“Okay, Wizz, do you want to tell them the surprise? Or shall I?” “You always have such a flair for the dramatic, Paul. You go right on ahead.” “Always such a gentleman. Folks, last time you heard us, we were testing out some magical new coffee drinks. Well, you won’t believe where we are this fine morning. After spending endless amounts of money––” “––none from our sponsors or our fans, of course––” “––and lots of last-minute planning––completely legal and ethical, of course––we managed to scrape up two rocket tickets to…hold your breaths… Pl ––” “–– Planet Astrid !” “You have got to be kidding me. You absolute dipshit.” “Sorry. Couldn’t resist.” “Bloody hell. Screw you.” “That’s right, folks! We’re touring the grand opening of Planet Astrid at the main port city, Golden Kingdom. We’re at the legendary farmer’s market to share with our listeners some of the extraterrestrial goodies you can be sure to find on your own visit!” “And let me just say––this shit is whack , ya’ll.” “Truly bizarre. Granted, I might be…um…” “Tripping balls, Wizz? I believe that’s the phrase you’re looking for, right?” “I may have just tried a few extraterrestrial mushrooms, yeah. That’s what Paul meant to say, folks. But he’s sober. So, ya know––we’re responsible. Sort of. Maybe. Yeah. Obviously.” “What were they called again?” “Mushrooms, I think?” “Wizz, you just said that. I meant, what were the mushrooms called? So our listeners know what to buy––er, what to avoid?” “Said what?” “Mushrooms, Wizz. Focus.” “What about them?” “Jesus, dipshit. You’re hangin’ on by a thread, aren’t ya?” “You know what’s weird, Paul? Mushrooms. It doesn’t make any sense. Think about it. Mush. Rooms. Are rooms mushy? Or is it for those sled dogs? Mush? Get it? Mush. Mush. What a weird fucking word, man. What does one do in mush rooms? Can you sleep in them? Are there windows? A bed?” “Mate, we’re live on the air. You gotta focus. For the fans, Wizz. For the fans.” “Haha. Hahahaha. Mush in the rooms. Rooms of mush. Mushrooms.” “Folks, I’m dreadfully sorry about this. I’m just going to get some water for Wizz here. There we are; right over here, buddy, just at this stall. That’s it. Here’s a cup––thanks, sir. Ladies and gents, a nice young man stationed at this very awesome beverage stall just offered us this here cup of water, which I’m now pouring straight down Wizz’s hatch until he swallows the last drop. That sounded dirtier than I intended, but ya’ll can pick up what I’m putting down. Yup. There it is. Better, pal? “Paul?” “Yeah?” “I don’t think that was water.” "Huh." "Hmm." "Yeah." "Yup." “ Dammit . Well, folks, this is just a travesty. I’ve been informed by that young asshole––er, gentleman––at the beverage stall that this bloody drink is actually a type of hallucinogenic liquid found in the hybrid swamp-desert regions of this planet. They call it…well, they call it Delirium. So, while this is very unfortunate for Wizz, this is absolutely hilarious for me.” “Delirium? So, you mean on top of tripping actual planetary balls I’m also gonna be hallucinating ? Are you fucking kidding me?” “Wizz, I’m truly sorry, my friend––” “That is fucking awesome !” “Huh. Well, folks, that’s certainly a different response than I expected. So, thus far, Wizz has tried some extraterrestrial mushrooms and some hallucinogenic liquid. This trip is proving to be…out of this world. Right? Right, Wizz? Get it?” “ Stop. That’s…that’s just so…so…funny…I’m crying, Paul…stop…” “Um, folks? Wizz is on the ground. Give ‘im a minute to catch his breath. And his life. He might actually die. You look a little purple there, bud––” “ What in the actual fresh hell is that ?” “Uh, folks, Wizz is now pointing maniacally at something behind me. Can’t see anything. Guess that’s the Delirium talking. This is going to be a very long day. Wizz, can you stop––people are staring at us, Wizz––” “Paul! It’s behind you ! Look––” “Wizz, buddy, you’re tripping. And hallucinating. Nothing’s there, man. I’m serious.” “Paul, get down! Get down ! You’re not gonna make it––” “Alright, folks, I’m now heading to a medical tent and dragging Wizz here behind me because he honestly doesn’t seem like he’s in the best shape. Ah. There’s one. Just a few more steps, buddy. There we go. Hello? Yes? My friend needs some…yeah. Whatever that is. I'm just going to pray that it's not something else that will fuck him up, but at this point, anything goes. Wizz, just take the goddamn fluids. Okay, folks. There he goes. Looks like an IV drip but at this point, who actually knows. He’s starting to…yup, he’s starting to come around––” “You know what feels like actual shit, Paul?” “What?” “Me. Me, Paul. I feel like actual horse shit.” “Well, you did take some alien shrooms and some alien plants. Sounds like that’ll do it to ya.” “Hey, folks, don’t worry––I’m alive. I think. Although I wouldn’t mind being dead after this goddamn headache. But after all of that, I just want to say: you gotta try this shit, ya’ll.” “Wizz, do you really think that’s the advice that we need to be giving to our listeners here?” “Kids gotta start young.” “Folks, please ignore Wizz; I think he’s still tripping.” “What’s next on the list? We’ve gotta try out some other stalls, Paul.” “Um. No.” “Come on, buddy. Let’s go.” “Wizz, with your luck––and mine, honestly––whatever we find at the next stall will literally kill you.” “That cut deep. And yet, I still can’t blame you. Come on; let’s go!” “Buddy, you’re still hooked up––oh, geez, I’m sorry ma’am, my friend is not––Wizz, sit back down––folks, looks like he’s fully out of the medical tent now against medical advice, which kind of seems like a legal problem that I should look into, but I just don’t really care––” “Paul! Over here! Looks like I found some pills that do something!" "Goddammit. Folks, looks like I'll be signing out early. Wizz just swallowed some alien pills and is now trying to eat his own hands. Until next time."


‘Is that the one that took mommy?’

Eszti nodded as she looked up. The sky carried the orange glow of dawn. ‘Yes, that’s what dad said.’

‘It doesn’t look that dangerous at all,’ Dani whispered as he peeked at the tree that stood between patches of yellow grass, its roots surrounded by beer cans, cigarette buts, and empty crisp bags.

‘Then why don’t you go there alone? I can wait here.’ Eszti lifted her eyebrow as she looked at her little brother. Something she had seen her mother do long ago when she called them out on their lies. ‘No, you must go as well. You always act like the big one, but you’re just afraid. A stupid girl who can only clean, choose clothes and make things look pretty. You can’t do any of the real important stuff.’ Dani wiped his nose with his sleeve. ‘I’m just trying to help out daddy.’ ‘No, you are just being nice to him so he won’t get angry because of all your bad grades.’ Eszti took a few deep breaths and play punched him on his shoulder.

‘Okay, I will help you, but you will have to carry the bag. It’s heavy. I don’t like carrying heavy stuff.’ Dani kneeled down and pushed his sister down as well.

‘We must be careful not to wake her up. If she sees you, she remembers you. She always does. And when she remembers you, she knows where to find you.’ Eszti took a good look at the tree. Its branches stretched out far apart, like every single one of them was a skeleton finger that lured innocent people from all directions. The trunk had black marks on it, as if people had tried to burn it. ‘Stop making up things, it’s just a tree,’ Eszti said as she reluctantly followed Dani who was already tiptoeing across the field, dragging the bag behind him. ‘It’s true. I saw her when mommy was sleeping all the time. I heard her footsteps outside their bedroom and her fingers screech over my window. When I looked through the crack between my curtains, I saw her standing there. She looked right inside. She had dark, red eyes and a hole in her stomach. That’s where she puts the children she steals, you know. I was lucky I could hide under the bed before she saw me.’ Eszti took a few steps and inspected the tree from all sides. A breeze was playing with the shiny crisp bags, making them tumble over the dried-out soil. She noticed a circle of rocks with charred blocks of wood in the middle. A cloud of ash twirled into the air. ‘Look,’ Dani called.

She walked over. He was pointing at one of the branches.

‘There’s a robe there and it’s torn. That proves what I said. Somebody tried to tie her up so she wouldn’t be able to go out at night, but she just tore it apart and went anyway.’ He jumped and stretched his arm all the way up to touch the remains of the frayed rope. ‘I can’t reach it, it’s too high. Can you try it?’ Eszti shook her head and swallowed while staring at the branch. ‘I think it’s better to leave it alone,’ she said as she wandered closer. She found a tree hollow and put her hand inside.

‘Don’t do that! That’s where she puts the children she takes. She will pull you inside!’ Dani looked at her from a distance. His little fist clenching around the bag. ‘Now you have to stop being silly,’ Eszti said. ‘It’s true! An old lady whose children died was buried here. After she died, her ghost started to take mommies and steal their children. Tomi told me and his father is a policeman so he knows everything.’ Eszti turned around, smiled at him, and put her arm around his shoulder.

‘It’s a good thing we are early then. We still have all day until she wakes up and starts to hunt.’ Eszti remembered the final months. ‘Can you put Dani to bed? Maybe read him a story?’ She had looked up from her schoolbooks.

‘Can’t someone else do it? Every time it’s me and he never wants to go. I always have to read him a hundred stories before he finally goes to sleep.’ Her father walked into the kitchen and leaned against the doorpost. His glasses on his forehead, his tie loosened. He rubbed his eyes. ‘You know I have to work Eszti.’ ‘How about mommy. She never does it anymore. All she does is sleep. Everyday! Nobody else is allowed to sleep that much. She does nothing around here!’ ‘Come, sit next to me on.’ Her father tapped on the seat next to him. He wrapped his arm around her and kissed her forehead.

‘You know why mommy is sleeping all the time, right?’ Eszti nodded. ‘Because she is very, super tired.’ Her father nodded. ‘Yes, but she is so tired for a reason. Sometimes when people are very sad, a big, black tree starts to grow in their stomach. When there’s enough sadness, it just grows and grows until the branches reach up to inside their heads where they catch all their happy thoughts. That’s when people forget all the nice things and become very tired. That’s what’s happening to mommy. The pills she takes are like tiny little people that try to cut the branches, so the happy thoughts can be released.’ Eszti curled up further into his lap and looked up at him. ‘But what happens if the little men can’t cut the branches?’ Her father closed his eyes and took a deep breath. ‘I don’t know Eszti. I really don't know.’ She had been the only child at the funeral. ‘It’s best if we leave Dani at grandma’s. You know how his mind plays tricks on him when he sees things he can’t understand.’ As she looked into the coffin, she was not scared at all. Her mother looked pretty, better than she did when she was always sleeping. She wore a colorful dress, red lipstick and she even seemed to be smiling a bit. The only thing that startled Eszti was the weird bulge in her neck.

‘So…?’ Dani said as he wiped his nose and looked at the bag between them. ‘Yes, yes. You are right. Let’s do this.’ They squatted next to each other as Eszti undid the zipper to release the ax. The blade was covered in brown spots, the handle full of splinters. ‘You do it. You are the big, strong man. I’m just a dumb girl who can only clean stuff.’ Dani stood up straight and broadened his shoulders. ‘Yes, it’s better if I do it.’ Eszti smiled and stroked his hair. She followed the trail the ax was leaving as Dani dragged it through the dirt.

‘Do you think mommy would have left if the tree wouldn’t have taken her?’ Dani asked as he looked up. ‘Well, she was sleepy all the time.’ ‘Maybe the tree also did that to her.’ Eszti laid her hand gently on his shoulder. ‘Yes, probably.’ She shivered as the blade hit the wood and a loud crack sounded through the trunk and branches.


It was past noon, and the dogs of Beechham were barking fit to burst. Dorian Smith stopped his work on the broken chain. Wiping his hands on a stained and sooty old rag, he left the heat and smoke of the smithy and strode out into the street, taking in a great breath of clean air as he did so.

In the middle of the dirt track that ran through the town and away into the wider world, a man was fending off the more aggressive of the village dogs with a wooden staff as children watched and clamored in excitement. Unlike most who were bothered by the dogs, he wasn’t striking out at them, but was merely blocking them and shouting stern rebukes. He held his ground, feet planted, seemingly unafraid. Dorian watched a few moments more, arms crossed, measuring the stranger. The stranger was of middling height, not as tall as Dorian himself, nor yet as short as the shortest of the townsmen. The stranger’s long, dark hooded cloak was stained and briar-torn. On his back, a small pack, a bow, and a quiver of arrows jostled for space. Dorian eyed the long knife that swung on the stranger’s belt, and concluded that the weapons were for hunting and bushcraft, not robbing. The smith shouted at the dogs to be still.

“My thanks, master smith,” the stranger said, eyes flicking warily back and forth from Dorian to the dogs slinking with their tails between their legs.

The brawny smith stepped forward to meet the man with his hand extended, shooing the dogs farther away as he did so. “Greetings, stranger.”

The stranger planted his staff with his left hand and grasped Dorian’s hand with his right, looking him in the eyes and smiling as he did so.

“These worthy dogs,” the man said, gesturing with his staff, “have given me a similarly worthy welcome, have they not?” His brown eyes were glinting with a mirth and cheer which Dorian didn’t understand.

“So they do to all,” the smith replied, taking a step back. “It is well to be alerted to the approach of strangers. One knows not what their business might be, and whether it be honest.” The stranger laughed again. “And so the good smith is wondering what my business is, and whether it is honest, and perhaps he is ready to set the dogs on me again if he does not like my answer.”

Baffled, Dorian tried to find a truth other than the one the stranger had just put forth so bluntly, but could think of nothing else truthful. Finally, he nodded.

“I am a traveler,” the man said, sobering somewhat. “I am sore weary from journeying on the road, and I am seeking shelter and rest for a time. This looks a pleasant place to stop.” He waved his hand in a gesture that encompassed the entire village and surrounding farmlands.

Dorian crossed his arms again. “Folks here have little to spare. You’re unlikely to find a bed or food unless you can compensate.” It was an opinion of the town that no one here was well-off enough to simply give anything away. It was another opinion of the town that outsiders should not be allowed to take away from the town without giving something back; whether they gave back in good, coin, or service was their own business. “Perhaps someone will allow me the use of a shed or stable,” the stranger shrugged. “Other travelers relieved me of all my coin before I came here.”

The fire in the smithy must be tended soon, Dorian knew, else it would lose its strength, and he would lose time stoking it when he could have been working. “I have my work to attend,” he told the stranger. “If you will lend me a hand, I can repay you.” The smith turned and reentered the close, hot air of his smithy, laid hands on the bellows, and pumped them. Air rushed, the fire flared, and he took up tongs to move the broken chain into the flames.

The bellows wheezed slightly, and Dorian looked up to see the stranger grasping the handles and watching him. He gave a grunt of acknowledgement and began shaping a new link for the broken chain, nodding as he wanted another contribution from the leathern bellows. “I am Dorian,” he informed the stranger. “My name is Phillip,” the man replied, the fire shining in his dark eyes.

The next morning after they had breakfasted, Phillip accompanied Dorian back into the smithy, where the traveler had spent the night. Dorian gave him a coin, and said, "If you will take this chain to the house you see there—" he pointed—"I would appreciate it." "Gladly," Phillip replied, and shouldered the tools. Dorian began to stoke the sunken fire. Some time later, Dorian came out again when he heard a cry outside in the street. He saw Phillip kneeling and speaking to some children. From the moment he had appeared, they had been fascinated with him, following the stranger about and watching him. Children in Beechham were known round about as scamps, and it was rumored that they would take what they could when grown folk weren’t looking.

“Now, I saw you take it,” Phillip was saying as Dorian approached. “Shouldn’t you give it back to her?”

Thomas, a friend of Dorian’s son, had his hand thrust deep into his pocket, and was shaking his head. A little girl who looked close to tears was standing near.

“I didn’t take it,” Thomas said, “she gave it me.” "But did she mean for you to keep it? I thought you asked to see it." "Be still, stranger!" Dorian's son John stepped between his friend and Phillip and squared himself, glaring the grown man in the face. "What we do is none of your business. Come, Thomas!" The two boys ran off, and Phillip got to his feet. Dorian's face was redder than when he was at work in the smithy. Phillip turned, saw him, and smiled sadly. "What happened?" Dorian asked. "A little copper whistle has apparently changed hands," Phillip replied. "If John—" the smith started. Phillip held up a hand. "It was not John who took it,” he said quietly. "He only defended Thomas. I suppose it's what he's heard his elders do." Phillip turned to the teary-eyed little girl. "It was only a whistle," he said softly, "and because you've lost it, you can have—" he reached into his pocket—"this." He held out a coin. The one Dorian had given him not an hour ago. The little girl snatched the gift and scampered away. Dorian decided he needed to have a word with his son. “My thanks, Phillip,” he said quietly. Phillip nodded. “The forge needs tending, I suppose; I can do so, if you wish.” Dorian gave his consent, and started after John. Phillip was patiently working the bellows and adding wood to the fire when Dorian finally returned. Days passed. Once it was seen that Phillip was more than willing to do a work before receiving any return, more work was given him, though his reward was always pitifully small. For a general rule of the town was that unless more was demanded, less was usually given. But Phillip seemed content with that less. He was alway lending a hand before he was asked, and smiling as he did so.

One man never warmed up to him, though. “The last time a stranger came into this town, I lost my horse,” said Roland the trapper. No one bothered trying to convince him that it was his own fault, leaving his horse loose outside that night and being too drunk to remember to stable it. It had been gone ere sunrise, and he blamed the traveler who had passed through the week before as a thief. Roland insisted, “No good can come of strangers.” And so he watched Phillip, and jeered at him if he happened to pass him in the street, and his tobacco juice aimed at the ground landed close enough to splatter on the strangers’ boots. The day Phillip carried some mended kitchen utensils out to the shack in the woods, the man had come out of the shack ordering the wanderer off his property. Upon displaying the things Dorian had sent him with and telling who had sent him, Roland still didn’t believe him for some time. When he was finally convinced, he sneered at Phillip as he walked away. Dorian’s wife shook him awake in the night. “Listen! Something’s happening.” Faint shouts reached the smith’s ears, a single discernable word repeated over and over. He hurled himself out of bed. “Something is burning,” Dorian said as he ran.

Outside in the street, the cry of “Fire!” pounded in Dorian’s ears. At the well, he found a single man hauling up the bucket, and he joined in. “Whose house is it?” he asked as pulled the rope up hand over hand.

“Roland’s.” At the shack set in the woods, many people, men and women, were throwing the contents of every bucket the village could find into the blaze. Smoke choked the air and quickly teared Dorian’s eyes. “Here now—what do you think you’re doing?”

Squinting against the glare of the flames, Dorian turned to see one figure swinging crazily at another with a bucket, silhouetted by the burning house. Others were backing away. The defendant grabbed at the bucket as he dodged. Dorian rushed towards the fray, and recognized Phillip and Roland just in time to watch the trapper strike Phillip in the face with a clenched fist.

Phillip staggered back, hand to his nose. When he took it away, Dorian saw something dark on Phillip’s face and hand.

Then Roland came after him again. “Filthy stranger! Get off my property!”

“Stop!” Dorian stepped between the two. “Can you not see he is trying to help?”

“It’s my property,” Roland said with a curse, “and he’ll get off if I say so!” With that, Roland swung his bucket at Phillip again. Dorian intercepted it, and the trapper’s face contorted in rage. He cursed again, pulled a knife from the sheathe on his belt, and went after Dorian. “Taking up with strangers—now see what’s come to you!”

A dark shape lurched in front of Dorian. He was shocked; Roland was most likely drunk, and no one dared tangle with him when he was in a mood like this.

Roland clutched the interfer’s shirt and lifted the knife high.

Dorian grabbed for the knife.

Roland plunged the weapon toward Dorian.

Something slammed into Roland, throwing him off his feet. He went down screaming, and after a moment of writhing and wrestling, the dark mass pulled away, separating into several men of the town. One held the knife.

“Treacherous knaves, all of you!” Roland howled, scrambling to his feet.

“If he doesn’t want the help that’s given him,” someone said, “we might as well leave.” “I shall help,” Phillip said, “whether he thinks he wants it or not. He is not in his right mind.”

There was sullen muttering through the crowd, but finally everyone went to work once more. Phillip went at it hardest, with Dorian behind him. In the end, the fire was quenched, though the overpowering smell of wood smoke, stronger than from a normal fire, lingered in the early morning and followed the tired villagers home.

Late in the morning, after the sun had risen, smoke was still lingering in the air when Dorian rose to stoke the forge fire. A shadow fell into the smithy as he worked, and he looked up. Phillip stood in the road, clad in his cloak, staff in hand, pack, bow, and quiver on his back. He looked the same as the first day he’d come into town. “Farewell, Dorian. I am continuing my travels now.”

Dorian wanted to protest, but judging Phillip’s bearing and the look on his face, it would be futile. Instead, Dorian stepped forward and held his hand out. Phillip grasped it.

“Farewell, friend,” Dorian said.

Phillip smiled. “Friend? Not stranger?” “No. You are no longer a stranger.” Phillip smiled again, and set off down the road. The children followed him to the edge of town, and stood calling goodbye to him as he grew more and more distant.


Jacob I lift the heavy brass knocker and announce my presence three times, rat tat tat , then step back to wait, my mind alternating between the theme for my sermon tomorrow evening and the glass of sherry which sits undrunk on the little table next to my armchair. A man of God stands in the service of his parishioners and it is his duty and pleasure to serve, I remind myself, so I push back against my feelings of irritation about being called out at such a late hour, and focus instead on what on earth could have caused Sir Charles to call me in such an agitated state. I’m about to knock again when the door opens a crack, and I see the bespectacled face of his manservant Davies peer around the edge. His eyes appear wide with consternation, but then his face relaxes and he opens the door wider. “Hallo Father, thank you for coming at such a late hour,” he says as he ushers me into the hallway. He fumbles with my coat, trying to take it from me with one hand, and I notice that he’s trying to hide a poker iron behind his back with the other. “Expecting trouble, Davies?” I ask, raising my eyebrows. He catches my glance, then gives up trying to hide the poker, setting it down on the sideboard so he can take my coat properly. “No sir,” he mumbles, then adds “just acting cautious like. You’ll find the master in his study. I thank the man and set off up the hallway. Knocking once on the study door and receiving a gruff bark for reply, I enter the room. Sir Charles is seated at his desk, and I can see at a glance that something is wrong. He face has a sheen of sweat that could be attributed to the stickiness of the room, but his eyes are wild and his expression is that of a hunted deer. I stride over and take him by the shoulders. “Sir Charles, what’s the matter man?” “Father, thank goodness you’ve come!” he cries. My touch seems to compose him slightly, and he motions to an armchair across from his desk. As I sit down, he speaks again. “Forgive me father, but I think my life is in peril.” His voice becomes steadier as he narrates his story. “It started last month. I received a threatening letter - ” here he breaks off and shows me the note, and I raise my eyebrows in surprise as I see it. It’s one of those classic types where every word is cut out of a newspaper and stuck together. I honestly thought they only turned up in crime stories like Father Brown Investigates. I read the note. “ Hand over the necklace or you’ll regret the consequences.” Hardly original and not very explicit, but I know which necklace it refers to, and I look up sharply. “Yes,” he sighs, “the necklace of my dear Lily.” And my sister . My guts twist when I hear her name, and my pulse starts race to as I think back to the tragic accident, the fall down the stairs... “Of course it’s worth an absolute fortune, but I wouldn’t dream of parting with it” he continues, oblivious to my reaction. “This was postmarked in London, and there were others too, ever more threatening, until this one arrived this morning.” He shows me a note with the single word Tonight . “This was found on the doormat, hand delivered!” He looks up now, visibly shaken. “Father, I called you seeking advice – what should I do?” I consider the situation carefully, then get up and go to the window. I release the latch and throw open the window, letting in the cool night air, and straight away the cloying humidity leaves the room. I start slightly as I catch the silhouette of a man skulking in the shadows along the path outside the garden perimeter. Then it is gone, and I am left wondering if I imagined it. “My dear Charles,” I say in my confessional voice. “What could possibly happen to you in your own home? It’s like a fortress here, and I am sure Davis will let no-one in. It’s late, and I suggest you go straight to bed. Perhaps the good doctor has given you some sleeping tablets...?” He nods, so I continue. “Come, up and off to bed with you. Take those tablets to get a good nights sleep, and in the morning you’ll see that the worry was all for nothing.” He dithers, then acquiesces, and I lead him out of the room. We encounter Davis in the hallway, and Sir Charles bids us both goodnight before trudging up the staircase. “One moment” I tell Davis, and return to the study to close and bolt the window. I collect my coat, and giving Davis stern instructions to let no-one else in this evening, I bid my farewell and make my way home to that well deserved glass of sherry. *** Stephenson I hurry along the dark track, taking care though not to stumble in the ruts and pot-holes which litter the road. I’m exhausted, having walked the last seven miles from the neighbouring village to set a particularly nasty bone-break from a riding accident. My doctors bag swings heavily at my side. I curse loudly as my foot finds a deep rut hidden in the shadows, and it takes all my training to avoid twisting my ankle. My stomach rumbles as I think of the steak and kidney pie my landlady is making tonight, and hope that there’s still some left for me when I get home. A brief flash of light catches my eye as I pass the manor house, and looking up I glimpse the silhouette of a man against an open window, before the view is swallowed up again by the darkness and the trees. I creep back into the guest house late, letting myself in quietly so I don’t disturb the other occupants. I needn’t have worried though, as a deathly quiet hangs over the house. I breathe silent thanks to Mrs Harris as I see the piece of pie waiting for me on the kitchen table. She knows that my work can be often gruelling, and she treats me like the son she always wanted. I’ll wash up in the morning – if I run hot water now there’s a danger I’ll wake people up. I take off my boots by the front door, and tread cat-like up the staircase, keeping to the sides to avoid the squeaky stair. Despite my heavy build I can move stealthily, an ability which earnt me the nickname Panther in my army days. I grin savagely, thinking of those long-gone times, before I crash fully dressed into the small bed and fall fast asleep. The rat tat tat of machine gun fire jerks me awake, before my brain clicks into place and I realize it’s Mrs Harris knocking sharply on the bedroom door. “Doctor Stephenson, you’re needed at the manor house, you must come quickly!” she shouts through the door. My mind registers that it’s early, the first pale light is filtering through the window. I ruffle my short-cropped hair and grab my kit bag, then take the stairs two at a time before wrenching open the front door with the briefest of hellos to Mrs Harris. The journey to the manor house seems to take far less time than it did last night, and I can see there’s a crowd already gathered there. A young policeman, Nick I think his name is, waves me over. Pushing through the crowd, I stop short when I see the body sprawled on the stone pathway. Sir Charles is dressed in his night gown, but his limbs are twisted grotesquely from his obvious fall from the third story window. His head is caved in from the impact with the pavement, and a stream of blood has pooled into the nearby grass. His wrist is cold to the touch as I search routinely for any sign of a pulse. “You don’t need a doctor here,” I say to the policeman as I stand up, “you need a priest.” *** Rigsby “Who found the body?” I ask the young policeman, as I observe the lifeless figure with detached interest. It’s too damn early, and I would kill for a second cup of coffee. “The housemaid sir,” he replies, checking his notes. I nod with approval at his orderly fashion. “Found him at six this morning when she came to start work. She thought it odd, apparently, that the Major’s window was open, before she noticed the body.” “Very good, I’ll need to speak to her then,” I reply, “and I’ll need to speak to all members of the household, including any guests which were there yesterday.” I peer up at the open window. It’s a long drop, and my first thought is suicide, but then I push that to one side. Never assume , I tell myself. I need to collect more facts, as I can’t for the life of me see why a chap should hurl himself out of his bedroom window. The doctor is a bear of a fellow, almost certainly ex-army, and I go over to him now. “Time of death?” I shoot at him, and he pauses to consider before answering. “Rigor mortis has set in, and is almost complete, which puts the time of death to between six and eight hours ago.” He was found at six, which would make the time of death between ten and midnight, but instinctively I think it’s more towards midnight. I look around the grounds. The manor is surrounded by a large garden with plenty of old trees which would obscure the view partially from the street. Even so, people don’t throw themselves out of bedroom windows at ten in the evening without anyone noticing. I interrogate Davis the manservant next, a shrunken little man sitting in a crumpled heap on a chair in the corridor. “It was just myself and the master last night sir,” he says in answer to my question. “The housemaid goes home at eight, and there’s no other staff in the house. Oh, but the vicar did come round late last night, scared the life out of me he did, knocking on the door so late in the evening.” Interesting – a vicar speaks to a man a few short hours before his death. “I’ll have to speak to this vicar then,” I say aloud. “Where can I find him?” “Why, that’s him there sir, just arriving now.” I turn round to see a thin, smartly dressed man arriving on a bicycle. He parks his bike and says a few words to the doctor, before hurrying over to the house. He expresses his shock and condolence to Davis, before appearing to register my presence for the first time. “Inspector Rigsby,” I say, tipping my hat. “I understand you saw the deceased yesterday evening.” “Yes sir, and my, he had a strange tale to tell. He was being threatened, you know, had been receiving notes. The last one simply said Tonight , and fair shook him up. I didn’t take it seriously, really, but now I wish I had, poor fellow. He was my brother-in-law, after all. Seems they were after the necklace.” “Necklace?” I say. This case is getting stranger by the minute. I make a note to check this up later, and ask Davis whether anything else strange has happened recently. Something doesn’t add up here; I need to dig deeper. “Well sir,” he says, wringing his hands, “there was the visit from the son, yesterday. I don’t like to pry sir, and they were in the study so I didn’t hear much, but they were shouting so loud that I did here a few words here and there.” He pauses, so I nod encouragement for him to continue. “I got the impression that the son was angry about his inheritance, he was shouting about the will. But I didn’t hear anymore sir, and then the son stormed off in such a rage, sir, it made me quite scared.” I groan to myself - of course I’ll have to check the will. I make a note to investigate both the son and the will. I’m about to question the old man further when the vicar interjects. “So that’s why you were so nervous about opening the door last night!” he exclaims. “I thought that was very odd. Oh my! When I opened the window last night, I’m sure I saw someone skulking in the shadows! Could that have been him? I’m jolly glad I told you not to let anyone else in last night.” He stopped short, seeming to deflate, and cast his eyes to the ground. “Not that that advice helped poor Sir Charles.” If people are talking, I always find it’s best to let them carry on. Out of the corner of my eye though I notice that the doctor is nearby, close enough to be eavesdropping on our conversation. Davies carries on. “Aye, you did sir, and I made sure the door was locked, as I always do. Oh!” his eyes widen, “when the girl bashed on the door this morning, I opened it up straight away without unlocking it. What with all that’s been going on, I didn’t notice that until just now.” So there was someone else in the house last night! This changes things completely. “Who else has a key to the house?” I ask Davis. “Only myself and Sir Charles, sir. Of course, the son might also have a key, but no-one else, sir.” The son again. I signal the young policeman to come over, and ask to look into the whereabouts of the son. He must be staying somewhere nearby. I turn again to Davis. “I think you’d better check to make sure that necklace is still in its place, Davis. In the meantime, I’m going to have a look upstairs.” On Davis’ instructions I head up to the third floor, and turn right into the corridor. The door to Sir Charles’ bedroom is closed, so I turn the knob carefully, making sure not to disturb any fingerprints. The window is wide open, the curtains drawn back on either side. The bed has been slept in, but there’s no obvious sign of any struggle, and all the furniture seems to be in it’s place. Could Sir Charles really have taken his own life by throwing himself out of the window? If so, why? I stay in the room for a while contemplating the scene, but nothing comes to mind. The forensics guys will be swarming over the room looking for fingerprints, but I suspect they won’t find much. When I get downstairs Davis looks agitated, and it’s with no great surprise that I hear that the necklace has disappeared. The young policeman returns shortly to inform me that the son checked out of his hotel this morning, and no-one knows his whereabouts. So the son did a runner with the necklace. I catch myself again. Never assume . How does this fit in with the strange death of Sir Charles, the unlocked door, the figure in the shadows and the mysterious notes? An idea is starting to form in my mind, but it seems quite fantastical. It couldn’t possibly be the truth, could it? *** Jacob I take a sip from the small glass of sherry I’m twirling between two fingers in my right hand and lean back in my favourite armchair, savouring the wave of contentment that washes over me. I raise my glass to the good doctor sitting across from me. “Well cousin, did you get it?” In reply he pulls out the pearl necklace from his inside pocket, letting it run through his fingers, and my smile grows wider. “I can’t believe the luck we had with his son - fancy him turning up like that, like it was predestined. That should throw the inspector right off the scent! Davis didn’t half give me a shock though, when he opened the door brandishing that poker.” I chuckle thinking about it. “But now our dear Lily is revenged, and the score is settled.” “He should have hung in the first place!” Stephenson growls, his jaw clenching. The dear boy was always so very loyal. “Yes, well, we both know what really happened, but sadly there was no evidence. But now, tell me how it went,” I say, changing the subject. “Did you have to hide long after I let you in through the window?” He shakes his head. “I hid for an hour or so, but the old guy didn’t even bother to check the room. It was easy enough to sneak up to his room, you know how well I can do that.” I detect the professional pride in his voice. “The old guy was out cold - he must have taken two tablets and that was pretty strong stuff. I don’t think he even woke up. He fairly flew out of that window. And don’t worry, I made sure I wore gloves” he says, catching my look. I snigger when I think of the nights I spent cutting out those notes. In the end they probably weren’t so believable, but they might just tip the balance in favour of suicide. “It’s a shame you had to unlock the front door to get out – we should have planned that a bit better,” I say with slight regret. “Still, the inspector’s chasing after the son now, so all’s well that ends well.” I lean back in the chair and close my eyes. I still have to prepare my sermon tonight, and Hebrews 8:12 should fit the bill nicely. For I will forgive their wickedness, and will remember their sins no more.


I probably wouldn’t have noticed it if it weren’t for the neon-yellow slip flapping against the wind. The sky was booming, and my hands were beginning to cramp from the bags of groceries I was carrying. I had to get my groceries in before the clouds began to weep.

Still, I dropped one hand’s worth of groceries on the ground and picked up the note, which was slipped onto the split ring of a penguin keychain. The keychain was sitting in front of a rather worn-out looking house. Before I could examine any longer, a gust of wind threw my hair ablaze. As it howled an ominous warning of the storm to come, I chucked the keychain into one of my grocery bags, then hurried the rest of the way home. *** Luckily, I didn’t get too wet. The rain was now in full session, pattering softly against my window. After shuffling away my groceries, I made myself comfortable on the couch with a bowl of popcorn and the TV remote. I was about to play a movie when, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the bright yellow note and keychain sitting on my kitchen counter. I tried to ignore it- I was feeling so cozy on the sofa- but something kept tugging my attention towards it.

“Ugh!” I groaned as I picked myself up and grabbed the keychain, then sat back down. The keychain featured a crocheted stuffed penguin, about half the size of my palm with beady little eyes and gray and white yarn for fur. It seemed to be in fairly good condition. Why would someone give this away?

“You’re quite cute…I wonder if you have a name,” I pondered aloud. “Mister Penguin.”

I froze. I know that did not come out of my mouth, because it came from a deeper voice. Was I hallucinating- “A kind woman gave me that name. She-AGHHHHH!” When the voice spoke again, I yelped and tossed the keychain into the air by reflex. As the scream traveled in the direction the keychain was falling, I realized that this unfamiliar voice was coming from the crocheted penguin.

“What is wrong with you, lady? Are you crazy?” The stuffed penguin squawked. As if that wasn’t already terrifying enough, it started to helplessly wiggle, trying to get into an upright position.

I screamed. It screamed. I screamed again. *** After hushing it (it had somehow managed to scream louder than me) in fear of alarming my neighbors, we both agreed not to scream at each other anymore (or toss anyone into the air again, for that matter).

“Okay, so let me get this straight: you’re a talking stuffed penguin on a keychain.”

“Yes.” I opened my mouth, but no words came out.

“You’re only going to make yourself crazy trying to make sense of it. Why bother?”

For the sake of my sanity, I decided to no longer bother. “So you said your name was Mister Penguin?” I asked, remembering what it had said right before it sent me into a plight of terror.

“Yes. That’s the name she gave me.”

“Who’s ‘she’?”

“My human. The one who took care of me. I have to find her,” Mister Penguin said. Even though his eyes were made of beads, I felt as though I could see a glint of determination in them.

I was hesitant about what to say. I wasn’t sure if I should mention that, just before he came to life, he was left swinging on a stair rail outside someone’s house.

“Um…were you always able to talk?” “I was always watching. It felt like she always knew I had a presence, without me having to utter a single word to her.”

“So why speak now?”

“Because it appears that I’ve gotten lost! One day, I was feeling quite sleepy and took a nap. Next thing you know, I’m in your stuffy apartment!” “Hey! Not everyone can afford a house, you know? I’m barely making enough to cover my rent,” I quipped back.

“Alright- forget your tiny apartment,” Mister Penguin gave a dismissive flap of his wing.

My mouth gaped. The audacity- “I have to find my human. She needs me.”

“What do you mean she needs you?”

“She kept me in good condition. I’m a bit like her support stuffed animal, you see. And I need you to help me. Please.”

Somehow, this stuffed penguin managed to evoke sympathy from my heart. His eyes looked anything but lifeless, as they filled with expressions of worry, concern, and a deep sense of care.

“Okay, fine. I’ll help you. But before that, there’s something you should know.” “What’s that?” “When I found you, you were left outside someone’s home, with a note attached to you saying ‘free, please take.’ That’s the only reason why I brought you back to my place.” “What?” Mister Penguin let out a chirping chuckle. “No no, that can’t be. The last I remember, I was still on her key ring, the one she keeps closest to her. She wears it on a lanyard…” I slowly shook my head.

Mister Penguin’s eyes widened. “There’s no way…” his eyes casted downwards, glancing back and forth in confusion. “Maybe- maybe there’s an explanation for it,” I reasoned. “But something must have happened.” “Very well. I’ll tell you my story.”

“Oh. Well in that case, let me grab the popcorn-” “It started a crisp sunny morning…” “Okay, you don’t have to be so dramatic…” “ What’s this?” She picked up the keychain laid outstretched in his palm. “Oh my god, it’s so cute!” she gasped. She gazed at the little stuffed penguin, appearing to have been hand-crocheted, sitting in her hands. “Where did you get this?” “At the fair they were having last week. Someone was selling their hand-made keychains.” “I see,” she replied. “Why a penguin?” “When I was a kid, my dream was to sail the world and study sea animals- specifically, penguins.” She laughed. “They’re adorable,” she said, studying the small gray plush.

“I always thought they were fascinating,” he noted. “For giving up what their wings could’ve been to live a life at sea.” “Interesting,” I mused. “So how do you feel? For giving up what could’ve been a grand life flying across the world to live at bay?” “It’s a sacrifice- the kind that you make when you know, with utmost faith, that it’s worth it.” I had a feeling that Mister Penguin wasn’t talking about penguins. “You’re fairly poetic for a talking stuffed penguin.” I paused. “I think.”

I could’ve sworn I saw Mister Penguin roll his beady little eyes. He continued- “She took me everywhere she went. She also loved him as much as she loved me.” I felt like it was the other way around, but chose not to say anything.

“They stayed together for a good two years, but between his shop and her classes, it seemed they needed different things at different times.” Mister Penguin shook his head in pity. “After she finished her classes, she decided to support his business full time. But that didn’t seem to make him happy.” “I don’t think you should work here anymore,” he said, a tone of frustration in his voice. “You’re not happy-” “You don’t get to tell me what makes me happy!” she shouted. “I-I want to be here. I want to help you. And once we get your shop off the ground, we can-” “There’s no ‘we’ in this plan. There’s only me. I know what your dreams are, and I know it’s not this!” he let out a heavy sigh. “But with where my business is going, I don’t think there will be space for your dreams to grow.” “But-” “This is a huge life decision. You need to know what you want, and you need to try. Right now, you haven’t even bothered trying because of my store.”

Silence filled the gap. Her eyes tear as the realization dawned upon her. “So…what are you saying?” “I’m saying-” he stopped himself as he brought a hand to his mouth. His eyes lingered on the ceiling for a moment, his expression unchanging. “I’m saying,” he took his hand away, “that you should pursue your dreams, and I ought to keep going with mine.” She didn’t know what to say.

“I still love you. And I always will. And maybe, one day, our paths will cross again.” Not a single tear was shed. “But right now, I think we need to go our separate ways.” “After they left each other for the last time, she went home and cried for months on end. Eventually, the crying lessened over time. She still took good care of me, but she was never the same after that. It was like…a light died in her eyes.” “She sounds…heartbroken,” I said in thought. The unfortunate reality of circumstances.

“Which is precisely why I need to find her again. Without me, who else will be there to comfort her?” I let out a breath. “Fine. We’ll head back to the house tomorrow morning.”

*** The next morning, we stopped by a local cafe to grab a cup of coffee on the way. While I was waiting in line, I heard a voice coming from my bag: “Psst! Hey! That’s him. The guy who broke her heart!” “Stop shouting! People can hear you!” I whisper-yelled to Mister Penguin, with a hand cupped over my mouth.

Mister Penguin, who was chained around my purse handle, looked up at me. “No need to worry about that. No one can hear me but you. That’s the fun in magic, eh?” “...Great.” In other words, I look absolutely crazy to the public. Good to know. “Who did you say you spotted?” “The ex-lover. Black hair, gray sweater. He’s sitting by the window- wait…”

I leaned over to get a better look. “There’s someone else sitting at his table,” I observed. “Do you know the woman he’s with?” “It’s definitely not my human…hold your fishes, I think I’ve seen her before.” “Who is it?” I exclaimed in a low voice. “That’s…that’s one of his good friends. They’ve known each other for a while. I saw her at his shop!” “What?” “I asked what you would like to order, ma’am.”

I whipped my head around, not realizing we had made it to the front of the counter. A lady stood before me, with a sharpie and cup in hand. “Oh I’m- I’m so sorry! Um, I’ll take a medium caramel latte…” *** “I can’t believe you didn’t warn me,” I groaned as I stepped out of the coffee shop, latte in hand. “That was so embarrassing. She probably saw me spying and thought I was talking to myself.” “For all that she and everyone else knows, you were talking to yourself,” Mister Penguin retorted.

I rolled my eyes. “Whatever.” I turned my attention back to the cafe. “Those two in the coffee shop…they seemed to be quite friendly, huh?” “I can’t believe him,” Mister Penguin shook his head.

“I mean, they could have just been catching up over coffee, as friends do,” I explained. “She had her hair and makeup done, he was dressed up…they looked like they were having fun. She kept touching his arm throughout their conversation, and would lean into him whenever she laughed…oh gosh. I think they’re-”

“Dating! Unbelievable- with that woman, of all people. How could he do this to her?” he uttered in disbelief.

“I’m sorry, Mister Penguin. But-” I didn’t have the heart to tell him that this was bound to happen, sooner or later. “Maybe she’s doing better now, so this won’t really bother her?”

Mister Penguin didn’t say anything. We walked the rest of the way in silence until we reached the front of her house, the place where I found Mister Penguin just the day before.

“Well, we’re finally here. Are you ready?” “Hey, let’s just head back.” The hesitancy in Mister Penguin’s voice caught me off guard. “Why? What’s wrong?” “Well, I did some thinking while you were walking. I think she left-”

Before Mister Penguin could finish his sentence, the front door swung open and a young woman stepped out with a trash bag in hand. She looked to be about in her twenties, with chestnut brown hair held in a messy updo by a hairclip. We made eye contact, and she stopped in her tracks.

“Um…can I help you?” She asked, eyeing me curiously. “Oh! I’m so sorry. I wasn’t trying to, uh, be creepy or anything. I just- I wanted to give you something…” I slip the keychain off my bag and show it to her.

Her eyes widened in recognition; but before she could say anything, a voice called out from the door, grabbing May’s attention. “May! Are you there?” May turned back to me. “I’m so sorry, I need to attend to my grandmother first. Um, would you like to come in?”

*** “I’m so sorry for the mess, I didn’t know May was inviting someone over today. Make yourselves at home!” With that, May’s grandmother left. The room we entered wasn’t all that bad- it was a cozy little space with perhaps a bit of clutter, although it looked to be mostly family photos and little trinkets. A table stood next to the window, displaying a sewing machine. Several pieces of fabric were draped around the room’s furniture.

May quickly picked up a couple pieces of cloth and dropped them on the chair by the sewing machine, then motioned for me to sit down. “Sorry about my grandmother,” she sighed. “Oh, that’s alright. I’m sorry for intruding.” May shook her head. “Don’t be. If anything, she’s probably excited that I’m actually talking to another human being right now that isn’t her.” We both shared a small laugh over that sentiment.

“So,” May began, “you said you had something for me?”

“Oh! Yes,” I reach into my coat pocket and pull out the keychain. “I believe…this belongs to you?” May stared at the penguin for a couple of seconds before gently taking it into her own hands. While she didn't say anything, I watched a flurry of emotions and memories flash across her eyes as she gazed at the stuffed penguin.

“Yes, it used to be mine. But I gave it away. I left it outside this house, with a note saying it was free to take.”

“Yeah, I saw. I took it home.” She blinked at me. “Then why did you bring it back here?” I wasn’t sure how to explain that part. “Uh…I just had a feeling that it missed you?”

To my surprise, May let out a small smile. “I bet he does,” she replied, feeling the yarn over with her thumb. “Someone special to me gave me this keychain.”

“I see,” I said, pretending as though I didn’t hear the whole story from the penguin himself.

“Even after that person…left, I still kept the keychain. It reminded me of many sad memories, but also many happy ones. Most importantly though, it was the only place left where hope still lived.” May casted her eyes down to the stuffed penguin in her palm, a look of sorrow etched across her face. “But,” she continued, “one thing led to another, which led me to realize that as much as I loved this little penguin, I had to give it away. I loved it too much to throw it out, so I decided to leave it outside in hopes that someone would see it and take care of it. And it seems like Mister Penguin has found a new home.”

That was when it struck me. May already knew.

“Oh- Mister Penguin was the name I gave it. I know it’s silly, so you can change it if you want-” “No, that’s okay. I like that name. It’s very fitting.”

May breathed a sigh of relief. “Well,” she handed the keychain back to me, “I believe this is yours now.”

I wanted to ask her one last time, just for good measure, if she was sure she didn’t want to keep it; but when I looked into her eyes, the question died in my throat. She had love- a lot of love, but she was ready.

Soon after, I picked myself up to leave. As May walked me to the door, a piece of clothing hung over the table caught my eye. “That skirt is really cute,” I noted. “Hm?” May turned to where I was looking. “Oh. Thank you. I actually sewed that,” she replied. I gave May a look of shock, to which she laughed. “Sewing has always been a passion of mine. My dream is to become a fashion designer.”

We head over to the entrance. Before I stepped out, May spoke. “It was really nice meeting you, um…what was your name?” “Oh, oops. I never introduced myself. My name’s Lilliana. You can just call me Lily.”

“Lily. It was nice meeting you, Lily.”

As I made my way to the bottom of the steps, I paused in my tracks. Before May shut the door, I turned around. “Hey, May?” I called out. May stopped and creaked the door back open, tilting her head at me. “Yes?” “I’ll take good care of Mister Penguin.”

May gave me a heavy smile. I thought I saw her eyes glimmer against the sun. “Thank you,” she said.

As I made my way to my next destination, I glanced down at the gray stuffed penguin, just as quiet and still as it was when I found it. While it no longer carried the life it had just this morning, I could still feel its vitality, thriving with all the love, hope, and ardor that May left it with.

What a magical penguin it was.


Reedsy Contest #235: Springtime Flowers 4. Start your story with one character pointing out the first sign of spring to another.

Spring By Mail I’m a pretty lucky kid. Nana and Gramps live just outside of town and I can walk there from school. I’m welcome to visit anytime I want, so I go a lot. Home’s a bit rocky with the folks and I don’t really fit in with the kids here. I don’t play an instrument or sports. Nana and Gramps are great. They let me drive their tractor, climb in the orchard and swim with the frogs in the pond. Sometimes Gramps and I fish. Sometimes we putter in the shop with Archie the barn cat. Gramps named him Archie for the stance he assumes when stroked. He is a friendly but scruffy orange and white beast with a very loud purr. Archie guards Gramps’ tool collection, hunts mice and sleeps on the roof of Gramps’ first car that is stored in the garage under an oil-stained tarp. Archie is not allowed in the house as Nana has a rule about farm animals. Nana thinks they’re dirty and should stay outside. She won’t even let Archie in her greenhouse, but I think Archie likes the shop just fine.

Gramps is a skilled welder and sometimes we work on garden projects for Nana together.  Nana is an avid gardener and a fabulous cook.  I don’t think there’s anything she can’t grow or make herself. The house is full of her handiwork, knitted afghans, hooked rugs, baked goods, quilts, jams, paintings, and fresh flowers. There are always fresh flowers. Nana grows flowers all year in the greenhouse that Gramps built her. And every year she brings home multiple ribbons from the county fair. It’s no wonder that Gramps is smitten with her.

But all that was before Covid, before social distancing, masks, self isolation and Nana’s trip to her sister’s house. Nana’s sister Amelia was sick and great aunt Amelia was a spinster, no husband, no kids, no one to nurse her back to health. So when Amelia called for help, Nana packed up and went, leaving Gramps with a healthy list of things to tend in her absence.

Amelia’s health was serious when Nana arrived, but not grim. She was coughing a lot, spiking random fevers and really tired. The doctors said it was likely pneumonia and had started her on a course of antibiotics. But she wasn’t getting better. Her symptoms seemed to ebb but never really retreat. As Nana’s short nursing visit lengthened, Gramps became anxious to get Nana back home. A few weeks in, Gramps begged Nana to abandon the mission and leave Amelia to the professionals. News articles were cropping up about a new deadly virus and Gramps was fearful that Amelia’s symptoms were clearly identified. Gramps outlined the risks to Nana, but Nana stayed. It was her duty, she said. Gramps spent Valentine’s Day alone for the first time since he met Nana in high school. The call he received from Nana that day wasn’t the romantic greeting that he had expected. Nana had found Amelia unresponsive that morning and called an ambulance to their family home. Amelia’s breathing was shallow and she’d been admitted to the ICU at the local hospital. Nana wasn’t permitted to stay and the doctor’s prognosis wasn’t good. Nana was unsettled, but when Gramps offered to come for support, Nana declined. One way or another, she said, she’d be home soon. As Nana feared, Amelia did not recover.  Nana called Gramps to tearfully break the news of Amelia’s passing. Gramps was sympathetic but urged Nana to come home, tempting her with the promise of spring planting and new flower bulbs. Nana was responsive, but there were burial arrangements to make and things to tidy up at the house before she could come home to Gramps and her flowers. Just a few more days, she said, and I’ll be home again. Amelia’s funeral was a small, private affair. Nana had discouraged anyone else from coming as travel risks were boldly splashing through the news. Stay home. Stay safe. Nana stood alone with the lily sprays that she’d purchased for the service. They were Amelia’s favorite. Gramps called Nana the morning after the memorial service to check Nana’s flight plan. Nana hadn’t finalized her itinerary, but admitted she was tired and ready to come home. She missed Gramps’ strong arms and firm shoulder, and though most estate items were settled, she needed to sign a few more papers with Amelia’s lawyer mid-week. She should be home by the weekend. Nana promised to let Gramps know when to pick her up as soon as she was done at the lawyer’s meeting. Gramps was relieved and refocused his energies to Nana’s ‘Honey-Do’ list, spending his time on anything having to do with Nana’s flower and gardening passions. Gramps trimmed, edged, mulched, weeded and turned compost. They weren’t chores, he told me as I pitched in, they were a welcome home gift for Nana. Early Thursday of that same week, Amelia’s lawyer called Gramps. The day before, Nana had cancelled their mid-week meeting. She wasn’t feeling well and she hadn’t felt well for a few days. She was so tired, she’d told the lawyer, perhaps they could reschedule. The lawyer urged her to seek medical advice and directed her to a nearby clinic. Nana called a cab, but when she arrived at the clinic the staff quickly arranged transport to the hospital for her. At the hospital, Nana was swiftly admitted and requested Amelia’s lawyer be notified of her situation. A kindly nurse made the call and explained to the lawyer that due to Nana’s advanced health compromises and her recent exposure to Amelia, she had been placed immediately in isolation with a suspected Covid infection. The severity of Nana’s fever and respiratory distress was dire. The patient would not be allowed visitors and would the lawyer please contact the patient’s family. He hadn’t realized how sick Nana was, the lawyer apologized to Gramps, but Nana had not survived the night. He offered to assist with any arrangements that needed to be made. Poor Gramps, he muddled through the next couple weeks sorting through the last of Amelia’s estate issues. Amelia’s lawyer was an enormous help, just as he’d promised, as travel was restricted and everything was handled by phone, fax or email. Nana was cremated and sent home to Gramps. She arrived in a pewter urn and he placed her on the fireplace mantle as he processed his goodbyes. At the same time, lock downs were mandated by the state. No unnecessary gatherings were allowed and with my father, a medical professional, there were no exceptions. A memorial service for Nana would have to wait and it was determined that I was a walking Petri dish. I was not allowed to visit Gramps. We spoke on the phone quite a bit, but it was not the same. Gramps was sad. Gramps was lonely. Gramps missed Nana more than anything. We all did. All things were not normal. My Mom took Gramps groceries once a week, whatever he asked for, but he never asked for much. She’d try to sneak in a few treats and she left everything on the porch for him. Gramps would wave out the living room window, force a weak smile and retrieve the bags after she drove down the driveway. I was not permitted to tag along. I’m not sure what Gramps did with his time during lock down, but he didn’t plant a vegetable garden. He did mow along the driveway and kept the front lawn down to a decent length, but he wasn’t much interested in flowers or any of Nana’s passions. I found myself worrying about the green house plants. Gramps would sidestep my questions about the orchids, violets and bonsai trees during our phone conversations, though once he grumbled that they would be fine. Everything in the green house was automated: the lights, the watering, the ventilation, the humidity. They’d be fine. The county fair was cancelled due to the state enforced limits on public gatherings. Gramps contacted a few fair officials who expressed their condolences about Nana and Gramps took the opportunity to sell Nana’s sheep. Gramps sold the bags of wool she’d collected too. She had wanted to learn to spin her own yarn someday, when she was old. Gramps had started making her a spinning wheel in the shop, but there was no urgency to finish it now. Gramps sold her chickens and the milk goats. I petitioned my parents to let me visit Gramps late in the summer, but my folks were steadfast against it. Mom couldn’t bear the thought of losing another parent to the pandemic, so Gramps had to stay isolated. At least, she admonished, you can talk on the phone together. My father was working long hours battling the virus in his clinic and volunteering at the nearby hospital. He was rarely home and when he was he couldn’t stop sharing the health cautions that he preached at the office. Wear your mask. Wash your hands. Keep your distance. Stay away from sick people. I read a lot of books and almost looked forward to back-to-school season. The local kids still didn’t resonate with me, but it was better than the online learning we’d been forced into last Spring. September arrived, but school openings were postponed again and again. Focusing on a lesson through Zoom was not engaging and I grew more disinterested in my studies every day. The routine was monotonous and claustrophobic. I suspected that Gramps felt the same way, trapped on the farm all alone with nothing stimulating to do and no one to share things with. The fall holidays were nonexistent for our family. Each occasion had a star on the calendar, but that was pretty much it for acknowledgement. I was too old for trick or treating, but I sure missed Nana’s mincemeat pie at Thanksgiving. There was nothing traditional about our Christmas either. All I asked for was the usual three or four day sleep over at Nana and Gramps. It had always been an annual event around New Year’s and I really wanted this one thing to be normal. Please I had begged, really, it’s the only present I want this year. The folks were still keen on the isolation thing, but Gramps stepped up and said it was the only thing he wanted for the holidays too. Surprisingly my folks relented and on New Year’s Eve they dropped me off at Gramps after dinner. There’d been a light snow fall and my folks were anxious to get home. Don’t stay up too late, my mom called out as she and my father drove away. We’ll pick you up in a couple days. Be good, she added as the tail lights receded into the brisk clear night. Gramps apologized that the spare room was still as Nana had left it. It was full of her unfinished projects. She had always promised to make it a proper guest room, but it was tradition for me to sleep on the couch. Quietly we made up the hideaway and spoke of nothing important. Gramps recognized the awkwardness and suggested we talk in the morning. I agreed. I woke to Gramps stirring about in the kitchen and Archie staring me down from the lazy boy by the fireplace. There was a crackling fire burning. It smelled familiar and comforting. Archie seemed to be enjoying it tremendously. Gramps wandered in with his coffee and stroked Archie until the old cat practically roared with pleasure. When Gramps realized I was awake, he announced that he had attempted to make sourdough pancakes. They were nothing like Nana’s, he warned, and we’d probably end up eating toast, but he’d crack open a jar of Nana’s special holiday apple butter if I wanted.  Of course, I wanted! Gramps knew it was my favorite and I was happy to fetch it from the root cellar. It was where Nana had stored all her best stuff. Gramps and I spent the morning talking about happier memories, but I noticed that Gramps was shorter than I remembered as we washed the dishes together. Or was I just taller? I noted that Gramps moved older too. He was more mechanical as he reached for the dishes or his coffee and he shuffled his slippers across the linoleum. This year had aged him terribly and I realized how hard it had been for him without Nana.

It was late morning before we opened the curtains and discovered that it had snowed again in the night. It had snowed quite a lot in fact and much of the winter nakedness of Nana’s gardens were draped in fresh white brightness. In years past, we would have already gathered eggs, feed the animals, cleaned stalls, milked the goats and tended to the green house plants. Nana would have cut new flowers to freshen the house bouquets and arranged them artfully about the house. Nana and I always searched for the first signs of Spring while Gramps readied the toboggan to tow me down to the mailbox to fetch the newspaper and any late holiday packages. There would be no sled ride this year, no fresh flowers and no signs of Spring. Gramps fetched his newspaper every day, so we bundled up and headed down the snowy driveway together. Nana’s dormant fruit trees stood starkly at attention on either side as we pushed downhill through the deep powder to the main road. It was magically quiet, except for the crunching of our footsteps and Gramps’ heavy breathing. No birds were singing. No wildlife was moving about. I remembered that the sled ride always seemed too short, but today the walk seemed a suspendedly long time. When we reached the mailbox at long last, Gramps retrieved his treasured newspaper and turned to go. Gramps, you forgot the mail, I reminded him. Dutifully Gramps reached into the box and began to draw out a sizable stack of mail. Look Gramps, I cried out excitedly. The first sign of Spring! Gramps looked around bewilderly. He searched the orchard trees and scanned the ground around his boots. Quizzically his eyes met mine to admit that he hadn’t found it. There Gramps, in your hand, I explained. Nana’s beloved seed catalogs. There are the first signs of Spring! Gramps' face slowly lit up with a youthful smile. So it is, he agreed and he hugged me firmly. Let’s go make some lunch and plan out this year’s vegetable garden. We can have hot cocoa with those mini colored marshmallows you like. I smiled back and returned Gramps' hug.  I’m a pretty lucky kid.


(This is a collaborative story with my friend Wei Hello!, it’s the same story told from two different perspectives. They aren’t exactly the same, but they follow the same storyline.) My hands were shaking on the wheel. Although I’ve driven a golf cart countless times before, it still terrified me. Nobody else knew this, of course. Like I was going to tell Jerry that I was afraid of driving. He was practically getting driving lessons already. I pulled up very carefully in front of Jerry’s front door, and he was sitting on the steps waiting for me. He was on his phone and apparently didn't see a bright lime green golf cart park meters away from him.

“Uh… Jerry? Hello?'' I asked tentatively. I was just the tiniest bit late, but Jerry was very impatient and would probably get mad at me for being- “Two minutes and thirty-five seconds late! I expected better of you Carson,” “Well SORRY.” “Come on, let’s go already!” He got up and stepped into the seat next to me. “Okay, first stop, The Apple Orchard!” I announced, carefully driving along the suburban road towards the apple orchard. I had been there many times before so I had practically memorized the route. Jerry was still grumpy that I was late, but he got a little more excited as we hit the road. “We're going to pick some apples, we're going to make some pie! Were going to pick some apples and we’re to make apple pie.'' not to don't toot my own horn, but I am very good at writing tunes.

“Hey, Jerry! We're almost there! See! It's the sign!” The entrance to the orchard had an old wooden archway going over the main entrance for cars, and on it was a sign that said, ‘WELCOME TO THE BEST ORCHARD FARM YOU’LL EVER SEE!’ or at least I assume it said that it now looked more like, ‘WFICCNE TC IHF BECT URLHARD FAYN UCI’LI EUFR SEF!’ “Are we there yet?” Jerry asked, taking his hands off his ears... wait was he not listening to my amazing song this whole time? Rude.

“We‘re entering the farm, you just missed the sign, I looked over my shoulder trying to see the sign again. “CARSON WATCH OUT YOU’RE ABOUT TO RUN INTO A-” Tree. I ran straight into a tree.

“Well… the good news is that we’d finished our apple picking for today!” I said after I winced at the sound of apples hitting the roof of my dad's golf cart. “Bad news is that they gave this golf cart a bunch of dents.'' I tried revving up the golf cart again hopefully, but nothing. “Other bad news is that we are now stranded in this apple orchard with no other humans around to help us.” I opened the golf cart door and stepped out, surveying the damage. “Well, not NO humans around, there is that cottage a little way away from here,” “What are you talking about? Wait… you don’t mean,” and I swear I heard thunderclaps in the distance, “LARRY’S HUT?” I for one thought it very dramatic (though I do wish his name was Gary or something spooky like that. Larry is kind of lame), but Jerry rolled his eyes and said, “OH come on, you don't really believe those stories, do you?” “Uh, yeah? Larry’s hut is the most known story in Paranoice!” “Well, I’ve never heard it.” Jerry crossed his arms, and so I began to tell him the legendary story of Larry’s Hut. It started on a leisurely Thursday morning, not unlike this one when Larry decided to go apple picking by himself in his Uncle’s apple orchard. His uncle was away on a holiday, and so Larry took his chance to get some free apples from his orchard. It was told that he picked two basketfuls of apples before he heard it, a voice calling out to him- “Oh come on, a voice? really?”

“SHH! Just let me tell the story! As I was saying, a voice was calling out to him,” It was saying his name, over and over again. Larry, Larry, Larry , came to the voice. Larry was curious and reckless, so he tried to find the source of the voice, and he came upon an old cottage that was overgrown with vines. Larry hadn’t seen this the last time he’s been to his uncle's orchard, so he entered it. And he never came out again. Later it was told that his uncle had died within the day he had returned to his orchard. “That,” Jerry started, “was the most RIDICULOUS thing I’ve ever heard! There is no way that’s true.” “Come on! You can't go there!” “It’ll be fine .” “That’s what Larry thought!” Jerry snorted. “Larry. What type of scary story has a guy named LARRY as the main character?” “This one!” “Whatever, I’m going.” And with that, Jerry ran off from the direction we came, into the mostly deserted road that we came from. “Ok. What do I do now?” I thought out loud. I started examining the damage to the golf cart. I shivered as a chilly breeze whooshed past me. I was wearing only one jacket since it was only October 1st, but now I was regretting wearing something warmer, especially since I was stuck here now. “Hello, what are you doing?” I jumped and turned around. What I saw stopped me dead in my tracks. There in front of me stood the most beautiful woman I had ever seen.

She seemed only a few years older than me, but she seemed perfect. She had long, glossy black hair that was slightly wavy and ran down to her waist. She was taller than me, but not so much so that she loomed over me. She was wearing a long-sleeved white dress that went all the way down to her ankles. She had peachy lips and a small nose. The only thing that was slightly unnerving was her eyes. You would say that they were green, but they were bordering on yellow, and her pupils seemed to dilate and contract so they looked like they were constantly shifting. I was suspicious, what was a beautiful lady doing in an apple orchard all by herself?

“Are you okay? You seem to be having some trouble there?” And just like that, all my suspicions were gone. Her voice sounded like flowing golden honey. I felt myself just staring at her for a few moments. “Oh, silly me! You must be Carson!” It didn’t strike me as strange that she knew my name, of course, she knew my name. And I should be following her as she turned and walked away from me. Wait, what? No! I shouldn't be following a stranger! “Oh, Carson, dearie! Do catch up.” And without knowing it I was briskly walking forwards to catch up with her. I was suddenly at a battle with myself. One part of me was trying to abruptly stop and reason with my other half, which wanted more than anything to follow the pretty girl in the dress. My reasonable half almost succeeded at stopping, when she began to sing. And suddenly my reasonable half disappeared into oblivion. And I followed her. When my head didn’t feel like it was full of honey anymore, I was sitting down on a picnic mat with the girl… no wait… she wasn’t a girl anymore. Standing in front of me was a creature with sickly green and bumpy skin, it had a long, ugly nose and was wearing a black hood. It still resembled a humanoid figure, but it was hunched and had a pointy hat… or as that a hat? No. It was horns. Two glistening black horns twisted together to form a point at the top of the hag’s head. And the eyes. The eyes were this time bright yellow, like cats' eyes, except something about them screamed unearthly. This time it had no pupils at all, just one solid color of yellow through and through. But something told me it could still see. “Oh hello. You’ve come to your senses, I see.” The hag cackled, and it sounded like all the worst sounds in the world. Nails on a chalkboard, microphone feedback, and even slightly like the crying of a distressed and sick baby. I immediately stood up and started running away, like any sane person would, but the witch made no effort to run after me, I saw when I looked over my shoulder. She was taking a glass vial off of the picnic mat I was sitting on — how did I not notice them before? — and threw it at her feet like a magician would to disappear in a puff of smoke. Oh and how I wished that happened. Instead, it burst into black gunk that surrounded the witch almost instantly, I stopped to look back, what happened? Why would the witch do that? Suddenly two yellow eyes appeared out of the gunk, and the black mound of writhing, bubbling, potion surged towards me. I started running again. I had no idea where I was going, but I had to get away from the witch. I got out of the trees onto the main path and sat in the distance a blob of bright green. The golf cart! I knew that color would come in handy. I ran towards it. I could hear the witch’s horrible cable behind me and could feel the yellow eyes on me like I was being hunted. Scratch that, I was being hunted. I didn’t think about my burning calves, or that I am getting closer to the not much different dirt road outside the orchard, I just focused on running for my life. I passed the sign. The witch's potion armor shrunk to fit through the archway but grew taller right after. I kept on running. Consciously I had no idea where I was going. Subconsciously I was heading towards Larry’s hut, where Jerry was. I risked a glance over my shoulder, and almost grazed the black gunk. I accelerated. Then I saw it, Larry’s Hut. Or as some people called it, the Vampire House. Jerry, I prayed, please be alive. I burst through the old wooden doors. “Jerry! Jerry! There’s a giant back blob chasing me…” my voice faltered. Jerry was alive, alright. But he was standing next to an old man, and he had a bite mark on him. I stared at him in horror. His eyes were red now. And in them, I saw someone other than my friend. I saw a vampire.


“If you help me with Math, I’ll help you with life.” Mohan offered to Donte. Math and the Sciences had always come naturally to Donte. Some went on to call him gifted. As he sat on the porch reflecting on the choice he had to make, he didn’t think of it as a gift. It was more like an escape for him. An escape to a world that made sense, that was predictable and calculable. This gave him reassurance and comfort. That comfort motivated him to dig deeper, study harder. The hard work then made him better at it. And the grades and the scholarships and everything else just followed. All this helped him escape the music that constantly played in his house, and the struggles of being different. He was different from the other boys in his neighborhood and different from the kids at school. He even stood out from his whole family. It was a family of soldiers, strong men and loyal women with values.

Donte did not resonate with the values of his family. He wanted nothing of war, let alone to join the army like his father before him. He was growing weary of the advice at his church too. Sure, he liked the Pastor. The strict rigor with which his family expected him to follow their own interpretation of every word that was said on Sunday was not for him. Nor was the idea to find a good woman to marry and father many babies. He just wanted to solve problems, and help people. And numbers helped him to that.The amount a single hedge fund manager made by investments that he considered rather noncomplex could help wipe out a small third world country's debt. He could figure out that part easily because of the math. That is what he wanted to do. “How will you help me with life, man?” Donte had replied to Mohan who had a funny smirk on his face. “Come on, I’ll show you.” They had walked out of the school during lunch break to a place, just around the corner. It was an old building, looked like a run down defunct warehouse or something. Donte would never even be tempted to go to a place like that. Mohan was a free spirit though. Perhaps too free spirited for his own good. He had been getting nervous as he had declared, “I’m not into drugs, man!” Mohan just laughed. They entered the building. There were a few other kids he recognized from school at the far end of the building. He heard some beats playing. The place was very strange. It was very attractive to him, though he couldn’t tell why. The walls were spray painted with graffiti. There were some old torn carpets spread across the floor, and some thick industrial looking cables that were connected to power strips. “Where the heck are we, Mohan?” A curious Donte had asked. “We call it The Escape!” Mohan declared. “It... meaning ummm, like this warehouse you broke into?” Donte asked. “Yes this warehouse. And our work, and us. We are The Escape.” Mohan replied to a puzzled Donte. “We are an arts collective. A family. All of us are passionate about something. Just like you. All of us need support to pursue that. All of us need help with something too. We’re not junkies, we are a family that helps each other. Myself, I play the guitar and record music.” Mohan pointed to a corner of the warehouse to a room that had probably been an office at some point. “That’s the studio. Gabriella here is a graffiti artist, Marcus likes to write stories and Lainey likes to write code. There are many more of us. You can hang with us too Donte, if you like. Escape with us. Help us escape math though!” All of them started to laugh. Donte had felt at home instantly. He had spent the next two years hanging out at and with The Escape every chance he got, after classes, during classes sometimes and on weekends and evenings. They were his “study group.” They helped him deal with thoughts about where he fit in, with troubles with his family, his needs for fun and even money sometimes and helped calm his anxiety. He helped them with math. Now the word help was a bit of an understatement of course. When the school had started to audit assignments and test papers and run them through stylography checks and advanced similarity testing, something was bound to give. As he stood in front of Mr Raj, stout and pouty faced principle with a big belly, thick set glasses and a suit that meant business, all the anxiety he had escaped from over the last two years came flooding back in. Mr Raj had always liked him, had always tried to push him to do better. Perhaps this is why he was trying to be lenient with Donte, as he put it anyway. He felt a familiar nausea take over his stomach, a pounding in his heart as he looked at an impatient Mr Raj pacing the carpet floor of his office, “I’ll give you one more chance Donte, I know all those assignments were yours. I know you want to look out for your friends. If you don’t tell me though, you will all suffer the same fate. And you can say goodbye to that scholarship to Stanford. Say goodbye to any semblance of the life of an academic. The choice is yours.” Donte thought of the prayers his family said every Sunday in church. He smiled slightly thinking how funny it was that people thought of God in times of need. He thought of the Pastor. He thought of his father instructing him to join the army when he found out what Donte had done. He thought of how his mother would weep. Donte weighed the variables carefully, and tried to calculate based on decision points. Yet, this problem was not binary. He was not able to rationalize the events that had happened and could not determine the optimal solution. He knew the clock was ticking. The Escape had meant everything to him, it was his lifeline. Yet, he could not escape the principal’s office this afternoon. He could not do it to Mohan or any of the members of the Escape. Yet he could not face Mr. Raj or the uncertainty of a future without academic prospects. It was a lose-lose situation.

For the first time since he had entered that warehouse two years ago, he found himself wanting to act in a way that was unnatural for him. He sensed he was at a crossroads again. “So, what will it be, Donte? Your time is up.” Commanded an annoyed Mr Raj. Donte closed his eyes and smiled, then spoke calmly and softly, “Let’s chat about my options Mr Raj. I think you will be surprised by what you find.”


Travelling between galaxies is dangerous. Dark abysses plague every universe's sky, leaking in between the warm lights emitted from stars. They hold silent terrors history themself hesitate to inscribe. Stories of murderous marauders, hungry for chaos and destruction, alongside fiend's that feast on black holes call these dimensions home, and only the bravest of travelers take these spaces as feasible travel routes. Or they have unlimited stupidity. "Oh my stars," a blue haired creature groaned, retching as she clamped a hand over her mouth. "What in the Andromedian galaxy did we drink last night?" "Whatever it was, her stars would be disappointed…" Lox mumbled, trailing his gaze from the shards of crystal bottles scattered across the spacecraft’s floor. Ignoring his friend’s complaint’s, the captain turned his blurry gaze across the cramped space to the control screen, only to take a double take.

"What the-" "I’m seeing doubles… Lox, pass me a pack of aqua, would you?"

"Shut your snout for a sec," Lox snapped, stumbling up and hovering against the monitor with wide eyes. Blue snarled, sitting up to reveal a bush of messy hair and her eyes a vivid green. She stretched, sighing as she swiped her forked tongue across her canines. "My canines are sore, and I'm hungry; watch your tongue. Do we have any more froshlins?" "No, we ran out a few days ago... Blue, listen, can you pull out the map from the cabinet behind the table? Just press that silver circle over there, a knob should pop out..." Blue grumbled but complied. She awkwardly jumped from the bed to the cabin floor with a muted thump as Lox took a seat at the control panel, activating all the buttons with a flick of a switch. Blue skipped between the sharp shards of crystal and sat on the small table, avoiding the benches on either side and opened the cabinet while tilting her head.

"Alright, we’ve got Jimeln, Idop, Theresa…" “Uh, those are universes right?” “No, planets; do your homework, man.” "Alright, try to find... one for in between planets." "In between? What do you mean, in between planets?" "I mean, you have space in between planets... to travel from one planet to another, you need directions too..." "I guess, but it's pretty straightforward no? Just follow the sun rays reflecting off the surface of the planet..." Blue trailed off, turning back around to find Lox's jaw tighten. "Or you follow the coordinates.” Silence.

“Why do you need a map?" "... I was just wondering..." "Lox? Why aren't you following the coordinates?" Lox swallowed and leaned forward to clench a lever, glancing back with a flash of disdain in his gaze. Blue stared back, slipping off the table whilst her heart clenched. Lox sighed and pulled, letting the protection blinds part with a high pitched blare. Blue flinched at the lack of sun, and shuddered as she realized they were in pitch darkness.

In the middle of nowhere.

"Lox," Blue spoke in a hush, as if not daring to raise her voice. "I thought you put it on autopilot..." "I did , I don't know why the craft-" “No, no no no,” Blue muttered, tangling her claws in her hair. “Lox this is bad, this is so bad…” Lox buried his face in his hands. “I know.”

Blue scampered up to his seat, clutching the back of it. “Lox, you don’t get it, this is awful! There’s no getting out, we’re stuck here with who knows what! We’re prey!” "Calm down, we'll figure this out," Lox fiddled with a few knobs, and the rush of air drumming from the small vent immediately quieted down. "We'll save our energy, toss any unimportant loads and try to radio a vessel to come get us." "Who other than extraterrestrials and scavengers are out here?" Blue hissed, forcing Lox's chair around. She slammed two hands on either side of her captain, looking him dead in the eye as her eyes turned a fire orange colour. L:ox instantly put his hands up, knowing full well Blue could bite through his delicate human skin in a fraction of a heartbeat. "L-Listen to me," Lox stammered, his brain going on autopilot. "If you kill me, you lose a captain." Blue growled once more, leaning in close as Lox glanced down. She flexed her claws once more before shoving herself back and stalking to the back of the cabin. Lox sighed in relief as she began cleaning up; she turned quiet when she cleaned, and he needed all the silence he could get. He would have to figure out how to contact creatures in the middle of nowhere. That term isn't wrong. The black voids of nothingness has been lovingly nicknamed Nowhere by regular travellers. Nowhere wasn't easy to slip into; if you saw a light source that wasn't yours, you were still somewhere. You had a guide, a promise of warmth and shelter and energy. Out in Nowhere, you are only a speck of matter, with no purpose to anything alive. Scavengers and monsters hiding in it's gloom aren't considered matter, not even plasma. They are unknown of. No names, rumours or myths about them are written down anywhere. Their existence is not to be talked about, because the creatures living in light are scared. How do they survive in the night? How do they survive- no, not just survive, they thrive, and conquer. Countless planets have been overrun, taken apart and ripped to shreds by those hungry souls; and the innocent’s history dies with them, as no living creature acknowledges the evil that appeared there that day. No one would share any information, no matter how small, about these creatures. That thought alone made being stuck in Nowhere all the more terrifying.

* * * “Any luck?” Lox rested his forehead against the wall, letting out a sad sound while caressing his beard. “Absolutely nothing.” “Don’t really know what we expected,” Blue muttered, hopping from her top bunk.

Hours passed dreadfully slow, the two travellers accepting their fate. After riding forward for an indescribable amount of time, Blue shut off the engine and shook her head when Lox glanced up from his will. There was no use wasting plasma that kept their airflow generator going. After dimming their lights, they sat at the table, planning out their rations for one another. They’ve done this countless times; they’ve been stranded inside a planet, waiting out a meteor storm that goes on for one hundred days. The two have been stranded in large bodies of water, in deserts, jungles, in war torn globes and world’s choked with poverty and danger. They survived them all, but the vast opens of space?

Lox and Blue have met their match. “I’ve always wanted to settle down, you know?” Lox glanced up from his lukewarm drink, watching Blue’s eyes turn a dark, broken blue. “I know I’m the last of my species, but… starting a family, watching them grow and stay on the same planet, a safe globe with a solid atmosphere…” “I’m sorry.” Lox murmured. “If I hadn’t been a bad captain and stopped the ship, we wouldn’t be here.” “I know,” Blue sighed, a flicker of dark pink appearing in her irises. “You’re such a lousy captain, we-” The ship buckled to the side, tossing Lox against his seat and Blue’s stomach into the table. Wheezing, she glanced around as her eyes turned yellow with fear as they began to get tugged into a direction. Nobody found them.

“Come here, come here,” Lox coughed, catching Blue as she jumped into his arms. “Hey, it’ll be quick, I promise…” Blue buried his face into his chest, nails digging into his bicep and drawing blood. Lox buried his nose into her hair, breathing in her scent and doing the one habit he took from Earth; pray. As he uttered words under his breath, the ship shuddered to a stop. Lox held his breath as Blue clutched him even tighter. Whether they were in a pirate fleet or a mouth, he hoped their deaths would be swift.

A shudder, then an unmistakable sound of a powerful engine rattled the walls. Lox winced. Scavengers.

Or were they? As the engine shook the walls, Lox felt the familiar rise in his chest and the rush to his head. Blue whined, a rare sound, as she shook her head; her ears were being strained. Atom hopping, a complicated way to travel vast spaces. A deafening crack sounded throughout the cabin, and the pair were launched to the floor as they stopped abruptly. Blue gave a grunt as Lox landed on her, and he stuttered.

“Sorry, sorry, are you okay?” “I’m fine-” “Here, give me your hand-” “Oh my moon, did I do that to your arm ?” “Blue-” “I’m sorry, I think we-” Lox grabbed Blue’s head and turned it to the front of the spacecraft. Blue’s jaw dropped, her tongue slipping out of her mouth. Lox stood, admiring the most beautiful planet he's ever seen. Glowing plants, or water or creatures dotted the planet in gorgeous blue’s and green’s, as if inviting travellers. Paying no attention to the puncture wounds, he began swiftly fiddling with the spacecraft’s controls when Blue tugged at his jacket. Lox gave a glance in her direction, only to take a double take. A bigger, older spacecraft floated next to them, clearly old and rebuilt with scavenged parts. “A pirate ship,” Blue whispered.

“They… saved us?” The pair stared as the ship powered up their engine and began blundering further from them. The craft did not fly away, or disappear; it simply was not there anymore. Atom hopping at it’s finest. The rest of Blue’s and Lox’s waking hours passed in a blur; they found a landing center and were greeted by tender-hearted creatures called Hollyan's, who whimpered in shock and scurried around on their small paws to treat Lox’s injuries. Their squeaks were translated by Blue, who respectfully kept her eyes downcast. “My kind used to hunt them,” she whispered to Lox. “After four wars, we have made peace only a millennium ago.” After explaining their situation, Blue and Lox were escorted to a small hollow near a gorgeous freshwater lake, where the Hollyan's graciously encouraged the pair to drink from and catch creatures to eat. Their planet was plentiful and protected, a quiet refuge for war-battered survivors fleeing different planets. After thanking them, Lox stumbled into the underground home and collapsed on the moss bed, sighing in relief. Blue followed suit, curling up next to him as she fell unconscious after a satisfied sigh. As Lox glanced out the small window to the night sky, he couldn’t help but give a tiny amazed smile.

A fleet of Nobody’s have saved them from Nowhere.