself accordingly. Please sit down,” the headmaster said in as controlled and as firm of voice as the situation required. “Have you checked into your dormitory?”

“Have you checked into your wife—because I hear she’s pretty hot,” the boy whispered conspiratorially. He winked in a knowing way at the headmaster. “Young man, I never—” “Maybe that’s the problem. The sexual revolution is going on—free love! You are just missing it. Maybe your wife is secretly on the pill, and she is having the time of her life. You’ve got to get with the times,” the boy said, snapping his fingers to make his point. Seeing the headmaster’s nonplussed reaction, the boy leaned over the headmaster’s large walnut desk and patronizingly patted the headmaster’s hand. “Mr. Van de Kamp, I know you and your generation think you know everything. But as of today, September 5, 1967, you are still enrolled at this institution, and your father has signed our in loco parentis agreement, which means that this school— that I —act in the place of your father. This school— and I — are legally responsible for you.” “Then this school— and you —can both eat shit and die.” “Mr. Van de Kamp!” “Sir?” said the boy, wide eyed, respectfully.

“You are being intolerable,” the headmaster firmly stated. He’d had his share of incorrigible young men in his life, but this one went beyond the pale.

“Sir, yes sir,” the boy gave him a mocking salute. “ There's nothing you can do that can't be done ,” he sang loudly, swinging his feet over the side of the armchair. “Please sit up straight in your chair like a man.” The headmaster’s tone barely contained his growing aggravation.

“ Nothing you can sing that can't be sung,” the boy sang quietly. “Mr. Van de Kamp, this is what is going to transpire . . .” the headmaster paused to enumerate a series of commands. “ Transpire .” The boy looked at him oddly. “ Transpire?” “Transpire. Occur. To come about—” “Excuse-me-you-are-going-to-what?” the boy asked. “I’m going to come about—” “You pervert. All you boarding school types are perverts. I’m going to come about .

Gross. No wonder your wife hates you.” “Mr. Van de Kamp, you are putting words in my mouth.” “What did you want me to put in your mouth?” The boy leered. He sat back, annoyed at it all. He continued to sing to himself, causally inspecting the books on the headmaster’s bookshelf. Pulling one out. Flipping through it. Dropping it on the floor. “ Nothing you can say, but you can learn how to play the game. It’s easy .” “You are going to go back to your dormitory and dress appropriately for class,” the headmaster said calmly, attempting to control a situation that was quickly spiraling out of control. “You must wear your school jacket and polo shirt when on school premises.”

“I’m wearing this ,” yelled the boy, standing up, tearing off his crisp white polo shirt that had been neatly embroidered with the school’s insignia. Underneath, the boy wore a U.S. Army issue brown t-shirt. “Mr. Van de Kamp, you are not wearing school approved clothing.” “Look,” the boy said languidly. “This is how it’s going to go down. I’m dropping out of school next Wednesday when I turn 17.” “Your father—” “My mother—my MOTHER—who is divorcing my father,” continued the boy, “will sign the necessary consent forms. I will head to Fort Dix for eight weeks of basic training. If there are no major SNAFUs, then I will fly to Fort Lewis in Washington state before shipping out to Vietnam. Maybe I’ll visit a prostitute near the base and lose my virginity. Or not. It doesn’t matter.” “Mr. Van de Kamp—” “I’m thinking they’ll assign me to some infantry division, but I’m definitely ground troop material. Chum for the sharks. The Vietnamese call sharks cá mập. I’ve been studying their language, you lỗ đít.” “This is highly irregular. Certainly you cannot mean to—”  “Oh, I mean to. And who knows? By Thanksgiving, I may be in the Tây Ninh Province on Nui Ba Den. They call it the Black Virgin Mountain. Exotic, no?” The boy gave the headmaster a comical grin.

“Please, Mr. Van de Kamp,” the headmaster begged.

“ Nothing you can make that can't be made. No one you can save that can't be saved ,” the boy continued to sing but his voice cracked on the last word of the lyrics.

“It’s all right, son,” said the headmaster quietly. “I’ve been practicing, you know. All summer. I can carry 60 pounds of gear. I know the military alphabet: alpha, beta, charlie. Huh. Charlie.” “Mr. Van de Kamp. Son,” he said again. “Maybe I’ll be a radio operator like—” The boy stopped and looked at the headmaster, terrified. “I—I could be a machine gunner. Or maybe a tunnel rat.” “You could be, Mr. Van de Kamp. You could be whatever you wish.”

There was silence.

The headmaster watched the boy fiddle with something on his wrist: a stainless steel, half inch wide bracelet. On the bracelet, the headmaster could just make out the name of another Van de Kamp, followed by a rank, service branch, country, and date of loss.

“I’m not afraid of going over there,” the boy said, wiping his eyes with the back of his hands like a child. “I know the language—I know some of it. I know enough to ask people questions. My mother thinks I could find—it’s just that—” He looked down at his wrist. A few tears made dark droplets on his U.S. Army issue brown t-shirt.

“Let’s take the morning off, Mr. Van de Kamp. Start your school day after lunch, what do you say?” “I think I ripped my polo shirt,” he mumbled. Almost an apology. “I’ll inform your teachers that the shirt you’re wearing will be acceptable for today.”


Oh, no. The screen turned black and on the very top “ impostor” was written in dark red. Oh, no. I’m literally the worst impostor ever. The screen should know that. Then the screen turned into the map where us Among Us players travel through the map and accomplish our tasks to finish without getting killed by The Impostor. Namely, me. Of course, I was The Impostor, so I cold only fake the tasks. I pretended to get to work and used my joystick to proceed to different rooms. When I was finally alone with another player in a room doing tasks, I pressed hard on my “KILL” button and I saw the blood squirting out of the body I just killed, and breaking in half. The top half of the body fell and let me see the one thick bone sticking straight out of the bottom half. I quickly headed to the vents to hide from the players who might be able to see me and vent to the far side of the ship. I vented into the room hidden from security and started to fake my tasks again. Soon enough, the body I killed was reported. Immediately, players started asking where the dead body was, including me. The player who reported the dead body confessed that he forgot the name of that specific room in the ship. Of course, everyone would know that is suspicious. So I was completely ready to vote off that player when the time came for voting, but suddenly another player wrote that I was suspicious because almost everyone was in groups and they stuck together and traveled through the ship except me and a few others. The player wrote that I was acting the most suspicious. “Me? And do you have proof?“ I confidently wrote back. “Didn’t I just write it?” He replied. Oh, no. Not again. Hurry, I need to write back to pretend to prove myself innocent. Hurry up. ”Oh, you call that proof? That’s proof for me being suspicious. You don‘t have proof for me being the impostor, do you?” “You know, usual innocent people would write like “No, I swear I’m not impostor“ or “No but I’m not” but you just try to play it cool. Like it’s fine if you get voted off because you don’t care. Innocent people don’t do that.” The time to vote is coming. You can’t fake or pretend no more. Just give it up. Give it in. Voting time comes and all the players vote for me. Heck, even I did. There’s no doubt that I‘m officially the worst liar and impostor ever. I soon got ejected out of the ship and the game ended. Then, I didn’t really feel about playing anymore. I started surfing the internet about information for being a good impostor. I figured out that you have to talk, vote and accuse as if you were a Crewmate. Be as honest as possible about your own whereabouts, and don’t be too aggressive. If you start yelling “it’s blue” without a good reason, others will look at you with suspicion. Even if your early game aggression leads to another players eviction, you will have drawn attention to yourself and likely be next to go.

Furthermore, Crewmates are less inclined to suspect you if they think you’re a bit of a noob. An occasional “who should I vote for?” or “I don’t know the name of the room” are subtle ways to help you achieve this. But do not exaggerate; players who continuously emphasize that this is “my first time playing, please don’t kill me” are bound to get voted out. You want to stir the conversation in the right direction, so don’t wait for things to go wrong. After a murder, you might want to casually ask another player where he came from, or what tasks he did. Crewmates cast accusations all the time, so joining in is not necessarily suspicious. If you do so early on, Crewmates may pick up on your accusation and start suspecting your victim. This rule is even more important when you encounter a witness. If another player saw you near a dead body or even kill someone, you know they are going to accuse you. A defensive position is usually not a strong one, so try to either accuse them first or explain yourself before they get the chance. For example, if Pink saw you walking close to the body before he reported, subtly mention that it was not Pink, as you both just walked into the room where the body was found. If Pink then starts questioning you, you have already explained yourself and are therefore more reliable. As soon as I bundled up that much information, I figured I was ready. So I pressed on my Among Us app and joined a game. I was feeling ready. For the first time, I was feeling confident about being The Impostor. As usual, The screen turned black and on the very top “ impostor” was written in dark red. Then the screen turned into the map where us Among Us players travel through the map and accomplish our tasks to finish without getting killed by The Impostor. Namely, me. I killed another body and left it there while I vented to a different room. Again, the dead body was reported too soon. When it was time for the emergency meeting, I followed all the directions of the tricks as being The Impostor. I accused many of being The Impostor, and people listened to me. “You’re a bad liar, you know.” A player tells me. Wait, me? Does he know that I’m the impostor? How come? ” You‘re a bad liar .” He repeats. ”You keep accusing people. That’s fine, but too many. If you want to be a good impostor, then you just have to play it cool while pretending to believe that innocent players are the impostors.“ But I followed all the instructions of my tricks. Everyone believed me except him. I guess that some people will always not believe. I am a bad liar.