Walter Goodman’s wife brought us both a glass of lemonade. He took a sip, and let it shatter on the brick porch. He apologized to his wife, who cleaned it up, and then to me. “Sorry Mr. Alvarez,” said Walter. “Fernando, I’m not big on formalities.” “Sorry, Fernando.” “Don’t be, you’re not the first astronaut I’ve interviewed.” “You spend so much time up there you forget gravity exists. Interview a lot of Astronauts do you?” “A few. Remind me what you saw.” “Well, I was on the ISS doing my usual, when I see this meteor.” “See a lot of meteors up there?” “No! That’s the thing you can’t see a meteor, not in space, not till it starts breaking up in the atmosphere. This one had a tail in the cold dead of space.” he shuddered. “It– it was a purple tail, a sort of purple beyond purple, the most purple anything’s ever been. I know that doesn’t sound terrifying but I nearly shat myself Fernando, and that was before it *looked* at me.” Walter Goodman had inched his way to the edge of his seat. He sank back into his chair. “What do you mean it ‘looked’ at you?” “Just that. It looked at me. The meteor looked me dead in the eyes and stared into my soul.” “It had eyes?” “No, it was a rock, like any other rock, but I felt it looking at me. Like the entire meteor was one big eye.” His story tracked with what I’d been reading. I keep up with that sort of thing. Usually it's nothing, this time it was something. I finished up my interview with Walter. He confirmed the landing zone, more or less, of the meteor. The ISS had been flying over Southeast Asia, where Walter said he saw the meteor land in the dark zones of Wallacea. It was a smattering of islands in Indonesia. ‘Lotta water there. You had to be aiming for land to not hit the ocean. After collecting what I could, I thanked Walter for his time, and made to leave. “Wait, Fernando,” he called, “are you going after the meteor?” I nodded. “Take me with you.” I thought about it. There weren’t any rules to what I was doing. Walter had stared into the eye of something and came out sane. He was also an astronaut with a military background. What the hell. “There might be monsters,” I said, but he didn’t look perturbed, “there might be nazis.” “Nazis?” that always got em. I explained to Walter on the way to Wallacea. Nazis were like maggots on a corpse to the supernatural. You could use them like forensic scientists used maggots too. An advanced nazi presence could indicate time of discovery, or length of conspiracy. It was all about context. We arrived in Indonesia by boat, making port in the city of Makassar. From there we traced a lead obtained from an acid dealer. The dealer was handing out tabs of acid with the reichsadler on them, the nazi eagle. I pressed him about it, and he gave me the details on his supplier, as well the details for a party they were throwing for some trust fund kiddies. The party was being thrown on a neighboring island in North Maluku, the same place they made the acid. “For the record,” I said to Walter, “it’s not *always* nazis. I’m just not surprised when it is.” “But it is nazis this time.” I shrugged. “Yeah. You got your iron ready?” he tapped the side of his torso where his gun was holstered. “Good. Eyes peeled and wits about you. It could get ugly.” We were on a boat with the rest of the trust fund brats heading to their party, some of them were already slapping more of the reichsadler tabs on their tongues. They tried to peer pressure anyone who wanted to stay clean. This big guy especially was making the rounds to get people to take the tabs. He was huge, well over six feet tall, with the biggest muscles money could buy. The big guy never made it to me and Walter though. He got stuck the rest of the ride trying to get this particularly cute local girl to imbibe. We landed at just about sunset. The boat stayed docked in case of emergencies. There were tiki style torches, and a Hawaiian style bar. Cute. I told Walter to not take anything he didn’t see poured out of a branded bottle, and to stay conspicuous, but my words were lost on him. He was immediately swarmed by a horde of bikini wearing local girls, and spray tanned rich brats. Some folks just really loved their white boys. I left him to suffer his pleasure, and noticed some third reich looking mothers dipping in and out of the nearby jungle. Go time. Following the blonde and blue eyed terminators led me to a small, but well built compound, with working electricity. At this point the rock had been on earth for less than a week. The advanced nature of this place confirmed one of my earlier suspicions. The rock had a mind of its own, and the nazis knew they should “meet” it here. I still didn’t know how the acid and rich brats figured into it, but it couldn’t be good. Rich brat or no, those were some potentially influential people they had getting high out there. I waited for one of the guards to be alone, and took him out from behind. I put on his pink Hawaiian shirt and khaki shorts, and strolled into the compound casual like. I was stopped immediately. “Wohin gehst du, Soldat?” said a grumpy looking man in matching Hawaiian attire. “Lass mich in Ruhe, ich muss scheißen,” I replied. I didn’t actually know what I was saying, but I’d heard nazi guards say this a lot when leaving their posts unexpectedly. It has saved my ass more times than I care to admit. The older man scowled but left me alone. I scanned the small compound. They had watchtowers, but in an effort to stay hidden they chose the worst of both worlds. The lights of the watchtowers provided little visibility in the dense jungle, and especially in the shadows of night. The lights probably blinded their guards more than anything. That was good for me. The compound had one main building with sterile white lights coming out the windows, as well as a sickening ultra-purple. Bingo. Inside, the rock and its unsettling purple glow were being held in a strange looking device. It looked like a reverently built hydraulic press. The ultra-purple waves were dancing off the rock like light at the bottom of a pool. It was unsettling. I could feel it looking at me, it bore into my soul, filling my head with holy purple light. I suddenly felt ashamed, like I shouldn’t be here, interfering with such cosmic radiance. I tried to steel my will against it, and failed. Luck was still on my side though, and the whining of factory grade machinery snapped me out of it. A gauge on the machine told me it was applying tons of pressure on the rock. The ultra-purple waned and died completely, and a thick purple substance like blood oozed out of the cracks and deep grooves of the rock. The substance pooled at the bottom, soaking into a sheet of paper which was cut up and stamped with the reichsadler. “Motherfucker.” “Wer bist du, who are you?” said a voice from behind me. It was a properly old man, the kind with liver spots and little wisps of hair that looked like strands of stray cotton. He was wearing a white lab coat. “I’m your worst nightmare pal, and I’m liberating this rock, but first you’re going to tell me exactly what it is you’re doing here.” “The color…, “ said the old man, “It should be spread. Shared with the world.” there was a glint of something in his eyes. Something purple. Beyond purple. I started sweating. There was a part of me that started to think he was right. The purple glint in his eye. I could carry that wondrous light beyond light in my own mind. That’s probably what the acid tabs were for. I whipped out my iron and planted a couple shots into the old man, freeing myself from the grip of his ultra-purple eyes. I took a second to breathe, but didn’t dare waste any more time. This place would be swarming with nazis any moment. I grabbed the rock from the strange looking device and started to leave, but the entrance was blocked off by nazi guards. It might have been the end of me, but the old man's corpse sprang to life on the ground. The top of his head popped open and sprouted flailing tentacles. It was distraction enough to leap out of a nearby window. I ran as fast as I could from the compound. No one chased me, but I did hear screaming. I ran from one cacophony of screaming to another. When I made it back to the party I found complete hysteria. “Just try it!” screamed a rich brat in a skimpy bikini. “You’ll see real color. Like you’ve never seen before!” The rich brat was screaming at Walter who was also being held down by more bikini clad women. They were trying to force feed him the acid. Morbidly, I had to stifle a laugh because I could guarantee this was someone’s fantasy. I started shooting. “Fernando!” gasped Walter. He got up and cleaned trust fund viscera off himself. “You killed them, and you changed your clothes!” “They were already dead.” I double tapped the bodies on the ground. I didn’t want to risk them getting back up with tentacled heads. “It’s the acid tabs. Those nazi bastards squeezed something out of the rock and fed it to these rich assholes. Probably in an effort to take over the world, starting from the top, real typical stuff honestly.” Walter flinched when he finally noticed the rock in my hand. “Typical?” He asked, but I wouldn’t be able to elaborate. We were being surrounded by the zombified upper class. Walter got with the program quickly. I told him to aim for the head, and double tap when he missed. The beach was covered in rich kid gore by the end. We thought we were home free, but the big guy from earlier on the boat ride came hulking out of the shadows. I aimed to dome him but my gun just clicked empty. “Walter?” “I’m out too.” “Shit.” The big guy grabbed me and slammed me to the ground. “Try it bro,” he said. “You’ll see more than you’ve ever seen before.” “Walter!” I yelled, and started to fight back but my feeble punches were thudding on hard meat and muscles. The big guy started trying to open my mouth, and when I started resisting harder because of it, he began to choke me out. The world was fading to black. Soon it would be lit in shades of ultra-purple. Then Walter came to my rescue, and knocked the lug over. Their struggle tipped them over to the other side of the Hawaiian bar. I choked on air, trying to catch my breath. The edges of darkness started to clear from my vision. I could hear Walter being overwhelmed by the big guy on the other side of the bar. The moment I could breathe again I sprang to his rescue. I rounded the bar, and jumped on the big guy’s back, hanging from his neck with all my weight to try and choke him. To no avail. He turned his weight on me, and started to crush me again. This was it. It was lights out. Walter wouldn’t be able to recover in time and we’d be turned into purple loving zombies for the new world order. I prayed to every god I could think of, then my face was splashed by liquor. The cute local girl from earlier had smashed a bottle over the big guy’s head. She stabbed him in the neck with the sharpened remains. “Creep,” she said. “Thank god,” I said. The lug fell on top of me, and I rolled him over. “You’re an Angel,” I said to the girl. I passed her and checked on Walter. “You alive?” “I think so.” “Good. Let’s get out of here, quickly. You too, pretty girl.” “It’s Rizka,” she said. “We can get familiar on the boat, let's go.” We stepped onto the boat, which was devoid of crew at that point. Walter knew how to drive it though, so that ended up not being a problem. We left port immediately. On the shore, the tiki torches started to burn out. The tentacled head of the big guy rose up just as the light died, and from the jungle tree line there could be made out ultra-purple eyes. I shuddered, and stared at the glowing rock in my hand. I could feel it boring a hateful gaze into me. “Well, that’s that,” I said. “Far as I’m concerned anyways. I doubt they’ll be able to continue their conspiracy without this thing.” “Really,” said Walter, “What are you going to do with it?” “Turn it in, get paid.” “Turn it in to whom? What even are you exactly?” “I used to style myself an archeologist, and then an anthropologist, then a xenothropologist. Now I just call myself an errand boy. The rock is gonna end up in a sort of private collection. Don’t worry, it’ll be safe.” Walter seemed satisfied with the answer. At the very least it didn’t seem like he thought it was a good idea to know any more than he needed to. Walter went back to his life as an astronaut with a lemonade serving housewife soon after. I stuck around Indonesia while I tracked my next job, and waited to hear about the dropoff for this one. Rizka turned out to be a pretty good tour guide, and showed me around Makassar, the fun seedy parts anyways. She made a fine breakfast too.


You know those nights, right? The wild ones. Raucous. Chaotic. Intoxicating. Or intoxicated, at least. For the life of me I don’t know how I got here. My mind is foggy. My head is pounding. It feels like my brain is literally trying to escape from my skull by beating its nonexistent fists against my temples, against my eyes. Screaming to be let out. At first my vision was blurry, lights and shapes swimming in and out of focus. In and out. Up and down. All around. Swirling about me like a nauseating, whirlwind carousel of sensory hell. It’s starting to come in to focus now, but the lights in this room are making my eyes sing with pain. It’s making the headache much worse. I don’t think I’ve ever been this hung over. My mouth. Jesus. It’s not just cotton mouth. This isn’t like cotton balls between my teeth. It’s a whole field of cotton. Rows and rows of it, springing to existence inside my lips, blooming and growing wild. Out of control. My tongue is shrieking for water. It feels as though it will shrivel up and turn to dust inside my mouth. It feels as though I’ve never had water in my entire life. And it’s not just the desert dryness, the taste! Oh god, the taste. It’s unbearable. Imagine if somebody if somebody took a whole bottle of cheap ass vodka, glass and all, a pack of cigarettes, whatever mess you scrape off of the bottom of your shoes, and a full, filthy ass diaper. Take all those things and put them in blender. Turn it on high and make a smoothie out of that rancid shit. Then drink it. That’s what it tastes like. Fuck. Oh fuck. Oh fuck fuck fuck. What is this shit?!? What is this metal thing on my wrist?!? Oh shit balls, there’s a chain… A fucking chain! Am I chained to a wall?!? Oh god no. No no no no no no… There’s a manacle encapsulating my left wrist. I’m in literal chains! Oh god…shit, don’t cry. Don’t cry. You’re fine. Ah, FUCK! What the holy hell is this?!? Where am I? What is this place?!? I’m in deep, deep shit this time. Why is this happening? Why am I even here? Think. Think think think, you stupid bastard! Oh hell. Just breathe. Focus. What happened last night? Go back. Go back. Ok, well, I know I was at Barry’s last night. Barry’s is what you would call a dive. Yeah, a dumpster dive. A classic little shithole of a bar. Downtown, smack dab in the middle of the seediest part of my city. I go there because it’s close. Close to work. Close to home. That’s why I go there. So I don’t have to drive drunk. Not that I could anymore. I lost my license not too long ago because of that fucking DUI. About a month ago. So I couldn’t drive any more. Even if I wanted to. That was a bad fucking night. But this is worse. So much worse. Oh my god. Help! Fucking help! Somebody fucking help me, oh god, oh Jesus Christ, help!!! Oh fuck me. Fuck me fuck me fuck me. Oh god no. This isn’t right. What am I doing here?!? The lights. Ah, man, my fucking eyes! Ok, the lights are fluorescent. Bright. Blinking like somebody having a god damn seizure. Shitty. But bright. And the walls…oh my fucking god! Is that…blood? That’s fucking blood! Ok, fuck. So I’m crying. That’s ok. That’s ok. You’re chained to a fucking wall that’s covered in blood. Anybody would cry over that. Right. Right. Ooooooook…deep breath. The chain is bolted into the wall. I’m not going to be able to pull it out and there’s no way I can get it off of my wrist. There’s a ratty twin size mattress on the floor. And, oh wow, ha ha ha ha… That’s just great. I’m betting those stains are blood too. What the hell is going on in this place? What was that noise? Shit. There’s a door over there. Heavy, metal, no windows. Rusted to shit like it’s seen better days but still impenetrable. Oh my god. It’s opening! Hey, help me! Over fucking here! Wait… A man just entered the room. Tall, lanky. A spindly ass string bean of a guy. And he’s wearing a black balaclava. Great. Classic. The only part of his face I can see are his eyes. Shining and glinting in the fluorescent light like two nasty blue gems set deep in his covered face. He’s not going to let me out of here. He’s the one who put me here. And he’s coming closer! Look, man! I shout. You’ve got the wrong guy I promise you! Ok. Ok. Maybe you don’t. What did I do to you? Did I fuck your girl? Oh wait… oh no. Man… did I… did I fucking run somebody over?!? A hit and run? Did I kill your girl? Your kid? Hey, hey, hey. Hey, man. We can talk about this ok? I’ve got money! I can pay you! Please just let me out of here! Fucking please! He’s…he’s laughing. He’s fucking laughing at me! Ok, bro. You got me. Ok. I don’t have any fucking money! I’m sorry, alright! I don’t have any money. I can’t pay you. But I’m sorry! I’m really fucking sorry! I’m so fucking sorry. Just please, please let me go. He’s still coming closer. He’s so close I could reach out and touch him if I wasn’t chained to this fucking wall! Oh shit this is bad. I slump down the wall, sliding my ass against the dark brown stains, as if sliding my ass against old, dried shit. Crumpling on top of the no doubt bug-infested, blood stained, pinnacle of DNA evidence that is the twin sized mattress. He’s still fucking laughing at me. It’s starting to piss me off. He’s shaking and shaking and shaking with delight and mirth. So hard that his skeletal frame just might shake itself to pieces right here and now. He lifts up a single, slender finger and wipes away tears from his eyes. Oh, that’s rich! He says. A big inhale inflates his rib cage and he lets out an entertained, satisfied sigh. He’s crouching down now on the balls of his feet, arms resting on his knees as he brings himself to my level. He thinks I’m funny. He just said so. He also says he doesn’t know me. He doesn’t know me? What the fuck? Then why the hell am I even here? I ask him. Oh, he says, I just like killing people.


It was morning, and Jean, the receptionist for the law firm of O’Ryan and Greenblatt, unlocked the office door and then went to her computer. An hour or so later, a five-foot-tall woman about 70, who was carrying a shopping bag, entered the office. She spoke with a Yiddish accent.” “Hello. May I help you?” “Yes, dear, I’m Mrs. Liederkenstenflam.” “My name is Jean,” she said, went to Mrs. Liederkenstenflam, and led her to chairs. “Let’s sit down, Mrs. Liederkenstenflam.” “Thank you, dahling, I was tired. You’re such a nice girl. Here. She took a container, spoon, and napkin out of her shopping bag, opened it, and gave it to Jean. “Have some nice chign soup. It’s Jewish penicillin. It will fix all your problems,” she said and tried to feed her. Jean gently held her hand. “Thank you, Mrs. Liederkenstenflam, but I’m not hungry.” “Okay, dahling,” she said and put everything back in her bag. “Now, how can we help you?” “I need a lawyer, a good lawyer.” “You’ve come to the right place. The firm of O’Ryan and Greenblatt is one of the best law firms in the city.” “Okay. I’ll take Mr. Greenblatt.” “I’m sorry. Mr. Greenblatt isn’t taking any cases, but his daughter, Karen, is taking cases.” “Okay, I’ll take Karen, but before you call her, tell me how much I have to pay.” An office door opened, and a man came out. He went to the coffee pot and held it up. “It’s empty. Again, it’s empty,” he said, put his hand on his hip and stamped his foot. Jean and Mrs. Liederkenstenflam watched him. “Gosh darn. Darn. How is a great lawyer supposed to be great if there’s no coffee?” “So, make some coffee,” Jean said. “But that’s your job,” he whined. “I do lawyer things and you make coffee. That’s the way it’s supposed to be,” he complained, stamped his foot and wiggled to his office. '\`D' boichick, I think he needs some chign soup. Yeah?” “He needs something.” “Now, I was asking how much I have to pay.” “You don’t have to pay anything up front if the attorney decides to take your case. If the attorney loses, you don’t pay anything. If the attorney wins, you pay just one third.” “Oy, how terrible. How can you do such a thing? I think I need a doctor.” “What’s wrong, Mrs. Liederkenstenflam?” Jean asked anxiously. “Well, you see, my great aunt died, may her soul rest in peace, and she left me her little doggie in her will, but my sister took d’ little doggie, and I want Karen should make my sister give back d’ liddle doggie, but how could I give you one third of a little doggie? What would you do with just a part of a liddle doggie? How could d’ liddle doggie get along widout d’ part you took? D’ poor liddle doggie needs all his parts. After all,” she said sounding very anxious. “You don’t understand, Mrs. Liederkenstenflam. The cases we take involve financial settlement. Our fee would be in dollars. You need to take your case to a small claims court.” “In a small claims court, they won’t take a part of my liddle doggie?” “No, they won’t. The judge will listen to both sides and then decide who should get the dog, the whole dog.” “I’ll go to that court. What a relief. I wouldn’t want Pedro Garcia Juan Padilla De Santa Maria cut up into liddle pieces. Thank you, dahling. Say hello to Karen for me,” she said and left. Karen came out of her office as Mrs. Liederkenstenflam left. “Jean, did I hear that woman mention my name?” “Yes.” “Do I know her?” “No.” “Does she know me?” “No.” “Then how did my name get into the conversation?” Don Flynn came out of his office, went to Jean’s desk and listened. “She wanted a lawyer to get her doggie from her sister, and she thought you were going to cut a third of her doggie off and keep it for payment.” “Karen, how could you threaten a client?” Don said angrily. Why would you take a third of a dog? What a thought. That’s a leg and a…yuck. That’s disgusting.” Vera came out of her office, went to the group, and listened. “Karen, were you going to cut off a dog’s leg? How could you do that?” “I wasn’t going to cut off a dog’s leg. Jean, would you please explain.” “Okay,” she said, and told the story. “So she thought Karen was going to take a third of the dog for payment.” Frank came to the desk and listened to the story. “Karen, that’s despicable. Besides, what would the firm do with part of a dog? Yuck.” “Karen, you know there are laws protecting animals from abuse, don’t you?” Don said. “You could cut off a person’s leg and get away with it, but not a dog. A jury would hang you in a minute.” Harry came out of his office and listened. “My God, I never said I would cut off a dog’s leg. This is crazy,” she growled. “What’s crazy?” Harry asked. “Karen threatened to kill an old lady if she didn’t pay her bill,” Don said. “I didn’t threaten to kill anybody or anything. This conversation is crazy,” Karen yelled. “You’re all crazy,” she growled and hurried to her office. “Karen, don’t forget the staff meeting this afternoon with your father,” Jean called to Karen. “So, what’s this meeting about?” Don asked. “Money,” Vera said. We're sliding perilously close to red ink. Mr. Greenblatt has a plan to get us back to the black. I hope it's a good plan. Eating and paying rent have become a habit.” At the staff meeting, Mr. Greenblatt addressed his staff. “Folks, unfortunately, the firm is operating in the red. In order to get back on our feet, I’ve decided to use a talent agency. They will hire Rock Lockwood, the soap opera actor, to be our spokesperson. Irene Young from the agency and Lockwood will be here around 2:00. Karen, I’d like you to be my eyes and ears. Let’s hope this works. I’ll keep you all informed,” he said and all returned to their offices. On the way to her office, Karen stopped at Jean’s desk. “Jean, please call me when Lockwood arrives,” she said and left. An hour later, the office door opened and two people entered. One was Irene Young and the other was Rock Lockwood, a handsome soap opera actor about 30 years old. He wore his overcoat over his shoulders and a wide-brimmed hat tilted to one side, and a white scarf around his neck. They went to Jean’s desk. “May I help you?” “Yes. I'm Irene Young and this is Rock Lockwood. I'm from the King, Clayton, Bernstein, Baton, Mervin, Morgan, Fillmore, Furry talent agency. I have an appointment with Mr. Greenblatt.” “Would you repeat those names? King, Benson, Bitten, and something furry.” “Yes,” Irene said, speaking slowly, and Jean wrote. “I'm Irene Young from the King, Clayton, Bernstein, Baton, Mervin, Morgan, Fillmore, Furry talent agency. I have an appointment with Mr. Greenblatt.” “Fine. Just one moment. I’ll call him,” Jean said, picked up the phone, and pressed a button. “Mr. Greenblatt, Irene Young from the King, Clayton, Bernstein, Baton, Mervin, Morgan, Fillmore, Furry talent agency is here to see you. Okay, sir, I’ll tell her,” and hung up the phone. Ms. Young, he'll be right with you. Please sit down and make yourselves comfortable.” She returned to her computer. “Bobby came out of his office, went to the coffee pot, and held it up. Jean, the coffee pot is...” he said, saw Rock and walked like a zombie to him, pointing the coffee pot at Rock. “You’re Lock Rockwood, I mean Rock Lockwood. It’s really you. Oh, be still my heart. I’m your biggest fan,” he swooned and inched closer to Rock, who looked terrified. “I know everything about you. I know why you left Eloise at the altar. She was a tramp. And Shawna doesn’t deserve you, the tramp.” Rock hurried behind Irene as Bobby tried to get to him. Jean picked up the phone. “Mr. Greenblatt, come quick. Bobby is loose.” Mr. Greenblatt rushed out of his office and stepped between Bobby and Rock. “Bobby, go back to your office,” he ordered, and Bobby sulked away. “I’m terribly sorry, Ms. Young. I meant to give Bobby the day off, but I forgot.” “Bobby, bring the coffee pot back,” Jean yelled and, looking at Rock, he brought it back and went to his office. Rock looked stunned. “Who was that? I’ve never been married. And who are Eloise and Shawna?” “Rock. Think. You’re married on your soap opera, and the others are characters on your soap opera,” Irene said. “Oh, yeah,” Rock said, seeming confused. “Let’s go into the conference room. You’ll have plenty of room to work there. My daughter, Karen, will be right in. She’ll help you anyway she can. Make yourselves comfortable,” he said, left, and told Jean to tell Karen that Lockwood was in the conference room.” Jean phoned Karen, who hurried out of her office to the conference room. Lockwood stood. “Well, hello, there. I’m Rock Lockwood, the famous actor who is adored by millions. Would you like my autograph?” “Uh, yes, of course, I’d love to have your autograph, Mr. Rockwood.” “That’s Lockwood.” “Yes, of course.” Rock took out a gold-trimmed, leather-bound notebook from his pocket. “To?” “I think one will be enough.” “I mean to whom should I write my autograph?” “Uh, how about to me?” “I’ll need a name.” “You have a name already.” “I need your name if I’m going to write an autograph to you.” “Of course. My name is Karen.” He wrote and gave her the paper. She folded it and put it in her skirt pocket. “I’ll cherish this forever. Believe me. I’ll put it in a place in my office that’s made just for things like your autograph,” she said and went to Irene. “Ms. Young, I’m Karen Greenblatt. I’m happy to meet you,” she said and they shook hands. “My father told me to help you anyway I can.” “Okay. Suppose we run through each commercial and you tell me if it’s what you want. Rock, read the first commercial.” Rock held the script, slowly leaned forward and yelled. “If you have a legal…” Karen jumped back. “Rock, what are you doing? We want to bring people in, not scare them away,” Jean said admonishingly. “I was just projecting.” “Rock. You’re not doing Hamlet in front of a live audience. You’re doing a TV commercial. Now, try it again.” Rock slowly leaned forward so that he was a few inches from Karen, and growled. “Are you a victim? Are you letting the world step all over you? Are you…” Karen grimaced. Irene appeared to be in pain. “Rock. This is not revenge of the werewolf. You have to sound sympathetic, like you’re talking to an old friend.” “I see. Sympathetic. An old friend. I think I have it.” Rock leaned back in his chair, looked at Karen, smiled broadly, and grinned as he read. “Hi, there, this is your old, sympathetic friend…” “Cut, cut, cut. Rock. Why are you grinning? This is serious and when you are discussing a serious matter you don’t have a stupid grin on your face.” “Uh, if you’ll excuse me, there’s something I have to take care of,” Karen said, left and hurried to Mr. Greenblatt’s office. She stopped at Jean’s desk on the way. “How’s it going, Karen?” “This Rock Wormwood is an idiot. If he has a brain, then it’s as flat as a pancake because he’s sitting on it. If my father let’s this agency use this hack, then we’re doomed. I have to warn my father,” she said and hurried into his office. After a few minutes, he and Karen hurried to the conference room. “Karen, why don’t you show Mr. Lockwood around while I speak with Irene.” Karen’s first stop was Jean’s desk. “Mr. Lockwood, this is Jean, our gal Friday.” “You look familiar, Jean. Have we met before?” “Uh, no, we haven’t.” “Well, then, would you like my autograph?” “As a matter of fact, it is in my nature to avoid cluttering my life with unimportant, trivial affectations that do not serve to better the lot of mankind as a whole.” He stared blankly at Jean for a few moments. “Oh, yes, I can relate to that. A person should be able to practice his or her religion as she or he wishes. Absolutely. So, would you like my autograph?” “No.” “Mr. Lockwood, if you come with me I’ll show you around the office.” “As you can see, each attorney has his or her own office.” “I see. So, what kind of business do you run here?” “What kind of business do we run here?” she said smiling. “Yeah. Just curious.” “Rock. This is a law firm. We practice law. That’s why we have lawyers working here.” “Uh, huh. Lawyers work here.” “That’s right. I would say much of our business involves suits of one kind or another.” “Suits? I just bought two new suits. One is double-breasted. It makes me look muscular. Boy, if I had known you sell suits, well, next time.” “Mr. Lockwood, are you planning to come here to buy your suits?” Jean asked chuckling. “Yes.” “What size suit do you wear?” “I wear a 42 long. Do you carry that size?” “A 42 long law suit? That’s a popular size law suit size. I think we can work something out,” Karen said with a serious expression on her face. “That’d be great,” he said smiling. “Shall we continue?” “Sure.” “We also specialize in tax law.” “Oh, yeah, taxes. I don’t bother with taxes. I tell my friends that by not paying taxes you get to keep all your money, but they keep paying taxes. Do you pay taxes?” “Yes, I do.” “I have a feeling that taxes go to poor people. Personally, I don’t believe in being poor.” Mr. Greenblatt and Irene come out of the conference room. “Come on, Rock, “it’s time to go. Wait in the car,” she ordered and he left. Well, Mr. Greenblatt, I’m sorry we couldn’t help you,” she said, they shook hands, and she left. “Maybe a talent agency wasn’t such a good idea after all,” he said, and he and Karen went to their offices.


Time is a fragile concept. One should know that it is easily broken, given enough external pressure. The perception of time that humans have is one that is inherently flawed, given that time loops are inevitable. The Faes love to trick us into thinking that they don’t exist, only to give us a true taste of the magnitude the closed loops they can produce. The Fae that has trapped me in one, for example, loops the same second over and over, while keeping me moving forwards. As much as I’d like to say that it’s annoying, I can’t. Ever since I got into my time loop, I have skyrocketed in my creativity and productivity, given the removed sense of urgency. The Fae originally put me in this loop to teach me a lesson and force me to understand why my time on Earth is important, but, in turn, has made me realize that I much prefer the disconnected reality that I have been imprisoned in. Like a hostage growing attached to the room they are trapped in. That simile only really works in context if you don’t think about it, since I’m not trapped physically, only temporally. The Faes seem to be everywhere in this world, we just normally can’t perceive them. They really like to mess with us, probably because we are the most arrogant and least timely intelligent creatures, which I can’t argue with. The only issue in their plans to teach us a lesson is that most everyone that I know and probably that you know would probably benefit from the lack of fearing the clock ticking down. They only target the particularly problematic humans, the ones who weigh the rest of society down. I mean hey, I can’t really complain. I got this free ticket to a never ending vacation with basically free reign over my own actions, no strings attached. Well, besides the occasional times where the Fae imprisoning me, which I believe is named Psi, drops in for the scheduled lecture. I say scheduled, but time doesn’t really matter in this context. Another good part about this is that I can choose if I want to go to sleep or not. It’s not like a switch or anything, but I have a lot more control over it than I could really say for my normal self. For example, I can stay up for days on end, or at least days of time in the context of the normal day night cycle. It’s constantly 7:12 P.M., so there’s not really much cue to when it would normally be night or day. Despite that, I have still been able to keep track of the days, for the most part. Even though all of my devices that I would normally use for timekeeping are perpetually at 7:12, that doesn’t mean my brain doesn’t work anymore. Sure, the timekeeping I do is probably more akin to just saying that this is the next day and moving on, but from random inferences and when I’ve craved food, I can somewhat questionably say that it’s been about a month and a half, or maybe a bit more? There’s not too much reliability to my claim of the time. Oh, would you look at that. Psi is here. Perfect timing, or what I think is perfect timing. I can’t really be certain. I sure do wonder what she came all the way here for. “I swear, it’s like this whole imprisonment thing is going completely over your head!” What a shocker. She’s lecturing me. I guess it couldn’t hurt to try to defend myself for once. “Well, to be fair, you took a human that was already confirmed to have no friends, family, no real interests, and the textbook definition of a NEET. Hell, I even like reading manga. How much more do I have to say to let you know that this is just heaven for me?” Well, it seems that did the trick. She’s utterly speechless now. I don’t think she knew I could even talk, from the amount of not talking I have been doing. To be fair, I have just been silently taking her punishment for the past however long, and haven’t really questioned it. Hearing people getting abducted by Faes was always something that I halfheartedly hoped would happen to me, for the reasons stated above. “W-Wow… I’m surprised I didn’t realize sooner, you really are pathetic. I don’t know if I should be letting you go out of pity, or the opposite at this point. What have you even been doing here all this time? I’ve barely seen you do anything besides just sit at that desk all day! You haven’t even talked to me once! You are the only person I’ve ever met that has just taken the punishment so upfront and nonchalantly, what gives?!” Wow, I never knew that Faes have a semblance of remorse. She asks, and she shall receive. “How about you use your eyes and look dumbass. I’ve been reading my huge backlog of books that I wanted to read, but got sidetracked before reading. I also started writing a bit, but that’s more of a side project that doesn’t concern you.” She seems a bit dumbfounded, unfitting of a Fae. I thought Faes could understand and communicate with humans perfectly. I guess I was wrong. I continue, “The reason why I never decided to talk to you in the first place was partially because I was afraid of talking back to you, and partially because I just accepted this to be my new life.” Her face conveyed that of wonder, confusion, and concern, all at the same time. It was like her face was a game show wheel being spun around, slowing into a more manageable expression. She finally spoke up, “So, correct me if I’m wrong, but you just said that you wanted this to happen? Humans understand that this is happening to them? We thought that the methods we use are untraceable unless a temporal anomaly radar gets implemented into the arsenal of science.” “Fair point. There’s absolutely no scientific or public proof beyond that of a conspiracy. I don’t really believe in any of those wacky theories, but I was always just thinking that I would like to be taken away from my current life, and taken to a world with no one else. That’s the third reason I never talked to you, because I wanted this time loop to be me and me alone.” The Fae looked like she was going to say something, but pulled a distraught look out before stopping herself. I can’t blame her, she just learned how pathetic and lowly I really am, so she probably will end up releasing me from this loop soon enough. That’s kind of the reason that I never wanted to speak up to Psi, because then she would know that this is the best my life has been. She would learn of my awful life, and conclude that the best course of punishment would be putting me back into my normal, awful life. I guess I should ask her something too. “So, what’s your next move? If my intuition is correct, you’ll put me back in normal time, and consider it the ultimate punishment.” Psi looked around the room, changing expressions constantly. “Well? Am I right? Can I collect my prize at the door? Or would that be too nice of a gesture?” Psi finally broke the seal of her lips. “I don’t know what to say, OK?! I am meant to serve as one of the Faes, the protectors of society among all races and species. I want to keep your society free of the types of people that don’t contribute. That said, I’ve never been disheartened of my goal by one of my prisoners. If I’m being honest, I kind of want to do some irrational things. Hold a moment, I need to talk to my supervisors.” Before I could even get a response out, Psi rushed away, looking like she was on the brink of tears. Was that my fault? I could ponder it, but I feel like there would be no point. After Psi comes back in a bit, I’ll probably be forced back into that awful society that she “protects” or whatever. A few perceived days go by, and Psi is nowhere to be seen, sort of unusual. Normally she is back every other day, but she hasn’t showed up for at least two meetings now. I kind of am starting to feel guilt now. I hope she didn’t get fired or killed or whatever Faes do with bad Faes, all because she wanted to do whatever those “irrational things” were. Eh, pondering is fun and all, but overall kinda boring. I guess I’ll just keep reading to pass the time, and maybe take one of my weekly naps. In the middle of my nap, Psi came to me and woke me up. I almost thought it was a dream or something, because of the absurdity of a Fae waking me up. She looked a bit serious waking me up, so I got up pretty quickly. After I got up, she immediately started speaking. “Well, I took it up with the higher Faes, and they decided that I have clearance to do what I believe would help society the most.” Weird way of starting a conversation, but I guess that’s fine, with the way we ended the last meeting. “So? I thought your way of punishing me was gonna be just putting me back, is it not?” “It certainly is on the table, but I feel like you’ve drawn the short end of the stick all of your life, so I feel like a decision for you is in order.” “OK, I guess? You really aren’t explaining yourself too well, but I guess I can follow.” “You don’t need to understand much. Just choose your outcome. That’s all there is to this situation.” She explained. “You can either choose to go back to the normal time flow, or be my prisoner forever.. If you go back to the normal time flow, you will never see me again, and your life will be reverted to the way it was before you ever came into this time loop.” “So the bad option, got it.” “But, if you would choose to be my prisoner, you would never be able to leave again, even if you decide to think otherwise later on.” Sounds like a pretty cushy deal to me. I don’t need any layer of uncertainty getting in the way when deciding the outcome of my life. “Yeah OK I choose to be your prisoner, because anything is better than going back to my old life. Even listening to the whining of a little brat for the rest of my life.” “I’ll ignore that last bit, and ask you once again: Do you choose to live here forever, without any chance of going back?” “Without a doubt, because there’s at least one thing that I can see here that I can’t get anywhere else.” “And that would be?” “A friend.


Nora entered the spacious pub on a corner of Katonah Avenue at midday on Monday, an hour before the bar opened. A guy about her age, mid-twenties, with a button down shirt and neatly combed hair was waiting for her at a booth next to the bar. Seeing Nora, he climbed out of the seat and shook her hand. “Nora?” “That’s me. It’s nice to meet you. Joe, right?” “Yep.” Joe gestured to the booth and Nora sat in it. She was holding a folder with her resume and some references from other bars she worked at. Joe examined the resume and references. “So, you have a lot of pub experience it looks like. I see you worked at the Crown & Jockey, Harry Smith’s, Begun’s.” “I did,” Nora replied brightly. “I’ve worked at bars and pubs ever since my first year of college.” Nora had heard that it was notoriously difficult to get hired at this pub, which was the liveliest in a neighborhood full of lively pubs in a tiny quarter of the Bronx, nestled next to the cemetery that gives the neighborhood its name, Woodlawn. And she wanted the extra money, which was, as rumor had it, excellent. “Pretty typical setup here,” Joe began. “So all that should be easy. What we really need is the right personality. We have a lot of loyal patrons, a lot of events, a lot of private parties. We need someone fun. Someone who can remember the regulars’ names. Sound like you can do that?” Nora tucked her hair behind her ear. “Definitely. I always get to know the regulars and the local VIPs.” “That’s perfect,” Joe replied. “We can also get pretty busy. In your experience, what does a typical night look like for you?” Nora pointed to a few of the bars on her resume. “These are the ones where I worked four hours of Friday and Saturday night alone at the bar. I can handle a big crowd. When I was waitressing, I was often doing three four-tops, a six and a large party.” Joe’s eyebrows raised. “That’s a lot. How did you pull that off?” “Magic.” Nora smiled. Joe laughed. “Okay. Let me go talk to the owner, see if she has time to meet with you.” “Great!” Nora stole a look at her phone and tucked it back in her purse. She looked around the bar; polished mahogany and green-backed booths. There was a stone hearth in a back corner and, over her shoulder, the entrance to a larger dining room. “Nora?” Joe peeped his head out of the dining room. “The owner will see you.” “Nora followed him through the dining room, back into a party room, back further into a tucked-away cocktail bar, down a short staircase, and into a small stone cellar. “This pub is huge. Is this a wine cellar?” Joe looked around. “Yeah, might have started that way. We use it for storage now.” He led her out of the stone room and into a well-appointed office. An arresting woman sat behind a desk. Her hair was an enormous halo of red curls, streaked with white. She was wearing a hunter green dress and her large, round eyes were two different colors; one blue, one honey brown. She stood and offered a thin, white hand. “Siobhán Brennan. They tell me I run this place.” She had an Irish accent. Nora shook her hand. “Nora Meredith, thanks for seeing me.” Siobhán looked at the door. “I’ll send her up in a minute, Joe.” He slipped out. “Joe’s one of the managers,” Siobhán said. “Also my son.” Nora smiled. “A family enterprise. That’s great.” Siobhán settled back into her chair and looked at Nora over the tips of her fingers. Nora thought she saw tiny strings of dancing light moving among the strands of Siobhán’s hair. “Another thing we need here at the pub, Nora, is discretion. Do you understand?” “Yes, of course.” In Nora’s experience, most bars were doing a thing or two that wasn’t entirely above board. Siobhán retrieved a crystal goblet from the sideboard behind her and filled it with wine from a decanter. She swirled the wine around the glass three times and ran her hand over the top of the glass. The liquid inside churned into a thick, glowing green, and then, before Nora could even register what had happened, returned to red wine. Siobhán lifted the wine to her mouth, smiled and said, “It’s good to have you on board Nora.” Nora spent a few, sleepless nights trying to rationalize what she saw in Siobhán’s office, which was miles away from what she thought Siobhán meant when asking for ‘discretion.' But, eventually, the pace of work at the pub pushed it out of her head. In addition to her day job, she worked Friday and Saturday nights at the pub, adding party shifts on Sundays and, not infrequently, weeknight shifts. She was too exhausted to think about much of anything. And besides, she loved the pub. The money was incredible. The staff worked together seamlessly. Pints and bottles slid down the bar top. A second cocktail appeared almost instantly with the flip of the mixologist’s arm. She laughed and gossiped with the patrons, and laughed and gossiped with her coworkers. The entire place seemed bathed in twinkling lights, like every night was a blend of the best parts of Christmas Eve, New Year’s Eve and St. Patrick’s Day. In fact, it was two days before St. Patrick’s Day that Nora called out of her day job to help set the pub up for the weekend’s festivities, when a man came in, his face obscured by a thick, wiry beard and a flat cap. Frigid air followed him into the bar. “Siobhán. Now.” “Excuse me, sir?” Nora asked, setting down the string of plastic shamrock lights she was unboxing behind the bar. She had trouble understanding his heavy Irish accent. “I. need. Sio-bhán. Right now.” “She’s not here right now, can I take a message?” The man slammed one fist so hard on the bar the glasses in the overhead rack rattled, and with his other pulled Nora toward him. Nora yelped, but before she could say anything, Siobhán emerged from the kitchens. “Hands off, Dáithí.” Dáithí stomped toward Siobhán menacingly, but she held up a hand. “Now, Dáithí. You’ll be wanting to stop right there.” Dáithí halted instantly, but continued to grimace. “You tricked me, Siobhán. Make it right.” “Nora here doesn’t need to know all the world’s business, Dáithí. Come to my office.” Nora, whose heart was pounding furiously, watched as the pair disappeared behind the dining room. She knew it wasn’t wise, surely there must be cameras all over, still she followed behind them through the dining room, then the party room, then the cocktail garden, and down the short staircase into the room of stone arches. Loudly from Siobhán’s closed office, Nora heard, “Damn you, Siobhán. This was a trick, it was. And a rotten one.” Siobhán’s icy voice responded, “Greedy, greedy, Dáithí. You thought you could cheat the system; thought you could cheat me. Don’t you think I noticed the deliveries were padded? And I was going to let it go, I was; find a new butcher and move on. But then you came in asking for my special help so you can go cheating even more. You got what you got. Don’t be crying about it.” “You’re a demonic woman, Siobhán, and I’ll tell everyone what you are!” Nora heard feet thundering down the steps and she retreated beneath a shadowy arch. It was Joe. He stormed into the office. “Everything ok in here, Mom?” “Show your man Dáithí the door, Joe. He’s finished.” Dáithí sized Joe up. “I know my way out.” Nora pressed her back to the wall, tripping on something sticking out of the floor. She caught herself before she made a noise. “He going to be a problem?” Joe asked. “Not for long. Check on Nora, though. He scared her pretty good.” “I didn’t see her up there.” Siobhán nodded. “She probably went to go clear her head. Have a talk with her when she’s back, yeah?” Joe and Siobhán ascended the stairs out of the basement. Nora, panting from adrenaline, slinked to the ground. She felt around her feet, trying to determine what she tripped on. It was a wooden trap door, slightly open. She crouched down to examine it, and through the opening could see an illuminated space beneath. Nora paused a moment to listen for anyone who might be coming back downstairs. Satisfied that she’d be left alone, she prised the door open, revealing a ladder down to a tunnel whose walls were lit with hanging light bulbs. This is a mistake, Nora thought, but she climbed down the ladder anyway. “Good god,” Nora whispered when she saw that the light bulbs were actually free-floating flames, dangling at even intervals along the walls of the tunnel. She continued on, terrified that she’d be caught, that she’d get trapped, and yet unable to turn around. At one point, she heard the roar of cars, trucks and buses above her and worked out that, given the position of the pub and how long she’d been walking, she was under 233rd street. This must lead to the cemetery. Nora continued along the tunnel as the stone path turned to dirt and the walls narrowed. She was ready to turn back when she reached another ladder. She climbed part of the way up toward a cold light at the top. Nora heard a chant of echoing voices. She paused on the rung trying to make out what the voices were saying, but she couldn’t understand. Curiosity pulled her a up a few rungs more, until she could see the bottom halves of three people gathered around a table. Based on all the marble, Nora realized this must be the interior of one of the cemetery’s grand mausoleums. Something on the table was hissing and bubbling. The voices grew louder, crescendoing until a small bang emitted from the cauldron. The commotion was followed by a sweet mewling. Two of the women sat on the ground playing with a tiny, russet kitten. Nora could just make out that one was Lisa, Siobhán’s daughter. She also worked at the bar. The other woman Nora recognized as Reina, who owned a bodega on Webster Avenue. “See, Dáithí,” Lisa said to the kitten. “Things are easier when you’re a nice boy.” Nora gasped. The women in the mausoleum froze. Reina came over to the opening to inspect, her long braids falling just over Nora’s face. Nora tried to climb back down the ladder as fast as she could, but her foot landed on Siobhán, who was on her way up. “Back up you go, Nora.” Nora, sweating and shivering, forced herself up the ladder and into the mausoleum. The three woman stood in front of the table, arms crossed. Nora did not recognize the third woman, who was white-haired and of indeterminate age. The kitten nestled itself on to Reina’s shoulder and closed its eyes. Siobhán gracefully emerged from the opening in the floor and guided Nora by the elbow over to a chair. Nora sat, looking up at the women. Siobhán picked up the cat from Reina’s shoulder. “Curiosity killed the cat, didn’t it Nora?” Eyes wide, Nora squeaked, “Please don’t kill him.” Siobhán laughed. “Dáithí? Oh, he’ll turn up right as rain in a few days having learned a good lesson. Won’t you, Dáithí?” The kitten rubbed its face hungrily along Siobhán’s hand. Tears brimmed in Nora’s eyes. “What are you?” The women laughed. Siobhán said, “Of course you know, Nora. You’ve known all along. I’m not just a publican. Reina isn’t just a purveyor of delicious Jamaican food. Mary isn’t just a lady in the Altar Rosary Society. We all have other gifts, so to speak. Sometimes, people seek those gifts. We help them when we can. But, they’re not always happy with the help they get. Like with our friend, Dáithí: he was cheating me, and other customers. Then had the gall to ask for a spell to grow his ‘business.’ Well, I gave him one; earned him a trip to the hospital. Furious, weren’t you Dáithí?” Siobhán stopped to a moment to allow the kitten to amble up her chest. “You’re a good girl, Nora. You won’t tell, will you?” “No one would believe me,” Nora whispered. “That’s true,” laughed Reina. Mary limped over to the door of the mausoleum and opened it. “Go on. Time to go.” Afraid to break eye contact with them, Nora walked backwards toward the door and stumbled down the marble steps. She broke into a run; pumping her legs as fast as they could take her until she had to stop, gasping for breath and covered in sweat. She leaned over a headstone to nurse a stitch in her side. She glanced down at the name on the headstone and jumped back, yelling when she saw it read ‘DOLAN, Dáithí.’ She read the dates etched into the stone four times just to be sure it wasn’t the same Dáithí from the pub. Her first impression of the man was bad, but she didn’t want him dead. Nora told herself not to go back to the pub; go home, take a shower, and find a job somewhere normal. And she did go home and take a shower, but then she dried her hair and got ready for work and headed back to the pub, ineluctably drawn there, unable to stay away. “Nora!” Joe greeted her at the door, concern on his face. “Everything ok? My mom told me Dáithí got aggressive.” Siobhán and Lisa stood in the corner of the pub, watching her. Nora made eye contact with them and looked backed to Joe. “Yep, just clearing my head. Thanks for checking.” The rest of the weekend whirred past. The bar was near-capacity all day on Friday and Saturday, and was mostly full on Sunday. Nora worked thirteen hour shifts each day, but never felt tired. It was like she was moving to a inborn choreography: step this way to avoid a waiter with a tray of food; keep this tab open and this one closed, even though the patrons never specified; bring this table a plate of nachos after their third round. When she had time to recognize it, she understood that so much of how the place operated must be part of Siobhán’s ‘gift,’. Everything always worked. Drinks just materialized. Taps never ran out or tasted off. Even on their busiest and most packed nights, no one ever fought, no one ever got too drunk. They hired a bouncer who slept in a booth next to the entrance; he had nothing to do. She’d worked in a dozen or so bars and restaurants and never experienced anything like it. The following Tuesday, Nora went to the pub to get her tips cashed out from the weekend. Joe told her to head down to Siobhán’s office to retrieve them, so she followed the familiar path down and knocked twice on the heavy wooden door. “Come in!” Siobhán was seated behind her desk, Lisa, Reina and Mary behind her. Nora stopped in the doorway, unsure if she should continue. “You’re ok, girl. Get in.” Mary commanded. Nora came in, less nervous than the last time she was in their company. Siobhán handed over an envelope with the tips. “It’s $2,500. A very good haul.” Lisa said. Nora opened her mouth, but was too shocked to speak. One St. Patrick’s day she made $700 working the bar. Nothing close to this. “Please sit.” Siobhán gestured to the chair across from her desk. Nora obeyed. “What if I told you, Nora, that these extra gifts we have, we can share them with other people?” “You mean like doing spells or something?” Reina grinned. “We mean showing you how to do them.” She extended her arm, her brown fist closed. “Go on. Look inside.” Nora looked at all of them, and then gently peeled back Reina’s fingers. In her palm was a tiny, golden morsel. She understood that these women could just as easily be killing her with this, or turning her into a cat, but still she took the morsel and ate it. Something electric coursed through her veins. Once she was used to the feeling, she stood up. Things around her seemed more possible than they had before, like the world around her was something she could control. “I feel…” Nora searched for the word. “I don’t know how to describe it.” Siobhán held an empty glass bowl in front of Nora. Remembering her first encounter with Siobhán, Nora put her hand over it and it filled with water. She inhaled sharply. “Did you see that?” Nora looked to the other women. Lisa smirked. “We did.” “What you feel,” Siobhán said, gently guiding Nora out of the office and toward the secret passageway to the mausoleum, “is power.” In time, Nora found that there were many more people in Woodlawn with the gift. They met in the cemetery, at the full moon, to discuss the goings-on of the neighborhood, to set limits on the use of power, and to decided how to handle threats. Nora soon learned to recognize when someone else had the gift, wondering how she ever missed the signs of it before. Joe left the pub for law school, and Siobhán promoted Nora to manager. She quit her day job. One morning at dawn, she headed to the pub to accept an early shipment and she walked passed Dáithí, who was opening the grates on ‘Dave’s Irish Butcher and Supply.’ They locked eyes and, after hesitating, Dáithí tipped his hat. Nora smiled. That’s a good kitty. (This was submitted for Reedsy contest #190: Set your story in New York, where someone’s been waiting for your character.


#Welcome to Micro Monday Hello writers and welcome to Micro Monday! It’s time to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic, you ask? Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I provide a simple constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. This rotates between simple prompts, sentences, images, songs, and themes. You’re free to interpret the weekly constraints how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.** &nbsp; *** #This week’s challenge: - **Prompt: A strange package arrived at the door.** - **Bonus Constraint:** All or part of the story takes place in a hotel. This week’s challenge is to use the above prompt as inspiration for your story. The interpretation is entirely up to you, as long as the connection is clear and you follow all post and subreddit rules. The bonus constraint is not required, but it is worth an additional 10 points. **Note: Don’t forget to next Monday!** (The form usually opens at about 11:30am EST Monday.) You get points just for voting. &nbsp; *** #How To Participate - **Submit a story between 100-300 words in the comments below.** You have until **Sunday at 11:59pm EST**. (No poetry.) - **Use to check your word count.** The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words or over 300 will be disqualified from campfire readings and rankings. - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post, exclusively. Micro serials are acceptable, but please keep in mind that each installment should be able to stand on its own and be understood without leaning on previous installments. - **Come back throughout the week, read the other stories, and leave them some feedback on the thread.** You have until **2pm EST Monday** to get your feedback in. Only **actionable feedback** will be awarded points. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **Please follow all subreddit rules and be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here; we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. You can find a list of . - **Nominate your favorite stories at the end of the week .** You have until **2pm EST** next Monday to submit nominations. (Please note: The form does not open until Monday morning, after the story submission deadline.) - **And most of all, be creative and have fun!** If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail. &nbsp; *** #Campfire - On **Mondays at 12pm EST,** I host a Campfire on our server. We read all the stories from the weekly thread and provide live feedback for those who are present. Come join us to read your own story and listen to the others! You can come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. Everyone is welcome! &nbsp; *** #How Rankings are Tallied We have a new point system! **TASK** | **POINTS** | **ADDITIONAL NOTES** |:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:| | **Use of the Main Prompt/Constraint** | up to **50** pts | Requirements always provided with the weekly challenge | **Use of Bonus Constraint** | **10** pts | (unless otherwise noted) | ***Actionable* Feedback** | up to **15** pts each (5 crit max) | You’re always welcome to provide more crit, but points are capped at 75 | **Nominations your story receives** | **20** pts each | No cap | **Bay’s Nominations** | **20 - 50** pts | First- **50** pts, Second- **40** pts, Third- **30** pts, plus regular noms | **Voting for others** | **10** pts | Don’t forget to vote before 2pm EST every week! *Users who go above and beyond with feedback (more than 2 in-depth, actionable crits) will be awarded Crit Credits that can be used on r/WPCritique.* &nbsp; *** #Rankings - - u/AGuyLikeThat - - u/TJTermins - - u/ZachTheLitchKing *** ###Subreddit News - Join to chat with authors, prompters, and readers! We hold several weekly Campfires, monthly Worldbuilding interviews, and other fun events! - Try your hand at poetry with during the third week of every month on r/WritingPrompts! - Explore your self-established world every week on ! - You can also post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


“A half a pound and you can see it,” Brooks said as he dug into his flavorless bowl of hardtack and soup. The new private glared at Brooks “half a pound? Asking for a bit much ain’t you?” Samson, who was standing next to the private nudged the young man “just give him the money, when’s the next time you’ll see something like this?” To this Brooks nodded “he’s right.. make it 2 pounds” the new private offered a sighed and dug into the pockets of his coat and procured 2 pounds “2 pounds and I get to feel it.” Brooks lifted his eyes from his bowl and stared at him blankly for a moment “why do you want to feel it?” The new private merely shrugged, “if it’s worth 2 pounds I minus well get something a little more out of it right?” Brooks then stared at Samson who offered a shrug “fine.” Brooks finally said. “2 pounds and you can touch it”. He then set down his bowl and took off his cap so the pair of men could observe what remained of his scalp. The wounds have now long since healed. But it was clearly observable to the pair of men that Brooks’ scalp had been sliced clean off his head and had to be manually sewn back on his head. Which made it bald and his skin discolored all around. After a moment the private shook his head “actually I’m good”. Brooks then nodded and put his cap on and took up his bowl and continued to eat “yep. A Nakoda man took it when I was working in the fields not too far from the homestead when I was about ten. I didn’t see him coming until he came up behind me from a bush and blunted my head in with a sort of cudgel.“ at this point Brooks then paused for a moment “I suppose I must have been quite a prize as, when I awoke I found my scalp had been taken”. The private then nodded “oh my God.. that’s quite a story. I’m surprised you survived the whole affair”. Brooks then nodded “yep.. Nakodas are a savage people. But if there’s one thing they value amongst themselves it’s that taking a man’s pride is better than his life, my family wasn’t so lucky of course. I wished that Nakoda bastard took my life instead of theirs”. The new private then frowned and put his hand back in his pocket and pulled out three pounds and set it on the barrel next to Brooks “here.. for your trouble friend sorry for asking again”. Brooks then nodded and spoke “thanks kid” the private then walked past Samson and walked off down the Trench line. Samson then glared at Brooks “You should have said something when he gave you the extra pound you know”. Brooks nonethess shrugged as he finished his meal. “If he wants to feel sorry for me and my nonexistent family then he can. But what he doesn’t know can’t hurt him. Besides whether a Nakoda man took my scalp off or a sewing machine in Blackwater it doesn’t matter as long as they pay to see it”.


After eighteen long years, I stepped foot on the grasses of the forest of my hometown. As I walked through the dense forest, the sound of rustling leaves and the chirping of little birds surrounded me. I was overwhelmed with the odd feeling of nostalgia. After some time, I reached a glade. This place is filled with both the best and the worst memories of my childhood. When I was young, I would come here with my little sister, Aria. It was like our secret place, where no one could hurt us. We would wander around, carve stick figures on the trees, and lie down on the grass and stare at the navy-blue sky. Living with an alcoholic father was not easy. But this place was our haven. Spending a few hours there, under the twinkling stars, surrounded by the trees, reminded me that the world was not as inhumane as my house portrayed it to be. Aria loved exploring. When she was young, she would run after the bees and insects flying in our garden. She also had this weird obsession with shiny objects. Thinking about how she would stare at mum’s ring with her dumbfounded eyes and how her lips would take the shape of a circle in adoration of the white stone always makes me chuckle. I found teardrops rolling down my cheeks as I walked up to a tall tree and found a drawing carved out on its bark. I was twelve when I had carved out the stick figures of my sister and me holding hands. The worst event of my life played again and again in my mind. We were right here. I remembered how happy I was in the calm before the storm. The day was March 13, 1997. I was just thirteen, and Aria was seven. I distinctly remember sitting reclined on a tree. Aria was lying on the grass next to me. A cool breeze blew through my hair as I stared at the twinkling stars and the glimmering full moon. That is when I saw five orange lights moving high above the sky. They were moving together in a V-shaped formation with one in the middle and two on either side. It looked like they were all a part of one massive aircraft, which moved very slowly without making any sound. “Hey Aria, look!” I said and turned towards my sister. But she was not there. I looked forward and saw her far ahead, running towards the lights in the sky. I shouted, “Wait!” But she didn’t stop. I sprung up and ran as fast as I could through the forest, dodging the trees in my way. A flash of bright light pierced through the darkness. It was there for just a few seconds. My brotherly instincts told me to run faster and faster. My heart was racing as a feeling of dread filled my mind. I looked everywhere, between shrubs, behind trees and rocks. I looked up into the sky to search for the orange lights. They were gone. Aria was gone too. Aria was the only reason I smiled, the only person whom I considered family. For the next four years, I was all alone in battle, fending for myself, fighting with my father and picking up empty bottles from our living room floor. By the time I was seventeen, I had had enough. So, I packed my bags and ran away to the town nearby. “I let her run away. Where did she go? What were those strange orange lights?” These thoughts haunted me every second of my life, constantly reminding me how bad a brother I was. I always thought I would never return. But then my father’s death forced me to come back here. I sat against the same tree I did so many years ago and replayed the same moment thousands of times in my mind, trying to change the situation so that Aria would still be sitting next to me. While I was deep in my thoughts, I saw a flash of light in the sky. Then, I heard an animal walking behind me. I turned around and saw a figure. It was not an animal. A human silhouette grew bigger and bigger as it walked towards me. I was amazed to see the girl standing in front of me. She was thin and withered, her lips were gray, and her skin was pale white. She had cut marks on her arms and right cheek. Her hair was shaved off. But I recognized those sweet brown eyes and that small button nose immediately. That was my sister. She was staring at me. She had recognized me. A small smile formed on her face. I was overwhelmed by happiness, confusion, excitement and relief. I tried to say something, but I couldn’t find the right words to express the emotions that had taken over me. She came closer. I ran towards her with my arms extended out and hugged her tightly. We stood there for a long time, oceans of tears flowing down our eyes. During that time, I didn’t want to know what had happened. My sister was snuggling in my arms, and she was safe. That is all that mattered.


It was a rainy Wednesday morning when Bobbin Bonnet traded his Fiat for a MINI Cooper Sport. It was a nice model; metallic blue with a panoramic roof. Once he had managed to pry the door open, he also discovered it had air-conditioning, an excellent sound system, and colored interior lighting set to blue -- to match the paint. Excited about his upgrade, Bobbin had gotten into his new car and reversed it out of the driveway. He turned right, to take the quick route to the highway and it was then his trouble began. Try as he may, his foot refused to press down on the gas pedal. "Come on, Bonnet," he scolded himself, making sure to add a stern look in the rearview mirror. "Not this again. Just press down on the gas pedal and get out of here." Bobbin's foot did not move. He tried forcing it into action by pressing down on his knees with both hands. And, when that didn't work, he stomped his foot with the other one. That jolted the car forward a bit, but he doubted that driving on the highway in little jolts would do him much good, although it would probably give the cops a good laugh. Frustrated, he slammed both his hands down on the steering wheel as hard as he could, and promptly hit the car horn. The loud honk that followed startled him so much, that he almost shot out of his seat and through the glass panels of the panoramic roof. "Great", he said to himself. "Now you're a sitting duck in a stolen car in broad daylight *and* you've drawn attention to yourself. Good job Bonnet." He punctuated those last words with short taps on the horn. Might as well, he figured -- he was already screwed. Come to think of it, his occupation was probably one better carried out at night. At the last short honk, his head snapped to the side. He heard a door squeak and squeal -- it was quite the dramatic sound for a door to make -- and an old couple stepped out of their home. Stay calm, he thought. They're probably just going out to do groceries. When the old lady settled her glare on him, however, Bobbin shuddered visibly. She looked quite menacing for someone her age. Her hair was cut in a short, spiky style and she wore faded jeans and a black t-shirt. It probably wasn't so much the look in itself, but more the way it punctuated her 'I will fuck you up' stare that made him shudder. Her husband wasn't any better. He was the skinhead-looking type, with a shiny, bald head and a leather jacket. Somehow, he had forgotten to wrinkle as he aged and thus, looked somewhat like a retired baby. Which would've been funny, if it hadn't been for the dangerous twinkle in his beady eyes. "Come on, Bonnet," Bobbin grunted as he strained with the effort of moving his foot, which remained unmoving and stubborn. The swirling feeling in the pit of his stomach told him he would not be able to make this trade; it wasn't a fair one. He would have to throw in at least a flat-screen TV and a gaming system to make up for the discrepancy in value and -- seeing as the pensioners were moving towards him -- he truly didn't have the time to arrange for that. A sharp knock on the passenger seat window interrupted Bobbin's train of thought. "Excuse me," said the spike-haired menace -- she was even more terrifying up close. "What are you doing with my neighbor's car?" Behind her, he could see the woman's husband get in his car. *Think Bonnet, think! The cops are going to have a field day if they catch you again.* Bobbin put on his best smile and rolled down the window. "Morning ma'am," he said cheerfully. "I'm Bobbin from the garage. You know the one, Bobbin's Bonnets..." he had to stop to swallow as the searing skeptical glare that came his way took the moisture straight out of his mouth. The fact that her husband was backing out of their driveway to block Bobbin's new car, didn't help either. "Erm, as I was saying. Bobbin's Bonnets. Your neighbor asked us to pick up her car for servicing, there's a problem with the gas pedal." In a moment of brilliance, Bobbin thought to demonstrate the issue. He stomped on his foot with his other one and jolted forward. "See, it's going to be a long ride to the garage. Would've gotten the tow truck but it's out of commission due to an intern-related mishap." The woman turned to the side, addressing her husband as he got out of his car, his task to block Bobbin now complete. "Says he's from the garage," she started as she walked out of earshot to explain the situation to the man. He could see her punctuate her story with fierce hand movements which made her look like she was conducting an invisible orchestra. The husband nodded as he rubbed his chin. He asked a few questions to his wife and then -- having decided his course of action -- approached Bobbin with a resoluteness to his step that said he was a man on a mission. "You're never going to get to the garage like this," the man remarked, his low voice a rumble. "You can use our car to tow this one to your shop and once you're there do some maintenance on ours as well. The tires need replacing so it seems like a win-win." Bobbin's mouth hung ajar as he tried to process what the man had just offered him. He looked at the car that was blocking his -- a decent SEAT Leon, red, no panoramic roof but no damage either -- and nodded thoughtfully. "Are you sure, sir?" he asked, trying to hide his excitement. The husband nodded and tossed Bobbin a set of car keys through the open window. "She's a good neighbor," he replied. "Wouldn't want her to be inconvenienced because you couldn't get her car to the garage. There's a tow rope in the back." Bobbin got out of the MINI Cooper and got to work. He grabbed the tow rope from the back of the SEAT and knelt in front of his previous new car. As he sunk to his knees to start tying the vehicles together he made sure to make a show of inspecting both cars to make it look like he knew what he was doing. He really didn't. He flexed his muscles as he pulled on the loose knots, pretending to test how strong they were and if they would hold when towing. He knew they wouldn't, they were looser than a drunkard's tongue. The husband and his wife watched him work with interest, but they didn't comment. When he was done, he walked over to his old Fiat and grabbed the keys from the dashboard where he'd left them. He handed them over to the old couple. "Loaner car," he said. "You folks are going to have to share it with your neighbor, but she said on the phone that she wasn't planning on going anywhere for a few days." They both nodded and thanked him and the husband walked with him over to his car to hold the door open for him. "She's a bit finicky on the transmission but she'll get over it once she's warmed up," he said before slamming the door shut. Bobbin looked around. This car also had air-conditioning, but the sound system was a standard edition and there were no fancy lights either. This would be a fair enough trade. Just a bit better than his previous car, but not too much. Satisfied, and the swirling feeling in his stomach gone, he turned the key in the ignition and fastened his seat belt. Then, he gave a friendly wave to the old couple -- they had been quite helpful, after all -- and pressed down on the gas. The car came free with a quick snap and he sped away, ignoring the screams and the frantic motions of the people in his rearview mirror. This had been a good deal, he thought. He was Bobbin Bonnet; a trader, not a thief. \*\*\*\*\*\*\* This story was inspired by a conversation on the WP discord server. We wondered what would happen if Robin Hood had been a fae who had to compulsively trade instead of steal but didn't know it. I wrote a silly story to explore the idea and Bobbin Bonnet was born.


An immortal wandered across the barren desert. He had been walking for centuries, searching for something he could not name. His body was twisted and scarred by time, his clothes were tattered and faded, and his eyes were dull and empty. In the ocean of sand, his crooked figure floated across the surface. On top of a lonely sand hill, he saw a clock. It was a large and ornate clock, with golden hands and numbers, and a face that smiled and frowned. It was out of place in this desolate land, like a relic from another world. The clock was ticking in an erratic rhythm, slow, then fast, then slow again as if it was trying to catch up with itself. The golden hands also follow their own clockwork metronome, sometimes pausing to admire the sky or chat with the hazy wind, then resuming their duty with guilty haste. The forgetful clock noticed the immortal man approaching and greeted him cheerfully. “Hello there, stranger! You look like you’ve been around for a while. What brings you here?” The immortal man stopped in front of the clock and stared at it blankly. “I don’t know.” he said. The forgetful clock smiled sympathetically. “That’s alright. Sometimes I don’t know what I’m doing either. I’m supposed to keep track of time, but I keep forgetting." The immortal man did not respond. The clock laughed awkwardly. "You’re immortal, aren’t you? Then, of course, the time has no meaning for you. Oh, but you look tired. Tell me, when was the last time you slept?” “I don’t sleep. Sleeping is preparing for death, and death is meaningless to me.” The clock nodded. “I see... Well, you must have some wonderful memories then. Tell me, when was the last time you saw your face? I can't see mine, it's almost covered by sand!” The immortal man shook his head. “I don’t look at my face. I can't find it. I only see strangers in the mirror. A man, a woman, a child. They change every time I look.” “How strange! How do you know who you are then? What makes you you?” The immortal man shook his head. “I don’t know who I am. I don’t know what makes me me.” The clock frowned with concern. 'Oh dear, that is distressing to hear,' it fretted. 'But let me see...' Its gears whirred as it rifled through its scattered memories. "I feel I know you, somehow...yes, I see it now, I- " The clock's face attempted a smile but froze partway, its expression caught between emotions, like an owl arrested mid-turn. "Hmm... I will tell you this, I know who you will become. But I can't exactly say who you used to be. And for who you are right now, it's up to you to decide, Theseus, because, regretfully, I will soon forget you again. The immortal man looked at the clock in confusion. But the clock already stopped its ticking. The golden hands create an illusion of a wry smile as the object becomes inanimate once more.


December 21st, 1918 Adelaide, I cannot live alone with the knowledge of what has happened to Levi. It has been forty-six days and no other man has uttered a word, not even an indication that Levi existed. I’m almost certain you are aware of the war's end. Conflict between us and the Germans has been long gone yet the feeling of hopelessness and terror looms over the select few of us. We landed in France in late October. As we arrived in Le Mans the morale between men who had been stationed there quickly transferred to us. Levi though never changed. He spent every moment he could trying to raise our spirits. A few of the men resented him for not being as miserable as them. I found it charming. The trenches are more unbearable than imaginable. Levi’s attempts at humor became quiet sobs in the night. None of us could have anticipated the conditions in which our French friends had been fighting in. I often saw Levi staring into the walls of the trench with such intense focus. I was somewhat jealous of him if I’m being truthful; he seemed as if he was ignoring the war altogether in those moments. Within the days leading up to the war's end, Levi spiraled down to a deep despondency more and more with each mortar shell. Men who had been in the trench for months looked on as Levi fell victim within a few weeks. His sobs late in the night became rarer. He simply did not sleep. He came to my side the night before, smiling. At first, I had hoped that we might be able to get the Levi we once knew back to his former self. Levi put his hand on my face and began to whisper to me. He kept repeating to me that he had “finally heard” and that I needed to listen. Confused and still dazed from my sleep I told him to tell me in the morning. He wept to me while still smiling. “I’m going home, Beau.” These were the last words I spoke to Levi. On the morning of November 5th, we began to charge forward. I wish to not remember the sight of men being ripped apart by German artillery. We blindly ran forward ducking as if we knew when to dodge. It was useless looking back at it. Levi, myself, and the few men we had become acquaintances with over the weeks took cover in a large crater caving in on itself. As we lay there looking up at the sky as mortars passed over, Levi began to hum. The noise of our peers dying around us rang out louder than any sound I’d heard, but Levi, he just kept humming. He was cheerful and full of life. Eyes closed, he sat up and began to rise, putting himself in direct line of fire. Yet he slowly walked forward still humming his tune. It was a deep foreboding melody he repeated. The song pierced through gunfire and chaos and sunk deep into us like we had known this melody for our whole lives. With each step Levi took toward the top of the crater, his song rang out ever so slightly louder. Cutting below Levi’s hum was a deep rumbling like that of war drums. Could it be the tanks distorted from fear? Could it have been the beat of my own heart pounding in my head? I truly don’t know. I don’t want to know. Levi’s hum was now drowned out by that of a soft choir of trumpets playing the same melody he had been repeating as if a legion of angels were announcing the end times. I can only describe the horror that occupied no man’s land as inhuman. Deep in the fog of the German line faint movement was taking place above the ground. As Levi got closer to the edge of the crater, almost as if to join it, the figure made its appearance known. I do not know where the figure stopped and the sky began. Its arms outstretched displayed what could have been miles of darkness hanging from its limbs. My soul was filled with dread on a scale I’d never imagined. I can only assume the other men felt the same as they looked, stunned, in pure horror. A gunshot fired a meter away from me aimed not at someone else. As Levi crested the edge of the crater the trumpets roared, consuming our senses; a triumphant score for an incomprehensible abomination. He reached his hand out yearningly towards the sky. In only a moment, there was silence. The trumpets had subsided, the drums had ceased, and the roar of the battle around us had stood still. In the instant that the deafening noises came to a halt, Levi was gone. There was no fanfare, no goodbyes, nothing. He was gone; as if he was cut out of existence itself. I stared at the spot he had previously stood for an eternity. The sound of gunfire returned and I was dragged from the crater. I do not know what to make of this happening. The men who witnessed this have been silent as of writing this, as have I. Returning to camp to find solace has proved ineffective. Upon seeing the doctor I’ve been given the diagnosis of shell shock, but I know that to be wrong. I write this letter to you in hopes Levi’s memory will still subsist as any trace of him here has since gone missing. This will be my last correspondence.


In all of his years as a soldier Sergeant Myrnov had seen many dead bodies in his time. But never one such as the one he had the displeasure of staring at now. Before him his company commander, Captain Solinkov was absolutely sobbing next to a dead hooker on the bed while his XO, Lieutenant Artyom was beside him staring in disbelief. He had no idea what he was walking into, but sadly he was now here. After a moment Captain Solinkov rubbed his eyes “This isn’t how I wanted things to end, this isn’t how I wanted things to end at all”. As he spoke Lieutenant Artyom was already shutting the curtains and spoke to comfort his commander “no Sir we know you didn’t mean to its alright.. did anyone see you come in here?” Captain Solinkov just shook his head, unable to focus “no, no I don’t think so” he then stood up and began to pace the floor when Sergeant Myrnov spoke “I think we should inform the police, with your rank and connections Sir I’m sure everything would be fin-“ However Lieutenant Artyom cut him off before he could finish “That won’t be nesscary Sergeant, do me a favor and look down the hallway to make sure if anyone is there”. Sergeant Myrnov then sighed and creaked open the door to see the inside of an empty cheap hotel before discreetly closing the door and replying “the hallway is empty Sir”. Lieutenant Artyom then spoke as if he was the one wearing the double bars “now Sir we will take care of this whole thing for you.. But we’d better get our story straight. She died of a heart attack and there was nothing more that could be done, do you understand Sir?” Captain Solinkov nodded and began adjusting his uniform as he took a deep breath “Alright, she died of a heart attack and there was nothing more that could have been done.” Lieutenant Artyom then nodded “good.. now you go ahead Sir and get another room and we will sort this out.” The captain then nodded and took one last glance at the hooker before putting on his cap “it’s a damn shame, she was very nice you know. We spent the whole evening talking about my ex wife and our kids over some drinks.” Sergeant Myrnov then asked “What was her name Sir?” However Lieutenant Artyom answered for him “that doesn’t matter Sergeant” he said reminding him of his rank. The very dreadful reply reminded Captain Solinkov of their situation and he extended his hand to Lieutenant Artyom “you’re a good friend Pavel. Per usual I won’t forget this”. Lieutenant Artyom then said the same to the good captain. And with that Captain Solinkov gave a slight nod to Segerant Myrnov wishing him the same before he left. Lieutenant Artyom then got to work immediately, as if he had done this a hundred times before and rolled the frail woman’s body into a spare bedsheet from the closet and Sergeant Myrnov helped him carry her down the hallway and towards a cemetery when Lieutenant Artyom whispered “no, the river” They then went towards the local river and took every back alley they could to avoid crowds of drunken soldiers and annoyed townsfolk until they came to the river and Lieutenant Artyom was preparing to throw her in when Sergeant Myrnov stopped him. “Sir aren’t we going to say a few words for her?” Lieutenant Artyom answered him with a stare and they then quietly threw the poor girl into the river and began walking off back towards the hotel with an awkward silence coming over them. After walking a few blocks Sergeant Myrnov finally asked the question he had been thinking about for the past hour. “Sir, if you don’t mind me asking.. how have you remained your composure this entire time?” Lieutenant Artyom walked some time before he finally answered. “Because this isn’t the first time he’s done this”.


Ralph found a singularity growing in his backyard. It’s a hell of a thing to see, though you’re never really quite sure what you’re looking at. It started as sort of a purple flower, he says, that just grew up out of the ground one day in the middle of his pumpkin patch. His prize-winning pumpkin patch, he always reminds us, as if that’s a crucial aspect of the story. It started as a flower, and he considered pulling it out of the ground, like the weed it was, but following a strange compulsion connected to an odd dream he could barely remember having, he let the flower grow. Within a few days the centre of the flower had shed its petals and the stem, and risen up free from the ground. The rest of the flower just fell off and faded away during the night, and then at around noon the next day the centre began to spin until it seemed to become a small shimmering vessel of unexplainable energy, all about the size of a hen’s egg. Obviously it has something to do with the chemical runoff coming out of the particle fusion generators up the way. Ever since they installed those massive towers with their queer arrays of blinking lights, we’d been discovering a lot more strangely similar types of transgression against the fundamental laws of science. Nobody knows quite what the singularity is, but I’m told that’s the nature of a singularity, not being able to conceive of it past the point of, there it is. If you’re lucky, maybe you can point to it, like when you’re standing in Ralph’s back yard. Stand close enough, and you can hear the thing humming, just ever so faintly. Sometimes you suspect it might be a song. A song you might remember, from far away, and long ago, when you were a different person. Maybe a parent hummed it to you, back before you were born. Maybe you knew this song, before you even had a body and mind. There’s not much to be done with, or about, the singularity. Ralph says it probably lowered the resale value of his home, but Ralph’s always complaining about something. Still, there’s no arguing that the thing did mess up his pumpkin patch, prize-winning or otherwise. And it did something to that little Jenkins girl. Of course we don’t know what. But it did something to her. She was warned not to play with it, but you know how some kids are. It was like she couldn’t help herself. Like she was compelled. A bit like Ralph was when he let it grow. This little girl. She was near-about ten years old. Snuck into Ralph’s backyard in the middle of the night, and got to messing with the singularity. Nobody quite knows what she was doing with it, but the next day there were a whole bunch of weird figures that’d been written in the dirt, all over Ralph’s backyard. Like somebody was figuring out maths or something. The girl never admitted to making them herself, and if it was the singularity that did it, it’s the only time that’s been known to happen. But the Jenkins, they say their little girl’s been different, ever since that day. For one thing, her voice dropped about six octaves they say, and I must admit, though I’d never encountered the child before, she does have an awfully deep voice for such a whimsical-looking little kid. And then there were the stories. The little girl, the parents said, keeps telling these stories, ever since she spent the night with the singularity. Stories about another world, one that existed long before this universe had been birthed out of nothingness. Stories about people who existed before existence, and their dreams and nightmares. Like angels, or monsters, creeping the dark, the endless dark, before there were stars or space for them to spread throughout. Ralph says the little girl, and her weird voice, and her weird stories, have nothing to do with him and the floating void of nothingness and light and sound that seems to be spinning about in his backyard. I think he’s just worried her parents might try to sue him, and equally, he’s worried that people might start to worship the thing. That happened out at the Morrison place, when that strange icon fell from the stars, and a bunch of weirdos came in from out of town and moved onto the Morrison’s land so as to be closer to the thing. I saw the icon once and it didn’t impress me much, but eventually one day it disappeared and then all the followers freaked out and tore the Morrison’s place down to its foundations. So, it’s understandable that Ralph doesn’t want anything to do with a scene like that. He’s barely paid his place off, and of course now he’s on worker’s compensation, ever since he burnt off one of his testicles with a welding torch. He sure can’t afford to get himself into any more trouble. Still, the singularity is something of a marvel to look at. Due to his fears of cults and quacks, Ralph won’t even let any scientists inspect the thing, which I think is a real pity, since it’d be neat to know more about it. Maybe it could be useful for something, in some way. Like as a source of energy or something. Ultimately, I guess the thing will just have to stay a singularity. A mystery. Just one more thing in this damn town that makes you say, huh, I wonder what that thing there is.


Roe had been quite busy today. They had finals to study and homework to do, so getting distracted wasn't a risk worth taking. Their focus was entirely on the textbook that lay in front of them, all about arthropods and their role in the ecosystem. *Winged centipedes and spiders help pollinate our flowers, a role once considered to be the job of small insects before their evolution…* A sudden and loud CRASH noise quickly dragged Roe out of their studies. They turned immediately, their antennae standing straight up, to see… one of the most interesting sights that their eyes had ever witnessed. Maggot, their roommate, had quite literally burst through the door. A gaping hole had been made in the middle of it and one of its hinges had completely snapped. How it was still standing was a complete and total mystery to Roe. Maggot lay in front of the destroyed door. The housefly didn't seem *too* injured and was still conscious, but that wasn't really saying much. She was in a bit of a weird pose, with her arms and a single leg twisted behind her back. Roe shut their textbook and shoved it to the side before fluttering over to their roomie. "Hey, Maggot," they greeted. "Hey, Roe," she replied back. “... That hurt.” "No shit it hurt, you literally broke through our damn door. How did you even do that?” “Uh… running start. I didn’t mean to break it, I just meant to scare you. It’s April Fools’ Day, after all.” “And you just hurt yourself instead.” “I mean, a little, yeah. I'm good though, ain’t no need to worry about it, dude." "Sucks to be you, then, because you're not going to just sit there." Roe made a huff and fluttered their wings as they literally scooped Maggot right up into their arms and began carrying them away bridal-style. “Hey, wait! Where are we going?!” she abruptly squeaked out. “Prison.” “No wait wait wait WAIT-” \ “Well, is she gonna be okay?” Roe asked. The pigmy sand cricket doctor nodded. “Yes, she’s gonna be just fine, so long as she doesn’t somehow manage to put herself through another door.” They turned to Maggot, and lightly teased, “I still don’t know how you did that, by the way. Wood is typically very tough.” “I’m very strong!” Maggot chirped back, flexing all four of her arms and fluttering her wings. “I can do whatever I put my mind to, even if it’s putting myself through an inch-and-a-half door!” Roe huffed at the sight. “Well, you better not do it again, or else I’m going to tell the doctor to cut your lower set of arms off.” “WHAT?! Like uh, uh… Like Dr. Dahlia, Papuaepilachna guttatopustulata?” “No. Wrong historical figure. The one missing two arms is Monarch Midnight, Monomorium pharaonis. Our first ruler. You know… the person who killed the Conditores.” “Oh… whoops. I’m not good at this history thing.” “That’s fine. You’re lucky that I am.” With that, they passed some money over to the doctor. “Thank you, we’ll be taking our leave now, doctor.” “No problem!” the doctor chirped back as the two stood up, “Have a lovely day!” The two insects left the office and began to fly back to their house. Roe focused on the city around them, full of light-colored wood buildings and insects of all shapes and sizes. It wasn’t as big as their home, but they didn’t mind. The only thing that brought them back to reality was Maggot asking, “So… how much trouble am I in?” “None, if you pay for the replacement,” Roe replied with a flick of their antennae. “But if you don’t, you’re in a lot of it." “Yeah, that’s fair. I’ll pay for it, don’t worry. The concert a couple of weeks ago went well enough.” “Good. Don’t break the damn door again.