Ok so this is actually a story I wrote in my dream, then remembered almost perfectly when I woke up. Which is probably why it begins and ends so weirdly. Trenchant and Leboeuf were not friends. Every day in the market they would attempt to kill each other. One day Trenchant was returning to his home from the market over the downs. He was not alert, for he and Leboeuf had never before met on these downs. This day happened to be the first time they met here. Leboeuf sighted Trenchant on the ridge of a grassy hill and thought to himself, “I will follow him home, and kill him where he abides.” Leboeuf followed him until he saw him entering a very small blue house. With a little laugh he drew out a thick rope from his pocket which was blue to match. Advancing, he knocked on the door. Trenchant answered the door and said in a low voice, “My wife’s just had the foot.” Which in their locality was a euphemism for, “My wife’s just given birth.” To this Leboeuf responded by grappling the blue rope about the thick neck of Trenchant. After Leboeuf had squeezed sufficiently to kill Trenchant, Trenchant’s maid shot an arrow at Leboeuf, which pierced deep through his neck. Leboeuf fell backwards to the point where the distance between his buttocks and the point where the arrow protruded from the back of his neck multiplied by itself, in addition to the distance between the point at which the arrow protruded from the back of his neck and the tip of the arrow head multiplied by itself were together equal to the distance between the tip of the arrow head and his buttocks, as the ant crawls, multiplied by itself. “Of course!” cried Trenchant’s wife. “Because A 2 + B 2 = C 2 !” For the maid had indeed shot the arrow so that it pierced his neck at a perfect right angle to his body, or perfectly parallel to the ground, for Leboeuf had good posture, even in death. “Now,” said the maid, “we must take the square root of the final distance.” “No! Fool!” said Trenchant’s wife. “You have not learned to prioritize effectively! First we must name the newborn baby, then we must find out who these men were.” “One of them was your husband.” said the maid. “Shut up!” said Trenchant’s wife. “You know perfectly well I had no idea who he was. Anyway, it’s a pity this baby is a girl, otherwise I could name her after her father.” “You could name your next baby after his father, if he is a boy,” said the maid. “My NEXT BABY?!” thundered Trenchant’s wife. “SIMPLETON! FOOL! By that time I will have forgotten my husband’s name! I am beginning to do so already!” “No you won’t.” thought the very small baby boy inside her, smugly. “I will remind you by kicking in morse code every so often.” For she was again pregnant, not knowingly. “Anyway,” said Trenchant’s wife, I will name this baby Jessa, after myself.” “But that isn’t your name,” argued the maid, whose name was Jessa. “What of it?” scorned Trenchant’s wife. At this point, since Trenchant, other than his ghost, is no longer much of a character, we may stop calling this woman Trenchant’s wife and begin to call her Jessebecca, even though this was not her name. This is because, as Jessebecca might say, we must prioritize effectively, and it is more important to continue the story than to try and remember her real name, although Jessebecca herself would perhaps disagree on that point. But the name has now suddenly been remembered! We will still, however, call her Jessebecca. Some may point out that it would be quicker to say the four words: her name was (insert name here) than to make a long digression explaining why we would not call her by her real name. They would be wrong. It is not so. For one thing, “insert name here” is three words, bringing the total number not to four, but to six. So shut up, your point is rendered null. “Now that we have named the child, we must find out who these men were. Let us ride to the market and ask.” Said Jessebecca, absent mindedly plopping the baby Jessa into a pan, placing the pan on the stove, and turning on the fire. “The horses are ready, we could go at once.” Said the maid, turning off the fire, and putting Jessa in the cradle, rivalling her mistress in absent midedness. As Jessebecca and her maid were riding to the market, Jessebecca fell off her horse and lay there, face down. The maid, thinking she was dead, was about to pile her onto her own horse. But suddenly Jessebecca sat up violently and said, “I think I am pregnant, and what’s more, I think my baby is trying to communicate with me. For I am a great believer in morse code, though I do not understand a word of it.” At this point, the maid gave an awkward laugh, for she was decidedly not a believer in morse code, though she happened to understand every word of it. The maid Jessa, with this thought on her mind, “I better get used to liking morse code, for it is clearly the language of my superiors,” and this word on her lip, “Let me feel your tummy,” Now advanced toward her mistress.


A presence that pressed upon the mind more than a manifestation that grew from the horizon. That presence upon the earth, a mere afterthought; as if the leviathan had amalgummed its appearance from memories it had conceived or stolen. For its form, such that it can be said that a collapsing star has form, was like stained glass, fractious fragments of a whole. This was our Great Annihilator, as stated in the verse, though it had been some time since I had heard its recitation. Its surface, colliding shards of the possibilities of the cosmic; held together, surely, by some will or intent. For surely the impacts of such violently alien concepts would rend their realities asunder. There it is upon the my horizon, framed like a portrait in my window; nature can be so wicked. I would titter at the notion, were it not that I were teetering, upon which precipice I do not know the answer yet. Now my eyes are upon my feet and not the heavens and I cannot decide which existence would be worse. To stare at the oncoming nightmares that swell like growths on the horizons, or to watch meekly and bleakly as the earth erodes beneath your feet. I have sway over neither, merely where my attention dwells. Despite its distance I begin to make out the details of its mass; the swirling vortex of macerated architecture orbiting about its periphery. The sum of our endeavours upon the land were caught as minnows in the wake of a whale. With its caress it cradling our cities within its outstretched arms, warping mountain ranges and diverting the currents of the seas. I spied the shapes hewn by human hands thrown like a blaze of sand grains; the orders and schools of design indistinct from the distance. I could make but the scantest details of the structures, grand cathedrals rolling into palaces before the melee subsumed them once again into the ruins that cavort as its followers had done, some time ago. There I saw the fortress walls envelope the sanctuaries of those declared heretics, listing temple columns holding aloft the vaulted roof of humanity’s knowledge until at last, for the moment, all is consumed within the aching maw that protrudes like the atrium of a prestigious city bank; from the shores of some land I had yet to visit and assumedly never will. Was it my eyes or did I spy the billowing of smoke from the depths of these vestiges of our histories. Did the trapped inhabitants eek out a conflict whose origins lay mangled and buried somewhere below; taking pot shots from undulating barricades, across spans of nothing, at minarets that wavered in the distance. I pause to listen, as if the cracks of rifles would carry the distance, all I see is the smoke. Perhaps instead the denizens strive for some return to their lives as before, the smoke evidence of some great feast I am not. Does the rattling of their cups give them comfort I wonder. The entity, whose name was known and yet our theologies felt wholly inadequate to name such a thing as it fell, burning, from the heavens. Had it risen as the sun? Had each person, in kind, pondered what purpose drove such a existence; what possessed it to draw within it all that which humanity had created for a higher cause. For within its lengthy shadows centuries of ingenuity were rendered invisible in an instant. Masonry was swallowed and ejected as howled renditions of valour and oppression mingling in inert structures; exaggerated and warped beyond breaking point. Are such actions guided by forces as yet unconcieved, we had asked before and had yet to hear a retort; was this another of our failings, to apply intentions to the forces of nature. Is such destruction a process contrived by intangible axioms set in motion before the conception of the notion of being? This thing that encapsulates the horizon, I strain to gather its proportions; does its stature only increase as the distance diminishes or does it pulsate with growth as its embraces all that lays before it. I cannot ascertain wether the open arms of the behemoth shepard all those within its grasp towards some consuming orifice, I spend my days in hope and fear of the truth of the matter. Despite its approach its dimensions become no more apparent, all that is certain is its grasp grows ever longer; I can feel it tantalising my skin. I leave the window from which I made my observances, for now it can longer be framed within its bounds; I go to meet it in the streets. I see it now, as it eclipses the sun; untethered to the horizon, for it is the horizon. The impossibilities it has bonded with human distortions are beautiful, for what else could be beautiful, there is nothing else. It is above and yet below me is open sky, its surface now crisscrossed with the streets of the city. And I fall to earth And I rise to heaven I see no mouth to consume, only a hand outstretched, beckoning me.


Sitting on my soft, leather chair late at night, I stared absent-mindedly at my cell phone. Pecking the phone with my thumbs, I searched for the entertainment that would keep me occupied for the last few hours of the day. A pale light illuminated my peripheral vision. Peering through the glass sliding door that sat opposite me in my home, I focused on its source: the motion activated light outside, attached high on the shed. I thought nothing of this short distraction, and continued my search for merriment. The light refused to deactivate. I thought this strange, and deemed to pay more mind to it. Suddenly, upon my attention being placed upon it, the light wavered and dimmed. My blood froze. Something passed the light headed leftward, towards the back door of my home. Startled, yet too panicked to make a sound, I searched my chair for the remote control to turn off the TV. As quietly as possible, I stood up and turned off the fan and light for the living room, and ducked into the closet nearest the switch. I fumbled with my phone, switching off any and all functions that would make noise. Boards creaking, Metal clanking, the back door shreiking. Each successive noise forcing my heartbeat to hasten, I closed my eyes to calm myself. The apparitions echoing steps drew closer, forcing my eyes to open out of pure self preservation. The minimal light shimmering through the small crack in the closet door dimmed and brightened. I placed my hand over my face. The echoing steps, having circled the room, began to distance themselves. Feeling relief, I removed my hand from my face. "Germs" I thought, "ill have to wash myself for that".... *vmmmmmm* A cold sweat swept over me. The blasted cell phone, seemingly silenced by my efforts to protect myself, was only set to vibrate. My life, forfeited because of a simple message. Maybe not... Thinking quickly, I slipped out of the closet, instead hiding myself behind the chair on which I had previously sat. The echoing stomps of the apparition hastily returned, finally slowing upon entering the room. It stood but 3 feet away as I peered at it from my crouched position. The space it occupied shimmered and distorted like the air over blacktop on a sunny day. It stood 8 feet tall, but with thin, spindly arms and legs like that of a 5 year old sapling. Why it sought humans, I have no knowledge. Why it was so fearsome, however, I did. The strange apparition has had a long history of appearing from nowhere, breaking into houses, and then vanishing with every soul that inhabited said houses. Once again covering my mouth, I watched as the creature opened the closet with its spindly fingers. It charred the wooden handles as it grasped them, and then flung the doors open and scooped at its contents. In a fit of what I can only assume is rage, it tore the doors off of the closet and tossed them into the center of the room. It left black, charred handprints on the places that were handled. As it protested, I snuck put my phone and took a picture of the beast, being careful to turn off the flash beforehand. Once completed with its rage, it pirouetted and jogged down the hall and out the door, evaporating as it hit the outdoor air. It burned my shoulder as it strode past. After minutes of adrenaline began to give way to careful relaxation, I once again stood up and sat on my soft leather chair. It felt as if I was melting into it. I began searching through the several photos I had taken, staring in amasement at the detail I had managed to capture. Still shaking slightly, I dialed out *9-1-1* *ringing* *ringing* *click* "hello, 911 what is your emergency?" ... "I... I think I survived the Ignaemodaem..." Thank you for reading. Leave any tips or suggestions or reactions in the comments, please.


The following is an absurdist story I wrote in five minute intervals as I waited for my boss to finish talking to clients. I mow lawns, and just like Dillan, discover all kind of strange objects hidden in the grass. Hope you weren't expecting a happy ending.  Dillan hated mowing the Petersons lawn. It was always grossly overgrown no matter how often he mowed. Pulling into the cracked concrete driveway, Dillan parked his car and pulled the mower from the trailer. There's always things that get caught in the mower, fumed Dillan as walked the mower through the broken hinged gate. Last time it was a high heel, the time before a doll head. How does it all get there? Pushing the mower through the knee high grass felt like wading through quick sand. The grass was so dense Dillan had to rip some out just to allow the mower to spin freely and start. In the corner of his eye, Dillan saw a curtain in the house move, although it was difficult to see anything through the cobwebbed window. Probably a squatter, Dillan thought to himself as he began shoving the mower inches at a time. Apparently the previous owner went to jail for murder, although some people thought he was never caught. Of course the authorities would not say that, even if it were the truth. Nobody liked the idea of a murderer on the loose, and Dillan did not like the idea of mowing his lawn. When the mower caught and stalled for the fifth time, Dillan took off the catcher and threw it across the yard. Instead of the quiet landing in the cushioning grass, there was a clag of metal against metal. Dillan waded through the grass towards the catcher. Two steps before he reached it, he kicked what felt to be a solid metal dome. Curiosity replaced the pain in his toes, and so Dillan began eagerly ripping the grass to uncover what was beneath. Roots crisscrossed, making it impossible to target one ropey length of grass. When he fell back yanking a two meter green rope from the grass, Dillan went back to the car to find secateurs. As he turned his back, what Dillan had thought was but a green rope began to slither away. With the secateurs in hand, a hole grass was quickly cut through the grass netting. Snip after snip the object beneath began to reveal itself. First to emerge from the grass was a handle, which wrapped around the metal manhole. Dillan grabbed the handle and heaved it clockwise. At first there was a squeak, then a groan as the lock gave way. When he turned the handle all it could go, Dillan pulled up. It took three goes until he found where the hinges were. On the forth he pulled so hard that he fell backwards, leaving the solid metal lid to fall inches away from his leg. Dillan stood up and brushed rust debris from his hands. He looked around the backyard to see if anyone was looking, then he looked down the tunnel he had just uncovered. A cool breeze blew from inside, calling him. Just one peek, thought Dillan, and then I'll get back to this lawn. One careful step at a time, Dillan descended down the tunnel, away from all light. Any second now, he'd touch the bottom. Any second. The deeper Dillan went into the tunnel the more his curiosity grew, as did his fear. He saw the dot of light dissipate from above. He should go back. But he must almost be at the bottom. By the time his foot hit cool earth the dot of light had disappeared completely. Dillan wandered about the chamber feeling for a wall. Once he circled the room thrice he began to panic. There was nothing here but darkness. His heart began to race as he ran, arms flailing in front of him. All logic had left him and claustrophobia set in. "Help me!" Screamed Dillan, "help me, please!" Dillan ran about the room and screamed until his voice grew raw. Hours past and there was no reply. Dillan might of slept but it was impossible to tell whether his eyes were open or closed. The only sense of time he had was waiting until his voice would recover so he could scream for help again. \*\*\* Above ground, Dillan's voice could be heard by those who lay awake in their beds. One person to hear him was a boy who lived at twenty-eight Evergreen Drive. The boy called police and drove with them around the neighborhood, trying to locate the voice, but it wasn't coming from any particular direction. "It's coming from underground," he explained, but was quickly dismissed as crazy. "How could a voice be coming from underground?" said he policeman. And so, the boy did the same as anyone else would who have experienced the extraordinary buy did not have logic on their side, he spoke no more of it. The screaming continued for the next few nights. The voice grew raspy, as if the owner had gargled nails. "Help me!" it screamed, "help me please." If only there was more to the message, a clue as to how to help him. One night, the boy went to bed and no longer heard the voice. He was not sure whether he felt relieved or guilty that he could not help in time. End \*\*\*  This is in part a true story. I was the boy who heard the screaming from underground. It happened for a few nights when I was about seventeen. I heard it for those few days alone and never again. That was six years ago and I've moved houses twice since. I always thought it was just me, I just heard something. One day my brother, who at that point was sleeping in my old room, said he also heard screaming, the same as I had, coming from no particular direction. The story of Dillan was my attempt of reconstructing what I thought could have happened.


It was late, I was chilling with my laptop in front of me and a cup of warm fruit tea in my hand. I was browsing through YouTube, looking for meaningless forms of entertainment, it was fun at least. I had clicked on a video, ‘*Planting 20 million trees around the world’*, it had started playing. "What a wonderful thing to do!” I thought. As the video reached the climax, my phone buzzed. It was on the coffee table in front of me, but I was already in a comfortable position. “It’s probably just a notification from one of my games.” I thought, “no one messages me anyway.” I decided to look at whatever notification it was after I had finished watching the video. After another 15 minutes, the video ended. At that time, I had already forgotten about the notification on my phone and clicked on another video. As I did, my phone buzzed again. I grudgingly paused the video and stretched my arm out to grab my phone. As I unlocked it, I noticed the notifications were actually messages from my best friend. I opened WhatsApp and read the messages. ‘I can’t believe it bro.’ The next message was a picture, in it was a medical report. I looked at the diagnosis. Stage 4 brain cancer. I was bewildered, I asked if he was serious and if he was joking. He was not, he was already in a hospice. I stood up, forgetting that my laptop was still on my lap, let's just say I had to buy a new laptop. But my friend was more important, I paced my room, still not believing the news. Suddenly, a ringtone. It was him, calling me. I obviously picked up. “Dude, what’s going on? Are you alright? I mean, I guess you’re not. But are you alright?” I was practically shooting questions at him, worried out of my mind. “One at a time, it’s making me lose brain cells,” he replied. “Ok, I'm sorry, what’s happening?” He started talking. Apparently, he was going for a routine medical check-up when his doctor noticed that he had weakened considerably and even fainted in the medical clinic. When he came to, he was in the hospital with an IV drip stuck in his arm. They had done some MRI scans while he was unconscious and discovered the brain tumor. It was cancerous and had already reached the final stage, there was nothing the doctors could do but help him feel comfortable. “It’s rare for people your age to develop stage 4 brain cancer, especially since you don’t have any medical conditions,” he recalls his doctor telling him. His parents broke down right there in the doctor’s office when they received the news. I took a deep breath; I could not imagine life without him. The government had footed his medical bill, so his parents could have ease of mind, but I doubt they would have peace for a while. I’m only 16, I couldn’t do much, so I visited him every day. On days where I could not visit, I would still video call him to check up on him and keep him company. About 3 weeks later, I made my usual visit, went up to his room and greeted him. We talked for a bit, we talked about life. The meaning of life, the afterlife and why we have consciousness. It was getting late; I was getting ready to leave. The doctor had predicted that he had less than a month left, I wanted to spend as much time as I could with him. I thought of asking the doctor if he could leave the hospice, but then I remembered his compromised immune system, even the common flu could kill him at this point. As I reached out for the door handle, I heard him coughing. I turned around just in time to see his EKG begin dropping rapidly. Six doctors and nurses immediately rushed into the room, pushing me aside. I started tearing up, I thought that this would be the end. Then, I heard it. The ominous alert the monitor makes when a person's heart rate has flatlined. The medical team didn’t bother resuscitating him, the cancer had already beaten him. Nothing could be done. I sobbed quietly, knowing that I could never see his face again. I recalled all the joyous moments we had together. The first time we met, the first time we bonded, the first time we went out together and finally the time I received the news. One of the nurses put his hand on my shoulder and comforted me, leading me to the chair outside his room. Hurried footsteps echoed down the hall; his parents. They collapsed in front of his bed, weeping uncontrollably. The nurses all cleared the room, giving them and the doctor some space. I head back inside. The doctor explains everything, how the morgue would handle the body and how the funeral company would help them in gaining closure. Then, something unexpected happened, after the doctor left the room, his parents hugged me thanking me. It turns out, before he had passed, he had told his parents all about me and how my visits and calls have been helping him cope with his illness. I broke down into even more tears, I knew that my visits and calls have been helping him but I did not know it helped him that much. I now know the meaning of life, or at least my rendition. Life has no meaning on its own, being there for someone during their toughest times and sticking with the people you hold dear. That’s what gives life meaning, we exist so that we can be with others who exist and vice versa. We exist as to support those around us, to be someone’s close friend. Because without a friend, you might be alive, but you are not living. As the famous quote goes: ‘A good friend is a connection to life - a tie to the past, a road to the future, the key to sanity in a totally insane world.’- Lois Wyse.


The following is a story about addiction. Sometimes it feels like you have a gnome on your shoulder making all the bad decisions for you.  We sat in a circle facing each other in the community room on a Saturday. A man with a shaggy beard stood up. "Hi everyone. My name is David and I have a gnome on my shoulder." "Hi David." "The gnome is the one who likes my beard long," began David. The group chuckled. Everyone knew gnomes didn't like you cutting your hair. They need long hair so they can hide. David finished his story by explaining how he has going to put burs in his beard to help drive the gnome away. Though everyone congratulated him on his unique idea, I was not impressed. Gnomes are smart, you can't keep them away with a couple burs in your beard. A lady dressed in pink stood up and spoke in an exaggerated formal manner. "Hello everyone, my name is Elizabeth. I had a dinner party the other night and cooked up an exquisite sea cod in a semillon sauvignon blanc sauce, but my gnome insisted I drink the whole bottle." Elizabeth looked above and put a gloved hand to her forehead in a dramatic sigh. The group comforted her, but not me. Everyone should know that gnomes get bored easily. You cannot expect them to sit quietly at a dinner party without causing mischief. The next man to stand up said he came close to catching his gnome the other day. His gnome fell off his shoulder when he was gardening. I've had something like that happen to me before and distinctly remember the moment of shock as I saw the gnome for the first time. He had always been on my shoulder and I could not imagine a life without him. The gnome, however, woke from its nap and casually climbed up my leg to once again sit on my shoulder. A man with very small glasses now had everyone's attention. He was writing frantically on a white board what we knew about gnomes and how we could outsmart them. For some time I thought I could outsmart my gnome, but he was always two steps in front. There were good days and bad, but the gnome was always there. Perhaps that was why I hesitated when my gnome fell off my shoulder. Another man was fighting for the groups attention with talk of a medicine that would drive the gnomes away. A third man pulled out nets he said could catch gnomes. One of the group members suggested they bait the gnomes to their traps, but could not think of what they eat. I watched the chaos before me and tried to retreat into my mind as I ignored the growing noise. Every Saturday people come up with the most ridiculous ways to get rid of their gnomes. Sure medicine could work, but you're going to have a hard time trying to trick the gnome into taking it. Even catching a gnome with a net could work, but what would you do when you catch it? You could try leaving your gnome somewhere but you'll miss its nagging voice and soon go back to where you left it. There is, however, one way that works and its more simple than the rest. You run. That's what I did the last time my gnome fell off my shoulder. I ran until my legs burned, then I ran some more. I ran towards a new life without a gnome on my shoulder and began discarding my unwanted memories of my past. After some time I got a stitch. I couldn't run forever. Eventually my gnome would wake up and stroll casually to me. Huffing and puffing, I ran on with no direction in mind. There was nowhere I could go where the gnome wouldn't find me. I think it's because they begin to think the way you do, living on your shoulder. I tried constructing mental images of my new life without my gnome, but I couldn't shake the feeling that he would come back. Nor could I imagine what a normal life would be like. Without a gnome on my shoulder making snide remarks at the absurdity of life, I'm no longer mocking it, but joining it. My run had dropped to a jog. I would not be able to relate to those who have never had a gnome on their shoulder. Not that I would find anyone who would believe me when I said I used to have a gnome on my shoulder. One that made bad decisions for me. Everyone who has not experienced the madness a gnome brings into your life, would think I'm crazy. My jog had slowed to a walk. I circled the block a few times then went home. I wasn't sure whether it was my conscious choice, or the gnome calling me through a spell. That day, I walked past this community center, several times actually, and noticed a drawing of a gnome at the door. That was a some time ago and I'd been coming here each Saturday since. Though I'm doubtful of the strange ways to catch gnomes this mismatch group comes up with, it is a comfort to see others who knows what it is like to have a gnome on your shoulder. I looked to the women dressed in pink, then at the bearded man. There was no one person gnomes liked. It could be anyone. And so, I listen to what they have to say, hoping one day they'll discover the miracle cure.  \*\*\*  The room opposite was booked by the groups' gnomes. They too sat in a circle frantically drawing on whiteboards. They were not, however, coming up with ways to leave their human, but rather ways to keep them coming back. They wrote lists and lists of ideas. They're crafty little bugger, gnomes.


Neighbors “There he goes again,” The old man spat out with derision. On the cusp of retirement, he couldn’t have been more than 60. His solid grey comb-over, fooling no one, appeared to be painted on the top of his head; and a salt-a-pepper goatee, which he thought fashionable- much to his wife’s dismay. “He needs to learn some respect,” The wife responded pointedly, “My mother would have beaten me over the head had I acted in such a manner.” “Parents are too soft on kids these days. My parents used to kick us out of the house and tell us not to come back until supper’s ready! If I even thought about disrespecting my elders my father’s belt would be off before I could blink! Look at us, we turned out fine,” he punctuated with a long drag on his cigarette, “People like him are ruining this country.” The wife grunted in solidarity, effectively returning them to the silence that drowned out their lives. Their marriage was a product of their time, something they referred to as “Traditional American Values,” whatever that meant. One of their many mantras designed to rationalize the abundance of change around them. Words, to them, did not simply abide by their dictionary definitions. To the old man and his wife, letters and syllables and phrases all combined to meet one basic threshold: reinforce their stagnant, preconceived ideology. The old man and his wife had been together for over forty years, and it showed. They could hardly stand to be in the same room together, conversations were sparse and generally conflicting; in fact the only time they seemed to get along was when reminiscing about the glory of their youth. High school sweethearts, they devoted their lives together at eighteen years old- kids. Together they made the rounds; they went to college, they bought a house and they had children. Now with an empty nest, it was time for them to progress to the next stage of their life. Though they had bought their house for a sizable $40,000 at the time, their property was now worth a staggering $300,000, and since the wife had decided that she'd had enough of the brutal northern winters, they were to move south in retirement upon the sale of their family home. The old man and his wife had big plans over the coming years. They would travel and visit the beautiful scenery the Earth has to offer, eat expensive food and wash it down with expensive drinks. They had both dreamed of this their entire lives, this is what they had worked for. Though neither of them wished to be there with each other, and more notably neither the old man, nor his wife, would be able to cope with society moving past them. \- - - - - A young man walked down the sidewalk with confidence. His brown hair drifting with the wind, and youthful blue eyes that pierced through the people with which he conversed. Music blaring through his wireless earbuds and cigarette lit, there was but one thought on his mind, “What an amazing time to be alive.” As he turns the corner off of the main road back to his house, a new subject becomes the prime topic of his thought, his neighbors house. A fine house, he had no objections to its architecture, but to the people inside. He had never met them, yet there burned a passionate distaste for them in his soul. His eyes were glued to the top of the flagpole on the property. “How can anyone believe in this bullshit?” He pondered as he raised a carefully selected middle finger towards the red flag, “Fucking assholes.


A girl bathed in the light of the empty moons, the dying of the light from an ancient sun reflected upon her skin as she floated wordlessly. The memories of all those who had lived, died, and yet to be echoed around her, but she did not hear them. She stared upwards, red eyes glistening like an ruby by the fireplace, as the quiet waters pulled her further down the stream of time and space. For an eternity she had drifted, in a senseless slumber. The ruins of existence she passed, a faint illumination across the valley of insights bringing clarity to the view. No shadows danced or waited to strike here, the girl was safe. But she did have one clear voice in her head. She remembered her first friend. A meager soldier fighting a war of his own. His face was hidden behind that long blond hair, but she knew those green eyes must still exist. Helpless to free herself from the endless pull of destiny, she felt more and more voices go silent, as the immortal sun began to share its last, dying breaths. Her skin began to silver, her hair already metallic in coloration, as she began to shiver for the first time in millennia. Though she was still entrapped in these restless yet quiet waters, she closed her eyes. She could sense his battles, growths, and failures through the ages. Wars ended and began with him. And all the while, he searched for his friend. His friend that he loved so dearly. But, he began to change. Though she had managed to calm his nature down, he fell back down into the darkness of his own eternal torment. Every fight brought him closer to the very being he feared becoming. And even upon looking at his encroaching fate, he pushed further. "Even when the stars go dark, and there is no matter left in this plane of existence, I shall find you. I shall bring you home." His words were felt by her, but she was powerless to guide him to his own happiness. His anger, violence, and brutality became overwhelming. But time and time again, she watched as he broke down, realizing he could never have his friend back the way they had once been. And as the universe grew cold, as the stars indeed did go dark, he wandered. Even when he was the last being remaining, he refuse to give up. He had to find his friend, even if there was nothing left of her but a dress. The girl began to weep as she saw him drawing closer. In the ruins of the home they once shared, her eyes closed, and her breathing became shallow. As the immortal star above faded into a mere glint of dying light, he found her, in the frozen over waters, her body with not a hint of life in it. The silvered body had a singular tear frozen on her cheeks. He screamed into the emptiness of forever, and clutched her body as the light went out, and the universe collapsed around him. He stood, bringing her up with him, in the void of everything. He had once again lost his reason to exist. But he would be denied the chance to be with his first friend. Though the tear on her face gave the element of sadness, in her final moments, the silver dreamer of a gentle night wished that peace would befall her first and final friend, who had promised her the world.


I have an unusual relationship with Death. It’s very much a “will they, won’t they” situation. Sometimes he sits at the foot of my bed and just… watches. Like a vulture. I noticed the glimpses of flirtation when I was still mobile and strong, despite his best efforts. The undercooked meat, the neighbor boy’s skateboard left at the top of the stairs, the car that whizzes past a moment too soon for success. He first appeared to me in the cold, rotted flesh the day he took my cat. Perfectly healthy one day, stiff as a board the next. He had crawled into the cabinet under the sink to be alone. To die alone. I found him there early in the morning. I buried him in my backyard, frost steaming off the grass in the rising dawn. The attendees were myself and Death. “Sorry about that,” said a disembodied voice. I didn’t turn to look. I’d sensed him three steps behind me for the last several days. I knew him as well as he knew me. “Don’t apologize,” I said firmly, staring at the new plot of loose dirt in the grass. “Don’t apologize for things you don’t regret.” He was silent for a moment. “There’s always room for you, my dear,” he said finally. “Any time you like. Any way you like.” My eyes felt hot and watery. “Why me?” I asked. “Why does it have to be me?” The lump in my throat was rising. “Because, my dear, you’re the only one I’ve ever loved. And you’ll join me, eventually. Would you like that day to be today?” My hands were balled into fists. “Fuck you.” I should have known that he would take Scott. He thought that if he just kept taking things from me, I’d be left with nothing. I’d follow him. I should have known, I should have known. I never told Scott about Death. He would have thought I was crazy. I should have stayed away from him, I should have saved him from the fate that befalls everything I come to love. I should have never answered the phone when he called me, but that foolish little girl heart inside me jumped at the chance to hear his voice. Scott was warm and safe. He was good and pure and sweet and soft and dead. Because of me. That time when Death appeared, I felt no urge to cry. The wet rage I felt when he took my cat was gone, and in its place was heavy numbness, my insides replaced with cold stones. Death spoke to me and I didn’t respond. Couldn’t respond. “He didn’t feel a thing,” said Death. “I made it painless, anaesthetized.” I was sitting in an armchair, looking out the window. It should have been raining, but instead it was a beautiful, sunny day, and everyone outside would comment on what a lovely day it was, and they would have no idea that it wasn’t a lovely day at all, and each and every one of them could go fuck themselves. “You could join him.” I didn’t look. Wouldn’t entertain the idea. I would die and end up wherever dead people go and I’d be whisked away to be Death’s concubine. I’d never see Scott again. But I had one idea. My voice was raspy. “I’ll trade you,” I said. “Trade?” “I’ll go if you bring back Scott and let him live.” The words felt empty. I did not desire death, but I was becoming indifferent about it. Death chuckled. “That’s very romantic of you. I’m impressed.” “Then do it.” I stared with lifeless eyes at the shadows under the trees. They danced back and forth in silence. Death sighed. “You know I can’t do that, my love.” I closed my eyes. Back and forth, the shadows danced on the sidewalk. It wasn’t long before he got more direct. He was growing impatient. He had chosen his weapon of attack, and it left me bedridden, in a perpetual state of fever dream, life escaping my body with every breath. My universe stretched to the walls of the hospital room. Life was something that happened to you while you slept. Scott was asleep when he died, so he never watched it approach. But we all have hellhounds, I suppose. Death appeared and stood at the foot of my bed. For the first time, I looked in his eyes. “Why me?” I whispered softly. “Because you’re the only one I’ve ever loved.” I turned away. “That was never my choice.” “Perhaps not, but you still have one last choice to make, my dear,” he said softly. Death held out his hand.


I wish I could remember the first time I met you. The inciting incident of our relationship, so to speak. But the bitter truth is, I can't. People have told me how we met, two little girls barely out of toddlerhood screaming at the top of their lungs and chasing your escaped pet rabbit down the street. It must have been a sight to behold. I have no recollection of that, and neither have you, probably. As it stands, the earliest memory I have of you is a four year old girl with a smile that dimples her cheeks and makes the world light up, two dark, thick twin braids over your shoulders in a white, poofy dress. You were the only one of us kids who wore white clothes; the minute the rest of us stepped outside, we would be covered in dirt and grime. Not you, though, never you. When we were eight, we found a bird's nest at the base of an old tree, blown down and apart by the last night's storm, the eggs still inside, broken. And you cried. You mourned the unborn life once contained in those eggs, and the pain their parents must feel, and I stood by, debating with myself if pointing out the mangled bird-corpse by the bushes that was most likely the mother, struck down by the storm, would make you feel better or worse. I grew up on a farm, and you grew up in a nice one-family-home with a small garden. I saw death nearly every day, but I saw life, too. You were removed from those realities for a very long time, and only years later did I realise what had made you so upset that day; you were confronted, for the first time, with how powerless you were, and how unfair life was. A few months after that, our chicks started hatching, and I took you to see them, because while I was almost sure you had already forgotten about the day after the storm, I hadn't forgotten your puffy eyes and tear-stained cheeks, and I wanted to give you something to smile about. When we were eleven, my grandma died. She was out in the stables, tending to her favourite cow she so loved, when she just keeled over and wouldn't wake anymore; at least that's what Uncle had said. I think you were sadder than I was. My grandma was a tough lady, she raised three sons all on her own after grandad took a horse-hoove to the face when he was thirty-one, she survived two wars, one major heart-break when the uncle I never even knew decided he had had enough of the countryside and up and left, never to be seen again, and then survived the second heart-break when my Ma and Pa ran off the road in the curvy patch, leaving only me and Uncle and Grandma and the animals. But Grandma never gave up, she lived on, no matter what anyone threw at her. She would have wanted me to be strong, like her. It was a big funeral concession, despite our oh so small family. Half the village was crammed into the old church to pay their respects, and so were you and your family. You cried so hard when they put her in the ground, and your mother hugged you, and I stood there with dry eyes and took Uncle's hand when he started shaking, because that's what Grandma would have done. The next day when you came over, I got us some biscuits and sat us down on the sofa, and I showed you old photo-albums, big and clunky ones that covered both our laps. You put your head on my shoulder, and you smiled, just a little. When we were fifteen, Uncle got married. It was the party of the year, as any good wedding ought to be. Uncle and his wife were radiant, so happy, and Uncle's best friend and I were co-best-men, and he played the guitar while I sang at the reception, and Uncle cried, his new wife by his side, rubbing his arm. You cried too, because of course you were there, you in your beautiful, flowing red dress and your dark hair pinned back. An image of you in a white dress flashed before my eyes, and I took to drinking. I took two bottles of wine from the bar, grabbed you by the arm and went outside before my new aunt threw the bouquet, because I couldn't handle the thought of that. We sat, and we drank, and you looked beautiful in the moonlight, but I didn't tell you that. I walked you home hours later, in the early hours of a summer-morning, the kind where the first rays of the sun climbed the horizon when you weren't ready yet. You hugged me good-bye and I stumbled on home, off-balance now as your arm wasn't wrapped around mine anymore, and I laid down in the front-yard to watch the sun rise. I fell asleep there and woke up hours later to a group of kids from down the street poking me with a stick and loudly debating if I was dead. A fair question, I thought at the time, hungover and face down in a bushel of grass. When we were six-teen, I graduated, and you did not. I started working on the farm full-time, because that's what my family does, and you kept going to school. Around that time, your parents stopped liking me. At first, I was afraid they had caught me trying to make you smile, or the way my own smile tended to linger when I was around you, but then I realised they must have thought me a bad influence. A distraction, and one always covered in dirt at that. To them, a dirty child living on a farm must have been more acceptable than a dirty adult living on a farm, especially when that dirty adult liked to come over to spend time with their precious daughter, who would without a doubt go on to become a lawyer or an accountant when she played her cards right. They didn't think you were playing your cards right, spending time with me. I started seeing you less and less, but I also got a lot busier, with the calving and the chicks and the pigs giving birth and one of the farm-hands breaking his arm, so we quite literally were two hands short- and suddenly one year had passed, and then two, and you had graduated. I drove to the city in Uncle's old truck just to see your graduation, to watch you positively beam when they handed you your certificate; you, on that stage, in a beautiful violet dress with your hair up, even though I imagined it down. I wondered how you would wear your hair when your dress would be white, but at that point, your parents had been alerted to my being there, and your father frowned at me as if he heard my thoughts, so I left and took that image with me. That evening, you came by the farm dressed in a blue blouse and dark jeans, and your hair was finally down, and you told me your parents had said I was at the graduation, and I told you of course I was. You told me you had set your heart on a university already, in a city so, so far from home, so far from me, and I smiled and bore it. Then you asked me if I would stay here, always, and I told you yes, I would stay here, always. It's what my family does, after all. We sat in the front-yard and watched the stars and talked, quietly. I knew you were going to leave, I had always known, and yet it hurt. It would hurt me as much to watch you go as it had hurt Grandma to watch my unknown uncle go, it already hurt so much I could cry, but I didn't, I wouldn't, not as long as you were still here, and as long as I could take after you were gone. The street-lights turned off and we sat under just the starry sky when I said I didn't want you to go and you said you didn't want to leave me. I asked you if you would ever get married and you said yes, and you asked me the same, and I said no, and my heart cracked. A few months later, you were getting ready to move to the far away city you had told me about, and my heart grew heavier and heavier. The day you left, we stood in front of your father's car together, the moving-van had already driven off earlier. You told me to come visit you sometime, but both of us knew that wouldn't happen. The way was too far, and the farm too big. I told you I loved you, but you didn't understand, because you said it back. We hugged, and you cried, the tears still wet on your cheeks when you got into the car and your father started to drive. I stood there for a long time and only headed home when the air began to cool. I laid down in the front-yard and watched the sun set, my heart burning as though someone was putting their cigarette out on it, and my eyes watering from me refusing to blink and miss a moment of the sunset. I didn't see you for years. We talked on the phone every week, sometimes even twice, but it wasn't enough, never enough for my burning heart. When we were twenty-six, you told me you would be getting married. You had found a job in the city you went to university in, and you had found a man, and you were going to marry him and live in that cursed city with him and maybe have children with him and raise a family. Meanwhile, I would be on the farm with Uncle and his wife, raising calves and chicks and piglets. You asked me if I would come to your wedding, and I said I couldn't. I couldn't make the trip, and I wouldn't be able to bear seeing you in that white dress. Some time later I asked you if you would wear your hair up or down, and you said up, and with a sour taste on my tongue, I thought of course. When we were twenty-eight, you had your first baby, and when we were thirty-one, you had your second. You send me pictures and I didn't know what to do with them. When we were thirty-five, Uncle died. I inherited the farm and hired some more help, and I held my aunt's hand at the funeral. I told you over the phone and you cried, and I could hear your husband consoling you. You said you would have come down for the funeral, and I didn't know what to say to that. A week later, you pulled up in front of the farm and came rushing up the front steps to hug me, crush my heart between our chests and cling to me. I clung right back. We went inside and looked through old photos, and you told me stories about your children and your husband, and I told you that last year, one of the cows had triplets, and that was the big talk of the village for a good couple months. We had even gotten a proper party out of it. After you got back in your car, I didn't see you for a long time. Longer than before, a whole lifetime for some. When we were fifty-three, your children were grown and your husband had left. You didn't really tell me why, but I also didn't need to know. I was mucking out the stables when the wooden door squeaked open and you came in. I leaned on my pitch-fork and stared, the sun behind you catching on silver streaks in your dark hair, open around your shoulders. You were old, but not as old as me. That evening, we ended up in the front-yard with a couple of beers each, and you asked me why I never married. I said I had told you long ago, so long, the day you had left to never come back. »You mean when you said you loved me?« you say. »Yes,« I say. You don't say anything for a long time. »I always loved you,« you say, finally. I stare up at the dark, brightly dotted sky, and take a sip of beer. »I don't think it matters now.« »It could,« you say, insistent. I turn to look at you, the orange street-light painting valleys across your face, but my eyes water, so I close them. »Fine,« I say, »then stay.« Your hand covers mine, and I screw my eyes shut tighter, to keep the wetness from spilling. »I will,« you say, and hold my hand as my tears begin to fall.


Ramadan is an Islamic holiday that lasts 30 days in which Muslims throughout the world fast and refrain from eating food and drinking any liquid. Essentially forbidding to have any sustenance or nutrition from sunrise to sundown. It doesn’t occur at the same time each year because Ramadan is based on the lunar calendar and moves back 10 days each year. So this year it started on April 24, next year it will start on April 14. It’s not just a physical fast, but a spiritual one as well. It’s a month to build good habits nd become closer to god. Some Muslims try to quit bad habits during this month, some build good habits. Everyone sets a goal of having a good habit built by the end of Ramadan. You wake up before sunrise to eat and pray, then return to sleep. Then if you have a job, you go about your day as normal. You break your fast at sundown. Depending on where you live, a person can fast from 8 hours to 18 hours to 22 hours. A favorite habit of mine is eating a fruit when I break my fast. Fruits become extremely flavorful when your tongue isn’t covered in what you usually eat. One thing you quickly notice is how much time you spend eating and drinking during the day. You have lots of free time and, luckily, classes coincided with Ramadan so I can busy myself with work. But it’s very difficult to get stuff done because the lack of food and water makes you really groggy. The first 10 days, you really notice the physical effects. I usually feel exhausted waking up. As if I had a heavy exercise the day before, my muscles ache with soreness and pain every morning making it difficult to get out of bed. The body takes time to acclimate to fasting. Your energy levels fluctuate as your body grows accustomed to the fasting state. Sometimes I find I have the same amount of energy or more once I get out of bed and start my day. Sometimes you wake up starving and dehydrated.The body takes time to acclimate to fasting. It’s difficult to keep a consistent exercise routine because too heavy of a workout can cause some problems. Coughing fits that last a while, extreme dehydrations, cramps, and other problems I haven’t personally experienced. There are plenty of health benefits of fasting such as cleaning your body from toxins and the unhealthy foods you eat. Ramadan is time to create better habits and break bad habits. You are given 30 days to try to break bad habits and start good ones. You do your best and carry on the good habits when Ramadan is over. Along with the benefits and consistent exhaustion, the dreams during fasting become strange. Some people I know have had spiritual awakenings in dreams, I’ve had similar experiences but not to the extent they have described. My dreams are usually strange and sometimes metaphorical. My dreams this Ramadan have been strange each day and that has been consistent since 2018. I once had a dream of being a cat who could predict the future but no one believed. The most poignant dream I had this year was my walking into a room and seeing friends and family I haven’t seen in 10+ years. It was a great seeing old friends even though it was a dream. I guess I just miss my friends. Especially now, during the shutdown, I’ve realized something that I hadn’t realized before. Ramadan is not just a fast from your usual habits. It’s not just a way to become more spiritual. It’s a practice of humility.


How I became acquainted with young Timothy Preston is from most unfortunate circumstances. A bright and happy boy at the age of 4, Timothy was as energetic and fun-loving as any other growing child. During the day, you could see him splashing around in a puddle, fussing with his mother about the need to put on a sweater, or running around the house with muddy soles. Always making such a ruckus. By day he was a playful, charming little boy. When the sun set, young Timothy buttoned right up. He would become uncharacteristically quiet and when it came time for bed he would happily go to his room to be tucked in by his mother. “Mommy?” he asked this particular night. “Are monsters real?” “No honey, monsters aren’t real.” “Sometimes there’s a monster in my dream. He wants to be friends. He’s a little boy just like Pinocchio! We do all kinds of fun things.” His mother smiled. “That’s so nice of him.” She kissed him on the forehead and began walking to the door. “Remember, you are always safe here baby” The door closed, blanketing the room in a midnight blue. With the dim light coming from a small table lamp in the corner of the room, Timothy turned to go to sleep. It was then that I decided to make my move. I slipped out from underneath his bed and got real close to his face. The little angel was already trying to sleep! “Hey buddy! It’s me!” Timothy opened up his eyes with a face showing no surprise. “Am I dreaming already?” he innocently asked. “Yes Timothy. You are dreaming!” I couldn’t help but to smile. “And I have plans for tonight. We are going to have so much fun!” “I don’t feel like I’m dreaming” Timothy’s face scrunched up as he brought his hand up to rub his nose. “That’s when we can have the most fun! I will be right back”. I went down under his bed and grabbed a kitchen fork for my new friend. “Here take this” “A fork?” Timothy asked quizzically. Always such a curious little guy. “Why can’t we fly again like last night, or save another princess from a bad guy’s castle?” “Oh but this is going to be so much more fun! You have to trust me Timothy. Now get out of bed and go on up to your nightlight. Be very quiet, part of the fun is to not get caught!” Timothy slid out of his bed very quietly like the good obedient boy he is and crept up to the low light of the table lamp. “Ok Timothy, see that spot right under the plug for your nightlight? The little slits in the wall?” He nodded his little head. “I want you to take this fork and jam it right in there. If you think hard enough, your fork will go through the wall and into the most delicious chocolate cake you have ever tasted.” I shivered with excitement as his eyes lit up in anticipation, just as he was about to be lit up himself. For months I had been watching. I had been entering his dreams every night, learning more about him. Learning his likes and dislikes (He LOVES chocolate cake!). Learning his routines. Gaining his trust. It was finally time to bring him back home with me. To keep him forever. Timothy reared his hand back and closed his eyes. “You really gotta jab it in there Timothy!” my voice trembling for the moment to come. He closed his eyes and plunged the fork forward. My wide smile quickly disappeared when I realized he missed his target. In closing his eyes, he went too far up and got his arm caught up in the lamp plug, sending it flying off the table with a loud crash. For a moment, I was furious. He had ruined my plan. Tonight had been the night… But I couldn’t let this be the end. No. It was far from over. His mother came running into the room not 20 seconds later. “Timmy! Are you okay?” She turned on the light to see the broken lamp and her son sitting in front of the wall with a fork. “What on earth are you doing honey?” “I was dreaming Mommy” “Oh sweetie, come back to bed. Here” She picked him up and laid him back down in his bed, taking the fork out of his hand. “I will clean up the glass. Don’t move a muscle mister!” As she headed toward the door, she then spotted me on the floor. She stopped. “Timmy…” She picked me up. “Maybe Pinocchio will keep you safe tonight” And placed me gently beside him on the bed, my permanent, smiling gaze fixed on his overtired little face. Another night, Timmy.


Water first beaded, and then ran in trembling rivulets down the corrugated surface of the bulging panels. Josiah took a step back. The walls looked like puss filled blisters, and they were now spewing, creaking, splitting softly at the apex. All he could manage was the single step back; sultry terror radiated through his neck and shoulders. All at once, the blister on the north wall (for he now knew that is what it was) burst with damp "BLEP" and spilled its contents on the floor. It was yellow now, and it WAS puss; thick and sticky sweet. It pooled like warm banana custard at his petrified feet and he could feel (sense) it sucking, lapping, making wet love to the soles of his sneakers. "O-oh fucking CHRIST!" He whisper-screamed through clenched teeth; his lips pulled back; stretched white in a grotesque parody of a grin. There was nothing in his mind now except the afore mentioned maddening terror; not life, not the fact that he was in a shit-hole-in-the-wall gas station restroom, not his wife and daughter, patiently awaiting his return in the small SUV outside. The fucking warmth, no HEAT coming from the sickly stuff gluing him to the floor was now at an unbearable depth of feel. It had reached his ankles now and began to swell over the sides of his shoes and into his socks. He could feel it flowing like viscous oil between his toes. "FuckfuckfuckingfuckfuCKFUCKFUCKFAKCKAUFUCK!" He had begun to scream. It was all he could do. Not a man's scream but that of a child being held down on the examination table for his first round of shots. He screamed with a primal terror that he had yet to experience in his entire life. It was NEW and fresh and crystal clear. It rattled like panes of shattering glass in his throat and oh god now it was blood. Blood was following the puss from the ragged and sagging holes in the wall. It was not blood all at once however; the blood mingled with the tallow puss and they mixed like strawberry milk. Strands of darker yellow danced lazily around in this pink nightmare; aberrant streaks of blackish red tangled with these and he saw that they were clots, and he still screamed. As it poured into his wide mouth, passed over his ridged tongue and "Glup-glup-glupped" down his spasming neck, he reached, in his terror, a sudden clarity. "I am dying. Dying early. One way or another." He now willing swallowed the ghastly liquid and awaited darkness with stoic resignation. . . . Clare fussed in her car seat. Vanessa hushed her gently, lovingly. "Daddy is coming honey. Hoooshhhh now baby, daddy is just in the bathroom. Ooh and he bringing snackies for mommy and his favorite little girl!" She smiled as the little girl sucked in her tears and bit her lip in the "Iwanna" pout. Her little one quieted with momentary patience, she swiveled in her seat and peered into the nicotine stained windows of the citgo. Her husband's cancer was only newly diagnosed, but it was bad. They had decided to forgo treatment (fat lot of good it would have done) and had instead decided on a big family vacation. (Spend some time before they couldnt) One last "Big blowout" "Damn the savings! Let's go to the beach!" They had given him 6 months. What kind of a fucking life sentence that was. "Six months to life, 4 on good behavior and not a second less!" It pained him greatly at times and they had made a few bathroom breaks since they left the house this morning. Six hours from home, ten gas station bathrooms later and here they sat. Vanessa crossed her legs and bounced a little against the leather passenger seat. She felt bad to rush him but wished he would hurry. She needed to use the bathroom somthing awful.


"Good morning everyone, welcome to today's safari! We'll be taking a short trip into the jungle today for a little joke-spotting! Finding jokes in this environment is a bit difficult because they always camouflage themselves, so make sure you’re alert!" "So will they be hiding, then?" "Yes! The first thing you should know is that they're always hidden in plain sight. You know, that's why it takes a minute to get the joke sometimes- oh, about that! If you do spot a joke, please do not make too much noise! Many of them are shy and have a habit of getting away from you very quickly. All right? Everyone ready?" "Yes sir, we're ready!! Let's go!" "Good luck, everyone! Let's find some JOKES!!" "Yayyyy!!!" *The jeep containing the tourists and the joke safari warden rumbles off into the dust.* *A little time passes; the jeep slows at the threshold of the forest.* "Everyone!! Everyone!!" "Yes? Did you see anything, Mr. Warden?" "Yes! Look over there, next to that old tree stump!" "Next to wha- OOOOOOOOOOHHH!!" *The crowd stares at the oddity for a few seconds; cameras click until the warden shushes them.* "Now, keep it down, keep it down, you don't want to scare it away." "We're sorry, sir. What is it?" "Well, this, ladies and gentlemen, is your fairly common one-liner. These things are everywhere. It's no surprise that we found one so quickly!" "What's special about this one, Mr.Warden?" "Well, not much, really. Not much a setup, just a short play on a well-known idiom here. All put into one or two sentences. No depth at all, but it's good for the odd chuckle once in a while. That's why they're so common. Most of these fellas require no active thought, but they do the job!" *Expectant silence from the tourists. The one-liner looks at them and shouts out a sentence.* *"Why are cabbages generous? Because they have big hearts!"* "There we go! Did you all hear that?" *The crowd appreciates it.* "Wow! Hahaha! That was funny!" "Well, that's about it for this one, then. Let us be off! Lots more to see!" "Where to next, Mr.Warden?" "You see that dung over there? That was left by a pun! Let's follow the trail!" "Yayyy!!!" *The jeep continues on its lonely way.* *The warden hears a soft grunting noise near a little pool; he stops the jeep immediately.* "Ladies and gentlemen, your attention please! Listen up!" "Yes, Mr.Warden? Did you find the pun?" "I can hear it grazing near that water body to our right." "Oh, goodie!!" "Now, we'll have to take a look at it from here, because I see another joke grazing at the exact same place! We seem to have got lucky here. I propose we look at this pun with our binoculars; we'll be able to see it and hear what it says from here. After that, we will quietly circle around the water body to see our next joke, because it's a bit rare and very shy. All right?" "Sure, Mr. Warden. We'll do exactly what you tell us to do." "All right. Quietly now." *The pun casts a sideways look at the tourists and speaks in a subdued grunt:* *"Can't find your skull in the forest? No need to panic. Don't lose your head."* *The pun suddenly spreads its wings and flies above the jeep and away, squawking loudly.* "So, that was a pun, everyone." "Um… Mr.Warden…Well…" "What's the matter, everyone? You all look confused." "Um… Well, that joke flew over our heads…" "Yes it did. Oh, well. No matter. Let's move on. Some puns are like that. It takes time to sink in once in a while, you know?" "All right, Mr.Warden." “That's the spirit! Let's move on. Please stay quiet.” *The Jeep quietly rolls over to the other side of the lake. The warden lowers his voice to a whisper.* "Here we are on the other side, everyone. Now for this next sighting, please be careful. This next joke reacts quickly and aggressively to contact, so try not to alert it to our presence. It's known as the 'insult' or 'offensive' joke. Now if you will just look to your left-" *Someone coughs loudly.* "Oh no! It knows we're here! Everyone please be careful. Let's be quiet-" *The same person coughs again; he's holding a joint in his hand.* "You idiot! Put that out right now! Insult jokes are very sensitive to smell!! Here it comes. Be careful." *An ugly offensive joke comes into view. It looks scrawny and angry. There is a hideous scowl on its face. It stares at the stoned man and screams.* *"People like you are why koalas get made fun of. At least they don’t stink up every place they exist in or make stupid jokes that even a hyena wouldn’t laugh at."* *It growls once more and turns to a slightly rotund woman who looks rather scared.* *"Look at this walking piece of lard over here. Do you know that your daily caloric intake can stop world hunger? I don’t think a mathematical symbol exists that can represent your size. You know, out here, hippopotamuses get so much abuse they don’t deserve, not when there's a tub of goo like you waddling around. Go solve humanity’s energy problems. You have the gas for it, I’m sure."* *Much to the tourists' displeasure, the offensive joke starts to urinate openly in front of the jeep.* "Oh god! The smell! What on earth-" "Everyone keep calm!" "Mr. Warden! Mr. Warden! Let's go somewhere else. This stench is unbearable!" "No. We have to wait for it to finish, or else it will chase behind us." "But Mr.Warden! Why is it doing that?" "It's taking the piss. These jokes often do that. Well, I can’t say we didn’t deserved it." "We're sorry, Mr. Warden." "Well, it's all right. It was bound to happen. When people don’t follow simple rules on this jeep, one can't expect a joke not to take the piss. It always will. Anyway, we ought to be moving. And sir, throw that joint away, please. You've spoilt this sighting." *The stoned man laughs only to instantly get a shot of offensive urine in his face.* *Everyone guffaws as he throws his doobie away.* *The warden signals to the driver and the jeep takes off for the next sighting of the day.* *Three hours and many jokes later, the jeep stops in front of a cave. Everyone is a bit tired, groaning and moaning about how late it is.* "All right, everyone. We're here. This is the last joke for the day." "Mr. Warden, what's this one?" "You’ll see. Shhh. Here it comes. Is everyone ready? Please be on your guard. This joke is-” *The warden stops speaking as his face goes hideously pale. He is stricken by a sudden fear.* "Mr.Warden?" "We've bitten off more than we can chew here. This is not usually at this cave. Let's all stay together and get through this. This is not safe at all. Please pray." "But- but-" "Quiet! Pray." *They pray.* "All right, everyone. Be on your guard. We may not make it out of this one alive." *The group huddles together. Suddenly there is a sound and a joke walks out of the cave.* *One lady faints.* *This joke is grotesque and fearsome. It pants and drools as it circles the jeep, thirsty for blood.* "The anti-joke. Please take care, everyone. Here it comes." *The anti-joke roars, a frightful sound that causes the group to collectively shiver. It speaks.* *"Once upon a time, there lived a poor man. All he wanted to do was to buy a toy car for his little son, but he could not afford it. Each day he cried and cried, hoping for some luck. But alas, fate eluded him. One dark night, he decided to kill himself by walking into traffic. But, as fate would have it, he sprained his leg, so he couldn't walk. So he couldn't kill himself that night. He decided to sleep and try again the next day. While he was asleep, he had a dream that a genie came to him and told him to say the word ‘Pringle’ three times in the morning, and he would be rich. When he woke up, he said it three times, and Lo and Behold! He was surrounded by riches beyond imagination. He was ecstatic as he could finally buy that toy car for his son.* *One hour later, he got run over by a bus."* *Everyone in the jeep is rendered unconscious. They remain knocked out until a jeep carrying the next batch of tourists finds them and rushes them back to safety.* *Five people die and four are paralyzed, including the warden.* *The stoned man survives without complications, as he was high when the group ran into the anti-joke.* *The lucky ones who survived have never gone near humour again.


Eyes of a woman crying. Eyes open, watery and frightened. Another survivor of the animal attacks. The other was not so lucky to bleed only tears. "All night long." she sniffled with a trembling voice from the crying. "How did you know it had left, if you never saw it?" Detective Mjölby wondered about another anomaly in her story. She consistently made no sense. She was trying to explain something and it was hard to explain. She just sobbed. Unable to get any more information from Mrs. Pearson, Detective Mjölby left her alone at his desk and went outside. The evening was very quiet, a warm sunset in a silent and long evening. The air was stale and thick but with some of the morning mists that had never quite faded from every swampy corner. Now frogs chirped merrily. How could this world be so full of rancor and vice? He had often wondered that. But this, some animal, all made man's sins seem different somehow. Detective Mjölby had always found humans to be the source of ultimate savagery and predation. Maybe nature had something to say about that. He returned to the lab and listened to Mark and Earl. The two men had similar voices and switched roles as dumbass and smartass as they discussed the topic of the stuff of nightmares while eating sandwiches. Mark put his down and lit a cigarette in the lab. Detective Mjölby cleared his throat and therefore announced himself. The toothpick that followed was the beginning of more chewing, more face-touching. It never ceased, but information could be useful now, even if it wasn't. Detective Mjölby was okay with such a contradiction. Nothing was making any sense anyway. “Well if they do have a lab with ebola, somebody somewhere is eventually living next door to it, relatively speaking, of course.” Mark pointed something out from earlier in their conversation. “For nerdom” Detective Mjölby raised a shot he had poured from Mark's desk and drank it and listened. “My notes?” Mark requested from under the bottle. “Man's best friend.” Earl brought up an image of a dog. "The hair of the dog that bit you?" "It is a dog. We know that. What else?" Detective Mjölby griped. “This is the one true story of the invisible dog as it actually happened in 2018. All the events in this story are real and all of the people and places are totally real. Invisible dogs are real.” Mark explained as they showed images of flowers, insects and reptiles and strands of DNA. This guy and his 'power point presentations'. “The” Earl frowned and pointed and said: “Daphavirus” and then explained: “It is a South American virus that used to only affect a certain species of firefly in South America, now modified to affect reptiles. They made a chameleon turn invisible.” "Who did?" Detective Mjölby was standing up. "Who do you think?" Mark chastised. "The military industrial complex did this. Made this thing. It is...a conspiracy." Earl added. "I have real detective work to do here. This thing kills some people and leaves others. That is a pattern, shows motive, human motive. What can I do with a pattern except follow it, use it to predict and stop this thing." Detective Mjölby told his clownish lab geeks. "Sorry boss. What you want us to tell you then?" Mark chewed food. “If all these people's lives connect at some intersecting moment, then where is the intersection? Where is the connection?” Detective Mjölby requested. He gestured to the place where the victims' remains were. “We have some shit, don't we?” Earl raised his glasses back up on his nose and lit his own smoke. “We have twelve victims of the invisible dog.” Detective Mjölby had counted them. “Was it ever mummy-wrapped like the invisible man?” Mark snickered. Detective Mjölby left them there and went outside into the night. In darkness it made no difference. When it cannot be seen. Detective Mjölby vowed to hunt the monster and stated: "Every dog has its day...and each day ends." Then there was the matter of the blood they found and tested: Sometimes the blood of the invisible dog is on the sidewalk, as a metaphor, and other times it is there literally. The sample was taken back to the Briar police department where a crude but effective homicide laboratory was full of specimens and evidence of the dog, already. The latest incident, on the county line north of Briar, the dog had killed again. It probably had rabies, now, as well. The invisible dog had become rabid. Detective Mjölby sat there brooding in the darkness. The clown had gotten released from the hospital and then the psychiatric ward had released him as well and now the police had signed off on him too. He was a free man. No more invisible dog leash trick, but he did plan to resume business. Elsewhere. Weeks went by and it was as if the dog had stopped its rampage entirely. While Detective Mjölby kept up the search, following up on every scrap and lead he slowly became convinced. He had not caught the dog because he had not really believed the stupendous weave of interwoven and sometimes contradictory-seeming facts about the dog. Now it was all making sense. The phone rang. He found himself talking to someone calling herself 'deep-throat' and willing to tell him what she knew if he would keep the information to himself, unless something should happen to her, of course. He agreed. Then over several more phonecalls throughout the night, Detective Mjölby learned all about the invisible dog. He even found out about the ephemeral addiction and why. If it didn't make sense of things he wouldn't believe what he was hearing. A man in the dog's body needed the ephemeral to stay in control and the dog was now addicted. The man had used a directory of ephemeral registration for the drug, but the dog had just followed its nose. This part of the pattern of killings gave Detective Mjölby a good clue how to catch it. The dog would come for a treat.


A small tear rolled down Gabe’s pale face as he looked on his father in a hospital bed. After five years fighting illness the man he thought of as a hero had been reduced to sunken skin and foul odors. The man’s dark brown hair stuck to a sweaty forehead. Tubes ran through him like an alien being examined in a science fiction movie. The machine next to him chirped with each heart beat but the sound was far from reassuring. The time between beeps had slowed since their arrival a week before. Now, in the sterile room, every sound seemed louder. At first the machine signaled the fight left in the man who lay on the bed, but now it was the drum beat of time running out. Gabe looked at his father trying not weep. The doctors and nurses had been buzzing in and out all day in an effort to make his father comfortable in what little time he had left. The kind gesture only seemed to make things worse. Their severe expressions made everything feel harder. His father was all he had left. His family was scattered across the country and his mother had passed when he was three years old. His earliest memories were of his father picking him up from school where they would walk in the park and talk about life. They would get dinner at a food cart and watch the people in the park and talk about the day. Gabe would tell tall tales about great oceans and far-away lands as his father would laugh. He would tell him stories about the people he worked with who did boring things because that’s what adults did when kids weren’t looking. He would hold his son’s hand when it rained because thunderstorms scared the boy. The laughed together and played together. When Gabe missed his mother, they would cry together. Gabe’s father was everything to him and to see him as he was now brought nothing but pain and fear. He wanted to be brave but it was hard. The only one he could talk to was his uncle Vincent who had come to look after him while his father was in the hospital. Unfortunately, he was always too busy dealing with the doctors and his family back home to spend any time with the boy leaving him alone most of the time in that stark hospital room. The chirps on the heart monitor were slower still as Gabe looked at what was left of his father. The doctors told him there wasn’t much time. Vincent had brought him to the hospital and waited just outside the room. He was meant to be saying goodbye but he couldn’t find the words. How do you let go of someone so important? He looked down at his feet and began to sob. The tears flowed freely from his eyes and his shoulders shook with the force of his emotions. He tried to console himself to no avail. With tears in his eyes Gabe stood and took his father’s hand in his. “Dad, I can’t tell you goodbye. I’m not ready for you to go. I want to be strong, I want you to be proud of me but I can’t do it.” Gabe spoke quietly to his father. “Uncle Vincent doesn’t know how to talk to me. He acts like I’m a little kid. You were always honest with me and knew how to make me feel better. Remember that time we sat in the living room looking at the old pictures of Mom? Do You Dad? You told me she was somewhere better and that just because her life was over didn’t mean ours was. We promised to live a really long time for her. We were going to make up for the time she lost. Do you remember Dad? I knew we were going to make it. And I told you when were really old we would die in our sleep and the people we loved would be happy that we had a lot of adventures. I thought we would be the same age at that point; that I would have caught up to you and neither of us would ever be alone. I don’t understand what happened. I don’t understand why good people die. I’m not ready to be alone. I still need you. And I haven’t done anything to make you proud yet. We haven’t discovered a new animal, or buried treasure. I haven’t even finished school yet. Don’t go now. Dad, please. I can’t lose you yet. I can’t.” His father’s head tilted and a tear ran down his cheek as he spoke. “Gabriel, you make me proud every day. You will find your way without me. I’m sorry I couldn’t be there like we promised.” The machine next to the bed hummed loudly and the beeps were no more. Gabe called to his father. He shook the bed with his free hand refusing to let go of his father hand. After a moment he fell on to his knees next to the bed, still holding his father’s hand and wept. It had been a long five years but he wasn’t ready to say goodbye. He wasn’t ready for his father to die. Vincent ran in the room and lifted the boy from the ground never taking his eyes off of his brother in the bed. “He’s gone Gabriel. I’m so sorry.” Vincent spoke softly. Not knowing what to say he held the boy and rocked him. Gabe shuddered under the pressure of his sobbing. He refused to let go of his father’s hand. He had never been away from his dad. He wasn’t ready to let go. He hoped if he held on long enough his father would be ok. That he could do the fighting now that his hero had fallen and together they would recover.


There was once a great statue of a powerful looking woman, with broad shoulders, muscular arms, and the calves to match. Her hooked nose was complimented by a strong jaw, and her gaze looked proudly upon whoever came by to pray. With crossed arms and a smirk set deep into the stone statue, it was said she brought courage and strength to those who showed respect to her. The village built and grew around this statue, the awe and amazement never dwindling. Legends were told from grandparents to grandchild, who eagerly wrote down stories of the Stone Temptress and the enemies she defeated in battle. As legends go, her truth was twisted year by year, generation by generation. Only the old texts, buried deep beneath her stone feet, told the true story of the Stone Temptress and the glory she held in the battlefield. It was said that whoever found these texts would be granted an eternal seat beside her soul, walking the lands after death and watching over the children of the families that had fought beside her all those years ago. As life tends to go, people started to forget just how important this Stone Temptress had been to them as they grew into adulthood. Sure, grandparents still told her stories to their young relatives with a faint gleam in their eye, a smile dancing at their lips as they retold the fights they had with wooden swords around her statue when they were small. The people of the village had built a mausoleum of sorts around her, which took many months, as she was as tall as she was wide. They had wanted to protect her from the world, or rather the world from her, as legends said the statue would start to move at apparent threat to the village. They wanted to pray to her in peace, without the outside world peering in and making its noise. Until, one day, an unholy earthquake shook the village, and the ground beneath the precious statue of their Stone Temptress collapsed. There was no hope of ever retrieving her. She was all alone, and the texts understand her strong stone boots now certainly destroyed. The Stone Temptress was all alone, and without their protector, the people could not stand to be in the village any longer. Their hope had been destroyed, as had their luck it seemed. She was all alone, until one day, a small buck fell and broke his leg in the hole that had been created all those years ago. Next to him lay the Stone Temptresses statue, and her texts revealing her true story. And the buck seemed at peace. His heartbeat slowed, and his head lowered in fatigue. He was not afraid anymore, and neither was the Stone Temptress. A faint glow had started to emit from the statue, and her soul reached out. With a fist grasped at her chest, the Stone Temptress laid a hand on the bucks antlers. He had succumbed to his fate, and they were not alone anymore. They had nothing to fear, the buck and the Stone Temptress. Not anymore.


I woke up in a room, an ugly room. The walls were black , and there were no windows to allow light. Then it hit me, an iron grip. I looked down at myself and found that a strait jacket was restraining me, it was also restraining my thoughts. All at once it struck, fear, terror, shock . I quickly scanned the room, looking for features. Something to gaze at, something to leverage my escape, something to stop the tug of my heart from drowning in fear. Something to keep out the fear. I was unnerved, there was something wrong here, a deep primordial fear had been triggered inside me. As my eyes scanned the room, I found nothing remarkable. There was nothing mundane. There was nothing bad. There was nothing, at all. And that, that, threw me off balance. I tried to get up but found myself bound to the ground, I couldn't even shift my weight. I was scared, and uncomfortable on top of it. As my legs began to ache, as my mind turned to anarchy, I tried to calm myself down. A thousand thoughts at once in my mind. Running around like little kids *One second, I am in a land constructed with sugary candies. I behold a massive gingerbread man, massive swathes of white cream and red buttons the size of tanks are adorned by him.* *Next, I smell the salty sea as it wafts into my itchy nose. I am a pirate looking for booty on the seven seas. I keep my wits about me as I slice my foes into neat little meat steaks.* *The doooooodle man is big and hasd a big hanf to protect mnnnjbj hus all fren the malh evil penciiil man oh yeesssss,ossssssssssssssssssssssssdwcw* *wdcefvbefvnrhuvocmebhu,cthub,chubmhuicmgh4uiogmc4uig74mgui4thmgo4ihugf,4oxugm4rghxxomgrhxu4cgmh4ouigm4thuxciogmh4xcoiug74moiuhgmoxc4uitomg4icxgt4umhgoxc,rhxfu.zpfoefoeiry318yr8123u9pxfpeq,ipfh,x;i3rhgio3rmhulgu4tklguklcewgukbvgsueilf* ...................................................................................................................................................................................        ;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;; "Hello." I heard something. A single echo, a distant voice. I tried to think, my mind was blank. All I had learned was gone. I felt like nothing, an insignificant speck of dust in an endless sand pit. Nothing unique, nothing great, just another speck of dust. "Hello, can you hear me?' The same voice, it was nice and tender. It was like the first spring of life. A mother's milk, I went to it. I rose up and found that I was free to move. I was suddenly standing on a green meadow, the grass reached up to my hands. And then I saw another person standing in front of me. A beautiful man, wearing a simple white shirt and black pants. He spoke to me," Hello, we are in a place where time cannot affect us. We are in a place where we can be safe. We are in a land of infinite good, we are in paradise." Somehow, the words he spoke to me made sense. My blank mind was beginning to come alive. He came to my side and beckoned me to turn. He put his hands on my shoulder and I felt his warmth. In front of us was a beautiful village. Houses of mud, people of sweat and an air of good. This was beautiful! The happiness on people's faces, the warmth of their friendship, the simplicity of the life they led. Dark clouds began to gather in the distance, a creeping presence was felt. Soon The look of happiness and warmth faded away from the villagers faces, a horrible din was approaching. Soon the village was been mowed down by monstrous bulldozers made of heartless metal. Next came the concrete trucks who dumped cement on the ground and blemished it's beauty. Soon a heartless structure of iron and steel was created on top of the cement and it released a smell most foul into the air. People came only to fight with each other and good had gone away. The grass began to yellow, the air became dark and the happiness faded away. In one swift moment, paradise was replaced with a heartless world of dust and hate. I felt anger bubble up in myself. I clenched my fist. The kind man patted me on the back, he spoke with a voice saddened by the happenings, "I will show you the man responsible for this, just wait". The next moment we were in a bathroom, a man stood in front of us. "Behold my friend, the man who ruined paradise." The man turned around, he had a face scarred by acne. There was an untended beard as well, as if he had had no time to shave. He walked away and left the bathroom. I was only stopped from hitting him by the kind man. "First look at your face my friend, before you strike at the heart of evil." He handed me a mirror, which I stared at. The face I saw, my face was the face of the evil man. Then, it hit me. I was him all along. When I joined the company as a rookie, I was eager to prove my mettle. So, when I discovered a deposit of oil in a grassland I pounced at it. I had the villagers who were standing in the way of my promotion evicted and had a refinery built there. I soon fought my way to the top and became the CEO. The kind man stepped aside from me, he was suddenly bathed in fire. A flaming sword manifested in his hands," Every day, you end lives with a stroke of your pen. You shatter dreams and break wings. You commit sins by the millions. You had the chance to make the world better with your wealth and power. But instead you gathered material wealth and consumed it. You could have been good, but you weren't. I saw you everyday and hoped you would change. But your heart is too dark to see the light. I was your good conscience Paul, but now I shall be your evil conscience and destroy you. I shall.." *Shunk* A dagger slid through his heart, his fiery voice had been subdued. I was an evil person after all, he should never have given me the chance to recover and prepare an attack. I had enough time to take the ancient dagger hidden in my bathroom wall and stab my evil conscience. He staggered back, his grip on his sword weakened. As it fell down and broke, so did he. I saw his lifeless body, leaking blood on the bathroom floor. I shrugged, if a retarded robin hood comes to me and expects to kill me by first wasting time on a monologue then it was my evil conscience. The world went white I woke up and found my view blocked by my hands, I took them away to find himself sitting in an office desk. On my table was a photo of a gorgeous lady*. I will give everything I have to fuck her, oh wait she IS my wife! I don't need to give a penny to fuck her!* I felt the leather chair I was sitting on and the smooth orgasms it was giving to my back. I also saw the closed laptop I had on my table, I opened it to start work. Clearly in the stupid world of my evil conscience, the value of time is not understood. I would have lost many millions because of some stupid brain impulse. I opened the laptop and found a note inside. It had been scribbled on a post-it. Dear Paul You have won, for now.


I noticed a strange man once. I was driving to my friend’s house, and saw a man walking on the sidewalk. He stopped, squatted down and started putting his hand through a hole in the fence. He made some noises with his mouth, and the dogs barking enthusiastically on the other side ran up to him, protecting their yard. I didn’t think much of it and kept driving down the road, making a quick turn into my friends neighborhood. The next day, as I went down the same road again, I saw the man walking. He was wearing cargo shorts with as many pockets as I had fingers, a dark colored shirt, and a generic baseball cap. It had a flap hanging down in the back, large enough to cover the back of his neck, most likely to protect his skin from the sun. *He seems innocent enough.* Back at the yard, squatting down, softly whistling to the dogs as they ran up to him, still ever protective of their yard. I continued up the road, making the same turn I make every day, and continued on to my friends house. That night at dinner I brought up the man. “If a stranger stopped by your house every day and poked his fingers through your fence to play with your dogs, would you think it was strange?” I asked, as I shoveled at least 3 forks worth of salmon into my mouth. “I’m pretty sure people do when we aren’t outside with them, but it's not that big of a deal since we have cameras and live in a safe neighborhood” My friend, Anne, responded since her husband was too distracted with the drama streaming on the television. “Yeah you’re probably right, I always seem bothered by what every one else is doing around me. I saw some guy poking his fingers through a fence to play with a dog the last few days and just thought it was weird.” Anne rolled her eyes. “You probably have better things to worry about.” And that was that. I saw him sometimes still, when I drove to her house. I was at Anne’s house every day. The moment she was off work, I’d get a text I’M HOME! from her and within a few seconds I was in my jeep rolling up there. Anne only lived a mile up the road, sometimes I would run there, or walk there. Once I walked home alone at 2AM. It was a very safe neighborhood, and often times I left my door unlocked. There were never sirens, never cops, never any neighborhood watch emails being sent out. It was almost like our neighborhood was the dead space of Savannah Georgia. The non existent reality right outside the chaos of the city. Today as I drove up to her house, I saw him again. Cargo shorts bulged with whatever he stored in his pockets, plain black t shirt, and that beach baseball cap doing it’s due diligence in protecting his neck from the sun. I almost looked forward to seeing him, since the dogs running up had stopped barking and treated him as a friend. I even saw him give the two dark coated labradors some treats, and they excitedly ate them as I made the turn into Anne’s neighborhood. I stayed over until late, sleeping on the couch after dinner and waking up at midnight. “Hey, I’m gonna head home.” I said, my eyes half shut as I shook her awake a little. We were watching some drama show about teenage vampires, and I could hear her husband still playing his video games in the other room. “Ok I’ll see you tomorrow drive safe.” I sleepily rubbed my eyes as I forced myself awake enough for the journey home. My car had issues starting again, as always. I sighed as it took a few tries to start, knowing the stress of buying a new car was going to be happening soon. The car finally started, slowly jolting awake such as I had a few moments ago. I backed out of the driveway, my lights illuminating Anne’s garage, and the houses by her as I turned and started to move forward. As I drove home I could see some flashing lights ahead of me. *Great* I thought. *The one night I’m too tired to drive there is a roadblock*. I slowed as I got closer. One… two….three… no actually.. Five cop cars took up the entire road, more were parked in a neighborhood next to Anne’s, in front of a plain white house. I slowed to a stop behind another car, as their curiosity was peaked like mine, and since no one else was around, we both slowed to a snail’s pace as we drove by. I saw the blood stretched out on the back window. As soon as I saw the bright red liquid traveling its way down the glass pane, I started to move my car to the side of the road and came to a full stop. Some cops noticed me, and watched me to see what I would do. *That house….* Looked familiar… the yard… I’ve seen it before. The yard the strange man kept stopping at…. the yard where he befriended the owner’s dogs.


On the morning of September 3rd 1893, I received by urgent letter the news I had waited so long to hear. Christopher - my brother - had done it! After years of failed experimentation, he had finally succeeded in bridging the gap between our world and the fabled 'night-land'. I abandoned my breakfast, and made my way to the laboratory with a swiftness rivalled only by the locomotive. There are no words in all of human language to describe what I saw that day. Using a method known only by him, he had constructed a gateway. We entered together, and beyond the bridge of stars we found what the ancient legends had described. The great library of the night land. Forbidden knowledge from every corner of the cosmos and beyond. Tomes and scrolls of indescribable things, amassed by strange cosmic entities known only as 'Howlers'. Vaporous figureless beings that glided through the air like kites. If only our colleagues could have seen us! The glory that awaited us upon our return to the academy, we could scarcely imagine. The Howlers seemed indifferent to our presence, at least at first. We trekked for miles in complete awe. Upon a parchment I sketched the route we made into the labyrinth, never once failing to remember the location of the gateway. Had I the gift of foresight, I would have insisted we return to the laboratory at once, but Christopher's hunger for knowledge was insatiable. Whilst my focus was set upon a gathering of Howlers, I unknowingly allowed Christopher to wander out of sight. When I realized my folly, it was already too late. My cries were in vain. He could not hear me, or perhaps could not reply. Upon the ground where he once stood I found the ring our father gave to him, but Christopher was gone. To my horror, the Howlers began to follow me. They preyed upon me like a lion stalks a gazelle. I panicked, and in that moment my only desire was the gateway. I ran until my legs burned and my toes bled, all the while blood curdling screams echoed around me. I longed to return for my brother, but my cowardice drove me onwards. I will never forgive myself. With the gateway in sight, I turned a final time. Desperately hoping that Christopher had been with me all along. I was wrong to hope. Only the Howlers followed. Their gnashing teeth and tentacled limbs reached out for me. In my desperation to save myself from the Howlers, I destroyed the gateway upon my exit, and with it, any chance that I might see my brother again. I deeply regret that I abandoned Christopher to the Howlers. I only hope that now, after 20 years, he has finally found rest. I would like to believe it, if not for the torturous thought that keeps me awake every night. For we learned many years ago, that in the ancient legend of the night-land, it is said you cannot die.