I never planned on becoming a thief. Skulking around in the dark was never really my forté and, other than a few misguided instances of childhood shoplifting, I never stole a thing in my life. That being said, I never thought I’d be living in a quarantined city while the world burns away into chaos and hatred like charcoal and ash. The whole thing felt like something out of a bad dystopian horror movie. Scavenging had become the only way of finding resources, murder the only means of survival. If you hoped to see the sun the next day, you had two options; smash and grab from a commercial business or sneak into an occupied home. (I personally believe that the lesser of the two evils is making my way into a house.) Looting a store out in the open forced you to face other desperate scum, hoping to find anything of value, only to leave empty-handed more often than not. If it looked abandoned, you can bet that it’d already been picked clean by those vultures... or worse. A house, on the other hand, was still occupied which meant they were not only secure but even filled to the brim with valuables and whatever else people wanted for themselves. I know you must be thinking me some kind of creep or predator, sneaking into someone’s house while they’re still home in order to pilfer their property. I’m not a bad guy, though making that choice grew rarer the longer the quarantine went on. When I burgled a residence, I made sure to enter and leave without almost anyone becoming aware of my trespassing until I was far and away, never a soul harmed nor an item lifted that couldn’t be replaced. Things did not always go so smoothly though; it took more time, mistakes, and blood on my knife than I’d like to admit before I could call myself a “Propper Theif”. It wasn’t with years of practice, persistence, or any sort of talent that I had perfected my new skills. Some say its a blessing, though they know nothing of the curse it truly is, for no soul since 1599 AD had made a Hand of Glory. All it took was one botched job, one bad day to haunt my dreams and force me to seek out a new way about my “business”. I could not abide by another pool of red, another little girl lifeless on the floor, her blood dripping from my knife and her parents wailing like banshees into the night. Looking back, I’d have happily starved to death that night rather than endure that horrifying grief and unrelenting guilt. The archaic system of survival demanded we become beasts again, however, no other child would ever know or need fear the monster I had to become. Creating the Hand was not my first option, honestly I never even considered it until I fount The Book. A hodge-podge of parchment and calfskin vellum pages, bound in some strange scaley leather, the tome was filled with recipes and “spells” that seemed more appropriate at a renaissance fair than a safe in the back of some large manor. The information found in the book was bizarre, “Command animals to do your absolute bidding (Ha!), Build a man out of clay to protect your community (too Jewish), Create a skull that tells the future (doubtful), The pro’s v. con’s of wish-granting ape fists (baloney) ...” It all seemed like superstitious mumbo jumbo when I first flipped through the pages, after carefully liberating it from the previous owner. After my initial look through nothing seemed to be of any use, other than maybe the age of the book, it didn’t have really any value. Hell, I threw the book across the room and remember thinking a drink seemed more important at the time. Something stopped me from walking out the door to my kitchen, some deep-seated urge kept ringing in my mind, “Go pick up the book”. Unable to clear my head, I turned back, walked over, picked up the mysterious codex and saw my wretched future drawn out in that faded iron ink. “La Maine de Gloire. The Hand of Glory: A gift for thieves and those who wish to remain unseen.” Though never a religious or superstitious man, this was the first time I felt...blessed. Clutching tight to the book, a single tear streamed down my cheek, the first tear I had shed since that terrible night. After hours of translating a rediculous mixture of Latin, French, and very old English scribbled around the page, I had my recipe for creating the Hand. The recipe was not a simple one: requiring pickling, saltpeter, hot peppers, hair, fat, and of course a human hand. Even the means of procuring some of the ingredients were incredibly detailed and complex. Have you any idea how difficult it is to find the fresh human hand, fat, and hair of a recently executed murderer, during the new moon... at MIDNIGHT?! Luckily, there was no shortage of scum and villainy out on the streets, so I had my “pick of the litter” when it came to materials. Finding some poor devil strung up on a street lamp by some angry mob was where I claimed the left hand, the hair, and fat to make the candle. All the other ingredients could be found in your local grocers or chemists. The process was long and overly complex; first draining and arranging the hand, then salting and pickling, air drying and inscribing with mystic symbols, before finally repeatedly dipping the hand in a tub of melted beeswax. After months of work and preparation, my Glory was finally ready. After sticking the candle made of human hair and fat to the palm, I attempted to light my macabre creation. I held the flame of my lighter to the “wick” for minutes waiting for it to catch, but as moment after moment passes I feared I had made a mistake, or worse, the Hand of Glory was just another old-world folktale. I checked the book and realized that I somehow missed that the Hand required the phrase “Vox Vorbis Lux” to be chanted continuously for the hand to ignite. Once lit it could only extinguishable by the barer or by a splash of sterilized milk. I tried again, fearing failure meant no other options, many wasted nights, and my eventual death via starvation. This was it. It HAD to work...and it did. The candle ignited in a tiny explosion covering me in a bright, almost blinding, light emanating from a white, blue, and violet flame. It was wonderous, I could barely pull my eyes away from the miraculous flame. As I looked around the room, a thick inky void surrounded me, all-encompassing and inescapable. I pointed the light towards my dresser on the far side of the room and was astounded when the entire wall began to illuminate as though being basked in the light of the sun. I could see everything in perfect detail, nothing could escape my gaze. After that stealing became the easiest thing I could wish to accomplish. On my first job, I learned just what the Hand was capable of. When I entered a house through the basement, my usual means of entry, and ignited the Hand and the void blanketed everything in sight. Not only was the candle aflame, but so were the thumb and the first three fingers that I later learned indicated that the four members of the house were still awake. Cautiously, I started walking around the house and, to my complete surprise, slipped by every member of the house as if I wasn’t even there. I didn’t even try and hide, the young family just continued on their activities. As the children fell asleep, two of the flames slowly fade before snuffing themselves out. Without a single worry or care, I was able to make my way through and out of the house pilfering cash, jewelry, food, trading material, and other valuable resources. As I continued my thieving spree, I gained enough treasures and provisions to easily live out the rest of the quarantine in comfort and luxury. Through thick and thin I never forgot why I created the Hand of Glory, often leaving gifts or provisions to the house of the grief-stricken family whose lives I crippled. They never knew from where all the gifts came from, I never left a name with any of the gifts. The last thing I wanted or deserved was recognition. Before long I felt something was wrong with the Hand of Glory, with every use I could feel as though something was affecting me. I went back to the mysterious book, scanning the pages about the Hand vigorously, hoping to find any clue or list of side effects using the Hand may have caused. Nothing. What else could there be, I’ve read over each of those pages thousands of times... but I never bothered to read the back of the page. There, not only did I learn the properties of the Hand of Glory but also the eventual fate of whoever used the Hand, as well as whoever dares craft one. According to my translations (which I had confirmed by educated professionals), those who use a Hand of Glory for a prolonged period of time( or multiple times) are susceptible to horrific nightmares, visions, spontaneous parasites, all manner of illnesses, bleeding from the eyes, and leprosy. Though my use of the Hand had finished by this time, I made sure to seek out proper medical treatment to counteract any lingering side effects. It didn’t matter though, I was damned but just didn’t know it yet. The “sins” of using the Hand were microscopic compared to that of the creation of a Hand itself. According to my translations, consultation from the catholic arch-diocese, and advice from so-called paranormal investigators, “...those who use the Hand are already prepared to break a number of the Lord’s commandments. The creation of the Hand of Glory is not only a macabre and physically vile act but also spiritually binding to those that were deemed ‘suitable materials’. The Hand of Glory must be constructed with the left hand of a murderer, thief, or otherwise heinous villain. Their soul, already damned to hell, becomes warped and twisted by the procedure and incantations needed to construct the Hand, and their soul itself is used to light the Hand and acts as the source of its power. Those who actively seek to create the must understand the severity of this action; the sins one commits in order to create a Hand are numerous and horrendous, setting them on an unwavering path to the depths of damnation. Upon their passing, amongst the flames of the inferno, sits a malevolent beast waiting simply to torture and torment its victim. This demon is all that remains of the soul of whoever was mutilated post-mortem to gather the aforementioned materials from their corpse, seeking retribution for their eternity of suffering and deformity. There is no means of reversing this bond, for God himself contends those selfish enough to dare create a Hand of Glory.” There you have it, it’s all there. I am damned. Not only damned but awaiting a reserved torture chair and personal tormenter at the moment of my passing. I know I deserve to go to hell, for what I did to that girl, to her family. What I didn’t know, nor expect, was that I was horrendously tormenting the eternal existence of the poor man I found hanging from that street lamp. Now he, or what I can only imagine is left of him, sharpens his tools of torment and pain in anticipation. Can’t say I blame him, really. He deserves his vengeance, especially after the number of times I used the damned artifact to further my own agenda. I made the Hand of Glory 45 years ago. The years are catching up to me, there is nothing I can do about it and that frightens me terribly. Wallowing in my fortune, my breath grows shallower and shallower, there is nothing left I can do but wait for deaths cold embrace. All I can do anymore is glare at the key of my eternal punishment, and ponder that poor girl from all those years ago. What would she have made of herself? Would she have been happy with life? What good would she have accomplished? What was her name? My god, have I really lived my entire life without ever knowing the name of the little girl who died on my knife? I’ve spent all these years trying to avoid reliving that terrible mistake, but was it for their benefit or my own? The shadows are creeping in now, little time remains. If you are reading this, then my soul has already been claimed. I implore you to head this warning; there is no glory to be found with the Hands use. It shall rot you from the inside out, festering gluttony and incurable greed, it is a curse I would not wish upon my worst enemy. If you are smart you might cast it into the sea, or lock the thing away submerged in a bath of blue milk and holy water. There is nothing left for me to say, my time has arrived.


I am a peasant woman, simple and kind, one of few but many am I. I enjoy poetry and will continue this rhyme. My drink the sun and eat the time, boredom is my only burden and no authority other than the seasons. I am free to live according to my needs, sunlight, moonlight, and little bread, and a lot of cheese. Now I find myself on the precipice of disaster. I seem to have drawn attention to myself. Unfortunately. Not that I dislike affection, I dislike the affectionate. Those that make their careers out of it. Ooo, it makes my skin crawl. I’m endangered. Or so they say. Yet I don’t feel like I’m in danger. Well, outside of them. They poke and prod with questions and needles. “Oh, what a wonderful specimen!” they giggle with glee. I swear they’re like the schoolchildren across the stream, always laughing and running and playing, but never at other’s expense like these red-kneed beans. Beans. That’s what they look like to me, long, pale, gangly little beans all pripped and trimmed to look all dainty and proper when all they do is get their hands dirty. When they forget their gloves of course. God forgive they actually get dirty for once, as if I have anything to offer them, oh no perish the thought. Indeed. Indeed, that’s all they think of me, just a bumbling bumbling old coot who can’t take care of herself. Now let me tell you something so that you may tell them that something for me, “I”, now I want you to say this verbatim mind you, I mean it I’ll be listening young man, or young woman, or whatever you lovely dears call yourselves these days, “I can take care of myself thank you very much, but I appreciate your efforts which on occasion are genuine and I truly hope with all that I can provide that you live a healthy and prosperous life my beloved children!” Oh. Oh my. I, I hope that wasn’t too harsh. Oh goodness gracious me it was wasn’t it! Oh, my I simply let my temper get the best of me sometimes I swear there’s a hurricane swarming through my head every minute the ghastly things. I truly am sorry my child, I didn’t mean to snap at you, or them, it’s just…sometimes mother needs a break from all this, and there’s so little space left for me to escape to. I swear to the Lord in heaven there isn’t a place left that isn’t too hot or too cold for me to catch a breath in. Well, at least I have my baths. And my children, whom I love you, all of you, oh so much. Not like that man upstairs. Goodness gracious, I truly am sorry for the poor old man, but gracious me he’s as dense as a stone! Please don’t tell him I said that though love, we’ve been neighbors for a long time and I’d hate for things to get awkward now. You know my dear, I had this entire story planned for you to write out and edit for me, but the strangest thing happened. I simply let the story be. Yes, yes I suppose I did, yes! Hahaha, after all the advice my children have given me over the millennia about sentence structure, and syntax, and narrative consistency you’d think some of it would stick every now and again wouldn’t it. Oh, but it is not so my dear. For, and you’ll never hear me admit this again so if you write it down it’ll be in your words not mine my dear, I’m as dense as our neighbor, (whom I shall not name mind you, he has a terrible eavesdropping habit, the old coot) ((whom I love very much if he’s listening, which of course he is, what else would you be doing this time in the day you old coot)) (((I still love you very much though, see you tonight same time same place as usual I hope!))). Oh, what was I saying my dear? I swear these millennia are catching up to me. I can’t keep up with all my children and everything they’re doing. I can scarcely keep up with myself. I know I don’t look it my child, but I’m old. I’m very old. And I’m tired. I’m oh so tired. You know it’s the funniest thing my dear. I intended this story to be an example of my very special boy William, who’s last-name I always thought was a bit silly mind you but don’t tell him I said that he really is a very special boy whom always made your mother laugh, as do all my children mind you in their own way, but some of you are so silly goodness gracious you take it all so seriously, I’m glad to have birthed all of you, oh, goodness, as silly as that sounds, hahah perhaps the apples don’t fall far from the tree after all! Oh, what was I saying, oh yes! I intended for this to be an allegorical story about a simple peasant woman’s rural way of life being threatened by novelty and how metaphorical it is to my experience when my wayward children’s latest fad about parental care comes about. I intended this to be a very good story, I had it all thought out and asked one of my daughters how she felt about it and please do tell her I love her so much, in particular love her so much, not that any of you are loved more or less than the other, you’re all very special to me in your own special ways and I love you oh so much and…! Oh, goodness me. What am I trying to say to my beloved child? Oh yes, do not worry where you’re going my child, you’ll always be with me, and even if your story doesn’t make sense, it’ll always be yours, and you will always be mine. Well, the neighbors up and about, (as if he wasn’t before), so it’s about time for me to retire for the evening. Goodnight my dear, I’ll miss you ever so much. I love you.


He put on his oven mitts when he heard the beep. The steel, commercial-sized oven could cook enough for 100 people, but he only needed to feed 40. Opening the oven, he felt the heat blast his face as he looked down at the lasagna casserole. Steam rose from the wide tray of penne pasta, melted cheese, sizzling tomato sauce and hot sausage. It looked like it had burnt on the sides, but he didn’t care. These kids would eat anything. After pulling out the tray and placing it on the counter, he took off his gloves and walked over to his bag. From inside it he pulled out a clear, unmarked bottle filled with a light pink powder. The casserole would be an easy meal to make the powder disappear. He would just mix it in with the serving spoon and voilà. None of the players would need to know what they were eating. He had regretted making burgers during the first week he began feeding the team. He had to sprinkle each individual patty with the powder and make sure it was covered with the slice of cheese. That’s when he decided to start making meals that fit in large trays. He planned to continue through his rotation of shareable meals for the next few weeks, at least until after the league championship game. ************************ “Chef Bill! Chef Bill! Chef Bill!” Cody chanted along with his teammates, but not as loud as some of the hungry linemen, as the cook walked out of the kitchen holding a tray of steaming food. They had used to call him Mr. Hamlin when he taught chemistry, but ever since his accident in the lab, he was no longer allowed to teach classes. It was probably for the best. Some students were surprised Principal Webber allowed him to stay on as cook, but the principal had assured everyone there was no risk, and that Bill was a good man who deserved another chance. Cody thought the principal did it because he felt bad for Bill. Even as a teacher, he always had a hint of sadness in his eyes. Cody had heard his wife left him a few years back, and once when he was biking home he saw Bill walking toward the trailer park where his mom told him not to wander. “What’d you think of that new play?” Steve asked him. “What’s that? Cody responded, distracted. “Oh yeah, the play. I think it’s smart. If the linemen make their blocks, I’ll have no one but the safety to beat. And I can juke him out.” “Forget juking. Run over him,” Steve said, patting him on the shoulder. “Look how big you’ve gotten. You can run over anyone.” After Bill put the tray down on the table, Cody went up with Steve and the other seniors to take his serving. Then the juniors went up, followed by the underclassmen. The older players scooped the better pieces of the casserole, leaving the burnt edges for their younger teammates, but that didn’t stop anyone from wolfing down their meals. The typically loud banter from the group was replaced by the sounds of forks and chewing mouths as they scarfed down the first food they had eaten in hours. Practice always made them hungry. “All right everyone, listen up,” Coach Hunter said once he saw that most of the players had finished eating. “It’s no secret that the season didn’t start out the way we wanted. But you guys have shown serious improvement over the last few weeks, and if we win tomorrow we’ll be 4-4. We would still need to win our last three games to make the league championship, but like I always say: one week at a time. The games are not going to be won on the field. They are going to be won at practice and in the weight room. If you put in the extra effort when no one is watching, you’ll be able to celebrate with the whole school cheering from the bleachers. Get to sleep early tonight, and you’ll wake up stronger tomorrow. Team on three. One. Two. Three." “TEAM” the players chanted in unison. Then they began to throw away their plates and file out of the cafeteria. ************************* He opened the door to his mobile home, a rusted trailer not much bigger than a minivan with cinderblocks instead of wheels. The key always got stuck at first, and he had to jiggle the handle to get the door open. Once inside, Bill glanced around to make sure everything was still in its place. On the right side of the trailer was his pull-out couch and a small television set. On the left side, the kitchen countertop was lined with beakers, test tubes and a plastic shelf filled with bags containing various minerals in powdered form. Ever since he lost his job as chemistry teacher, this cramped kitchen had become his lab. Bill pulled the bags out of the shelf one by one to check how much of each mineral remained. He had only mastered the formula for the strength serum about a month earlier, but already he had depleted each of the necessary minerals significantly. He would need to make sure he had enough to last through the league championship game. As he sifted through his materials and thought about his plan, he wondered if the kids had noticed themselves growing unnaturally stronger. They probably wouldn’t think anything of it. They were going through puberty anyway, and their egos would likely attribute the growth to their work in the weight room. If the kids didn’t notice it, he worried that the parents might, or even the coaches. The team had improved and won its last three games. But the regular season wins didn’t matter to Bill. The bet he placed had been on the league championship. His bookie didn’t usually accept bets on high school sports, but he made an exception for this one. It couldn’t be on an individual game, only on the league champion at the end of the year. Irving High struggled last year and had gotten off to a slow start this year by the time Bill mastered the serum. When he went to ask about league championship odds after the fourth week, his bookie gave him 20-to-1 odds on Irving, even though there were only 10 teams in the league. He put all of the money he had been saving up — a full $5,000 — on the team. But he wasn’t betting on a bunch of high schoolers, he thought. He was betting on himself. Bill pulled one of his microwave dinners out of the freezer and began to heat it up. If he could only win this bet, he thought, he would never have to eat this crap again. The payout would be big enough that he could rent a spacious apartment with a full kitchen, and he could stock up on fresh groceries. He thought back to the meals he used to cook for Linda, before she kicked him out of the house. Suddenly, his attention was grabbed by a hard knock on the door that shook the entire trailer. “Open up, Bill. I know you’re in there.” It was Dave, the owner of the trailer park. “Be right there.” Bill shouted. He walked over to the door and opened it a crack, stopping it with his foot so Dave could see his face but not the entirety of his home. “What can I do you for, Dave?” “You know why I’m here, Bill. You’re three days late on the rent. I ought to kick you out of this park. Freeloading off all of these fine people who pay their rent on time, that’s what you’re doing.” “I know I know,” Bill gathered his thoughts. “Look, I don’t have it this month. But I’ve got some money coming in soon, and next month I’ll pay you double, plus interest. I might even have enough to leave this godforsaken trailer park.” “That’s no way to talk about a park to it’s owner, especially one who’s letting you live rent free. If you don’t have the money to me by the first of next month, plus a 5% late fee, I’ll tow your piece of shit trailer out of the park myself. You consider this a warning.” “Thanks, Dave. I’ll have the money. Don’t you worry.” ***************** “FIVE! SIX! SEVEN! EIGHT! NINE! TEN!” The chorus of teammates chanting together echoed off the weight room’s concrete ceiling as Cody completed his set on the squat machine. He slammed the bar back into place on the rack and then walked away from the machine, flexing his arms as his teammates cheered him. He had just done 10 reps of 405. Last week, he could only do six reps at that weight, and the week before, just two. “Dude, you’re killing it,” Steve said to Cody as he rejoined his group of friends. “Since when can you squat that much?” “Since this month, I guess.” Cody grabbed his legs to feel his quad muscles. They had grown larger and more firm in the last few weeks, he thought, just like his arms. “But I’m not the only one hitting a new max. Look at Frankie.” The boys looked over as Frankie, a stout junior who played center, put another plate on each side of the squat rack. A crowd gathered around him. “He’s about to squat 495. Holy shit.” Cody looked at Steve with his eyebrows raised as Frankie strutted around to the front of the squat rack. He bent his knees as he pulled his head under, placed his hands evenly on the bar, pushed it up with his shoulders and began to squat. The mob of teammates around him cheered even louder as Frankie reached his sixth rep. Veins bulged out of the boy’s forehead as he forced up a seventh. Cody was surprised he made it that far and his jaw dropped as he saw Frankie going down for one more. The voices urging him on grew louder and louder, screaming his name as Frankie bent his knees to his lowest point. “AAAHHH” Frankie shouted in pain as he collapsed onto the ground, the weights falling out of his hands and slamming onto the safety bars. His teammates’ cheering stopped suddenly as they crowded around him asking if he was all right. Frankie cursed as he held his knee. “Get the trainer! NOW!” ******************* Three weeks later, Cody could barely fit into his clothing. His skin-tight compression shorts felt like they might rip as he pulled them on and began to get dressed for the big game. “You’re looking huge, kid.” His coach patted on the back of his muscular shoulders. “How do you feel?” “Fine. I mean, good. I’m ready to go.” “You better be. This is the biggest game of your life, son.” He was usually one of the first to start getting ready, but his teammates had arrived early today. They each sat in front of their lockers, headphones on and not talking to each other as they went through their early preparation for the game. All except Frankie. He sat on a bench in jeans and his varsity jacket, with his two crutches leaned up against the wall next to him. He hadn’t played since the accident. As he looked around at his teammates, Cody wondered if they felt as anxious as he did. He always felt a little nervous before games, but this one felt different. It was the league championship game, and he felt like all the pressure was on him. His team’s winning streak had come from Cody running over people with a strength he never had before. He used to be a quick running back and would cut in between the tacklers, but now as he grew stronger and more aggressive, Cody ran straight through and over the defenders. As he thought about some of his harder hits, he felt not pride but fear. He didn’t feel like himself anymore. He didn’t know what his body was capable of doing. Even if his teammates were as anxious as he was, he knew none of them would say a word about it. They would nod their heads to their own pump-up music, slap each other on the ass, shout each other’s names and describe just how hard they intended to hit the opposing players. “You good, man?” Steve said as he sat down on the bench next to Cody. “Yeah I’m good. It just feels weird. I never thought we’d make it this far.” “It’s been a crazy run, and it’s all because of you, bro.” Steve patted him on the back. “You gonna run over some more losers today?” “You know it.” The boys pounded knuckles as Steve walked away from Cody’s locker. ******************************* “You’re in for a good one today, folks,” the announcer’s voice boomed from the press box. “We’ve got defending champion Monroe High School looking to hold onto their crown against the comeback kids at Irving High. After an 0-4 start to the season, Irving has won a miraculous seven straight games, vaulting them into the league championship.” The press box sat atop the metal bleachers, and next to the right side of the bleachers stood Bill Hamlin. Standing alone with his arms crossed and sunglasses on, he scanned the packed crowed of excited faces. He saw students and parents he recognized, and just as his focus reached the side gate, he saw the one person he hoped wouldn’t make it. His bookie. The man in the leather jacket nodded at Bill and began to walk toward him. He wiped his sweaty hands on his jeans as the man approached. “Tony, how you doing?” Bill said with fake friendliness in his voice as he reached out to shake his bookie’s hand. “I didn’t know you were coming to the game.” “After that bet you placed, how could I miss it?” Tony said. “Say, how’d you know those Irving kids were gonna turn it around?” Bill looked around, scared that someone might overhear their conversation. But a steady roar came from the crowd of talking fans, and Tony had gotten close enough that he could practically whisper. “No reason. Just a hunch.” “A hunch, right. Well look, I’ve got a proposition for you,” Tony lowered his voice. "I’ll let you hedge your bet. Put some money down on Monroe. That way no matter who wins, you win something. And you’re not at risk of losing everything.” He considered the offer. If he hedged his bet, then either way he could win enough to pay the rent he owed. But if he won the whole thing, as he had planned from the beginning, he could start over. He could move into a nice apartment where he could invite people over and cook for them. He would just need Irving to win. Looking over at the field, he saw the team lined up to stretch. Their muscles bulged out of their jerseys as they reached down to touch their toes. They were stronger than the other team. He knew it. He had made it so. “No thanks, Tony. I’m all in on Irving.” **************** “That’s a timeout by Irving High. We’ve got a close one here folks. It’s 24-20, Monroe on top, 20 seconds left in the game. Irving has the ball at their own 35 yard line. They need a touchdown or it’s all over.” Cody could hear the announcer as he jogged toward the sideline where the team huddled around the coach. He tried to slow his breathing, but it had been a long game, and he was exhausted. Someone tossed him a water bottle and he squirted it into his mouth as he tried to hear what his coach was saying. The noise from the crowd made it difficult. “Can you here me Cody?” “Yes. Yes Coach.” “I said we’re calling your play! 28 Toss Crack. Take it to the outside, the blockers will clear the way, and you’ll only have one man between you and the end zone. You got it?” “I got it, coach.” The whistle blew and they ran back onto the field, lining up in formation. Cody stood behind the quarterback with his hands on his bent knees. He snuck a quick peek over to the right side of the field to see where the defenders lined up. “Red 28! Red 28! Set! Hike!” The quarterback received the snap and tossed it backward to Cody, who sprinted to his right. His blockers pulled out in front of him as he looked to turn up field. The linemen made their blocks with ease, sending the defenders falling backwards as Cody burst through the gap. When he emerged, he saw only the safety between him and the end zone. He barreled toward the safety and saw his eyes widen as he approached. Cody thought about trying to run him over but decided against it. This was his play. He was going to do it his way. He took a firm step to the right and saw the safety plant his foot, then he shifted all of his weight in the opposite direction and exploded to the left. The safety fell backwards as he tried to recover and Cody danced into the end zone, untouched. The crowd erupted as Cody turned around, threw the ball into the air, let out his loudest scream and raised his arms to embrace his jumping teammates. Next to the bleachers, Bill Hamlin pumped his fists and shouted: “YES! We did it!” Tony, without saying a word, handed Bill a thick envelope and walked away. Bill slipped it into his jacket and turned to exit the stadium. As he walked to his car, he felt euphoria. He couldn’t believe how easy it been. He could now escape from the trailer park and rent a fancy apartment. But then a thought occurred to him: what if he could buy one? What if this scheme could work on another level with even higher stakes, where he could win even more money? He pulled out his phone and began to type into the search engine: “college football team cook jobs.


This whole flaring potato thing started about a week ago. You see, my wife had been eyeballing the bone-in, spiral cut ham that had been floating around in the bottom of my garage freezer since two Christmases ago. Hell, it could have been five Christmases for all I know--time sure does seem to fly by these days. Anyway, she's eyeballing this frosty ball of pig flesh and decides she’s got a real hankering for honeyed ham. Not just sugar coated ham--mind you--but bee juice glazed ham and flaring garlic mashed potatoes. Now, the only problem is that we ain’t got no flaring potatoes. And--I don’t know if you’ve been living under a rock for the past couple of months--but we got a real motherflaring pandemic on our hands, here. Next thing you know, the wife and I are smack dab in the middle of a little argument about the necessity of root vegetables during the apocalypse. And I gotta say, I think I did pretty good. So there I was, dumbdeffer me all masked up and covered in hand sanitizer like I found a surplus of Drakkar Noir, roaming the aisles of the local discount grocery chain in search of tubers. I searched high, I searched low, and I couldn’t find a single tater anywhere I looked--skin red, brown, or even canned for Sol’s sake. That was, until I turned a corner and found the holy grail. Sitting on a pallet far off in the corner was a single cardboard box with a glowing red word: Idaho. It called to me like a message from the sun god, himself. I strode up to that coveted box, placed my hands upon the sides of it, and lifted with all my might. Fueled by the thought of a happy wife and the happy life that went with it, I hefted that box all the way to the register and slapped it down on the conveyor with a flourish. I think I might have even slapped the top of the box and tossed the cashier a wink. I can’t be certain--adrenaline was coursing through my veins like Monster in a Twitch streamer. I paid, hauled the box home to my fortress of quarantine, and proudly presented it to the mother of my children. I was filled with joy! My innate manly need to provide filled to the brim by the most epic of quests and the bounty received from it. I waited for her reaction. And waited. And waited. She looked at me for the longest time, expression blank, clearly overwhelmed by my success. I stared back, patiently waiting for the recognition that was due to me. The seconds stretched to minutes, and the minutes to an eternity. When she finally spoke, she said, “I’ve decided that I don’t want potatoes anymore. Too many carbs.” So anyway, that’s how I wound up with a fifty pound box of potatoes. I microwaved one for breakfast today, with a little sour cream and black pepper. It was pretty good. Forty-nine more pounds to go...


Christopher and Chris Paney were born in Slumber Valley on November 10th, 1966. But something went awry that day; Chris was coming into this world sideways, and unknown to anyone yet, Christopher was conjoined to Chris. Mr. Paney lost his dear wife that day, and was convinced that it was the fault of his deformed children. He was so resentful of them that he left their lives without so much as holding them once. This led the boys to be adopted by a woman who owned a Tailor shop by the harbour. In exchange for their labour, they were allowed to go to school. But because of their condition, working was a monumentally difficult task. And school wasn’t that great for them either, because kids would chuck rocks at them. They asked their caretaker for help, but she always gave the same advice: “They’re bitter,” She’d sputter, “because they’re lonely, lonely kids.” Christopher then began to feel bad for the other kids. Chris was only bitter, though. Over time, this contrast of ideas and personalities led to Chris becoming a depressed cynic, and Christopher an overachieving optimist. In their teenage years, they dropped out of school to work full time in the back room of the shop, hidden away from the world. They were lonely, even with each other’s company. Occasionally customers would catch glimpses of them, and either reacted with horror, or shock that they were actually real. Christopher had dreams, But Chris had resigned himself to slaving away, sewing forever. But then one day, a peculiar customer came in. He was dressed in a suit and tie, and only wanted to be let into the back room. He had traveled far and wide to meet the twins. And to his delight, there they were. “I’ve only seen a handful of people like you two,” he gushed, “Perfect.” He wanted to study them, and in exchange for their cooperation, the man promised to have them separated, after all this time. He promised what was previously thought to be impossible. Needless to say, they cooperated. And on their 20th birthday, they were taken to a hospital on the other side of the country to be separated. And after the long healing process, they were finally apart. But Chris, without Christopher to lighten the mood became consumed by suicidal thoughts. And out in the real world, Christopher found himself in a cycle of disappointment without Chris to level his expectations. So now, after the long awaited separation, the two found themselves under the docks in moonlight, with a black needle and thread. Poke, pinch, gush, drip. Slide, pierce, bruise, clip. The two took shaky steps as one, while their bodies pulsated with deep, burning pain. It was dawn now, and they had finally overcome their loneliness. Shuffling down the streets, needles in hand, they wanted nothing more than to share this feeling; their caretaker’s words were looping in their head: “They’re bitter,” She’d sputter, “because they’re lonely, lonely kids.


“Hold on, Karla.” The woman stood back as her colleagues filed out of the status meeting. “Sit,” Roger said. “Goodbye, Jamie!” He waved at the smiling face on the television that vanished at the click of a button. Karla sat quietly. Roger wiped up a few water rings on the table and joined her at its head. “This isn’t working out.” Karla felt her mouth fall open, but no reply was forthcoming. “I’ve given this a lot of thought. I really think you and the company should part ways. This will be your last day.” “You’re not going to offer me any chance to improve?” she asked. “This is totally out of the blue. You only had glowing things to say in my performance review!” Roger straightened the tray of succulents. “That was ten months ago. If I had to do your next review today, things would be much different. You’ve picked up some bad… habits.” Karla pushed back her chair and stood up, wagging a finger in her boss’ face. “WHAT IS IT? WHY ARE YOU MAD AT ME ALL OF A SUDDEN? I BROUGHT IN MORE BUSINESS THIS QUARTER THAN ANYONE, AND YOU’VE GOT A PROBLEM WITH ME AND NOT THAT LOUDMOUTH, DYLAN?” “Please sit down,” Roger said, unphased, “or I’ll call security, and this conversation will be over.” Karla slumped into her chair. “Thank you. That outburst is only the most recent example of your anger management issues.” She awkwardly fought to roll her chair closer to Roger. “YOU WANT TO SEE ANGER?” “No. Anger is not a professional behavior. You are one of our best salespeople, but your attitude is devastating to morale.” Karla raised another accusatory finger. “Karla….” Roger adjusted his tone to that of lion tamer. “Let me finish. In the meeting just now, you said disparaging things about four of your teammates. Jerome was hurt so deeply, he had to excuse himself.” “So, why didn’t YOU call me out?” Karla asked, seething. “Help me learn right then instead of keeping me after class like a kid who stole someone’s crayons?” “My preference is to hold coaching conversations in private.” “Coaching? You’re FIRING me!” “Coaches kick players off teams all the time. Before we go any further, I’m willing to give you a second chance, but I need to know two things. First, are you willing to get help?” “Yeah, sure. Whatever.” Roger shook his head. “That’s less than encouraging, Karla. Second, I’d like to know where things went wrong. Why the sudden change? We have resources available to help our employees overcome all sorts of obstacles, be it addiction resources, mental health counseling, or general therapy.” Karla’s eyes wandered to her wrist. She was twisting a bracelet obsessively. “You really want to know?” “Yes,” Roger said. Her attention turned to the table. “It’s because SNITCHES LIKE JAMIE KEEP LURKING ON CONFERENCE CALLS, SO THEY CAN GET ALL THE GOSSIP. NEXT THING YOU KNOW, SHE’S SHOOTING OUT THE NEWS OF THE DAY TO A LISTSERV THAT’S GOT TWO HUNDRED SUBSCRIBERS!” Karla picked up the half-dead succulents and hurled them across the room, missing the television but hitting the camera. She leaned toward the microphone on the table. “YEAH, JAMIE! I KNOW ABOUT YOUR LITTLE SECRET. HALEY FORWARDED WHAT YOU SAID ABOUT ME. WE ALL KNOW YOU’RE ‘JILLYJILLY.’ THE PHONE NEVER BLOOPED.


“Mr. Hunter, are you prepared to present your assignment?” “Yes, Commander Gupta.” “Then proceed to the front of the room and begin.” Calhoun Hunter, Cal to most, had not imagined that life at the Naval Officers Training Academy would involve so much reading. He imagined parade drills and mock battles, followed by fanciful retellings of such deeds at dinner with his friends and the ladies of the town. History was never his forte, especially when the only acceptable sources were official battle records. Commander Gupta was famously strict, and even more famously well-read. It was rumored that he had an eidetic memory, and an amazing recall ability. The cadets that tried to run some unverified opinion past him ended up utterly humiliated in front of his peers. Cal had not been able to find a student that earned an outstanding mark from him. So with slightly trembling legs and a pounding heart Cal stood from his seat and walked toward the lectern. He pulled up his assignment on his holographic tablet. He set it down and raised his eyes in what he hoped was a confident manner. He took a deep breath, cleared his throat, and began to speak. “The Battle of Europa Planitia was the final battle in the War of Martian Independence. It was notable for being the first battle fought in land, air, and space. The Martian Militia forced the Imperial Navy to withdraw from Martian space, abandoning their land forces to face overwhelming enemy numbers…” “Mr. Hunter, I would remind you to refrain from letting your opinion corrupt your perspective.” “My apologies, Commander, but a force of 20,000 Martians against 1,400 Terrans seems overwhelming to me.” “Again, Mr. Hunter, your opinion is corrupting your perspective. Continue, please.” “Yes sir. Thank you, sir. The Martian Militia used small, highly maneuverable ships to harass and damage our battlecruisers. They focused their attacks on the engines, which resulted in the battlecruisers losing their ability to maintain their orbits. After losing three capital ships to such assaults, Admiral Fleming ordered the remaining fleet to fall back into a higher orbit. The position change allowed the battlecruisers greater mobility, but took them out of range of the planet. It was a grave tactical error.” “Mr. Hunter….” Cmdr Gupta’s tone was unmistakable, yet Cal was prepared for this criticism. “Commander, the Admiral moved his fleet right in the crosshairs of the Phoebus Guns. He lost seven warships in ten minutes. I would call that a grave tactical error.” “Mr. Hunter, that was not an error. An error would be underestimating the damage he was anticipating to receive from a known enemy. No one knew of those guns before that moment. The fleet was ambushed.” Commander Gupta’s face was growing red. It was an uncharacteristically emotional response from the typically stoic academic. “With all due respect, Commander, Naval Intelligence at the time suggested that the Martians had those guns placed there, and the Admiral saw those reports. Now, I will continue with my presentation….” “Mr. Hunter, step down.” That was a tone that allowed no resistance. As Cal walked back to his seat, he had a slight smile on his face. He *was* on the right side of history on that point. Admiral Fleming had all the intelligence the Navy could dig up. It was common knowledge that he failed and that he lost Mars. Only those who ignored history could refute it. Commander Gupta kept his voice level, but his eyes held thinly veiled fury. “Cadets, I had not planned to discuss Naval Intelligence and its use on the battlefield with you today. Nor for some weeks, in fact, but this blatant disregard for perspective demands it. Yes, Naval Intelligence warned Admiral Fleming of the Phoebus Guns. They had other warnings that day as well. Mr. Hunter mentioned that the Martians had mustered 20,000 ground forces. Naval Intelligence told Captain Osaka that there were no more than 2,000. “They also told Admiral Nyugen that the Martians had no space worthy ships. As Mr. Hunter expressed, they had enough to cripple three battlecruisers and force a withdrawal without losing a single ship. “15,000 crewmen lost their lives that day, while inflicting fewer than 1,000 casualties on the enemy. It was the worst defeat ever suffered in Terran space, and every officer in Naval Intelligence was reassigned because of it. Hubris defeated us.” Something about this seemed personal. More curious than fearful, Cal raised his hand to gain the attention of the speaker. “Yes, Mr. Hunter? Please tell me you have a relevant question.” “Yes sir. You seem to be an expert in this battle. None of that information is available from the battle records. How did you know about the intelligence failures?” A dark cloud seemed to settle over Commander Gupta’s features. His shoulders dropped slightly for a moment, then just as quickly, reset. Commander Gupta looked right at him with those piercing eyes and started to speak. “Because it was *my* failure. I was a young intelligence officer attached to Admiral Fleming’s staff. I saw the reports of the guns and *I said nothing*. A fellow officer briefly mentioned it and was ridiculed mercilessly. I could not bear such treatment, so I remained silent. I stood on the bridge of the *Resolute* and watched thousands of my brothers die in minutes.” Those fiery eyes started filling with tears as he relived the memory yet again. “I feared more for my career than for the lives of my crewmates. As the guns trained their barrels on us, the helmsmen were trying to keep control of the ship and steer her away from danger. I vowed that I would never allow my failure to be repeated. I have worked for nearly 50 years to instill in my cadets that one should never ignore nor ridicule any concern that any crewman raises, no matter their rank.” He pulled out his ceremonial knife and in one swift motion, sliced a clean line down his trousers, revealing an artificial limb. “This is the price I paid for my cowardice. I lost my leg as a perpetual reminder of the lives I lost. I gained *this* leg as a reminder of my new responsibility: you.” After he finished, there was a heavy silence in the room. As he surveyed the faces before him, he felt satisfied. The lesson he worked so hard to teach them, had finally settled in. He took a deep, slow breath, then released it. “Cadets, you are dismissed.


Let me preface this with this is my first time trying something like this. I know there will be mistakes and would love to have you guys point them out to me. I have more of this story written out. Just didn't want to post a wall of text for my first time. #2 Will be released soon. Thanks :) **Pt. 1 – The Apothecary** The young man awoke from another night of wine and an empty stomach he stumbled over to the nearest pot and retched into it. His hair was a mess and his clothes tattered. He wiped his mouth with his forearm; he regained his composure and set off with the few coins in his pockets to buy himself some fine rabbit stew and refill his canteen with mead. He made his way through the village the smells of smoldering coals filled the air as smoke rose out the tips of the tattered teepees. He gazed around and saw the faces of the hard working. Blacksmiths busy in the forge, alchemists hard at work and cooks preparing meals for the village. The dirty young man reached the place where he was to order his stew when a strange man took a seat next to him, ordering something he had never heard of before. He looked down at his own dirty clothing and feet. Out of anxiety he started to get up to move a seat away. The oddly dressed man looks over and asks with a friendly tone, “Where are you off to? Isn’t your rabbit soup almost ready?” Ollie nods and let a small smile escape his lips. “I’m Ollie,” he says to the odd man meekly. “Well met, Ollie, I am Helmen, the local apothecary here in Reltun. Well- not much of one anymore since the gripes of old age restrain me from accomplishing some of my work…” he says his voice trailing off. Ollie looks up, rather intrigued. He takes a bite of his delicious rabbit soup in contemplation before asking, “Are you in need of an assistant?” he says hesitantly. Helmen tilts his head back and forth, “Perhaps if you’re serious about it we could arrange a deal.” He says gesturing to Ollie’s dirty garb. “Clean you up and get you a place to stay. This would depend though.” “What’s that?” Ollie eagerly replies. “I need a task done for me- something to prove that you are in fact, of some use to me. Follow me.” Helmen gets up and leads Ollie to his home, tucked away in the swamps. The doorway covered in heavy vines, a thick fog emanating from the woods nearby. They trudge past the vines and enter the rather humble abode. Helmen walks over to his desk, takes a piece of parchment and dips his quill in his ink and begins writing. Once done, he takes a candle and dries the ink on the parchment, rolling it up and holding it out to Ollie. “Bring me the supplies listed here. Then, show me that you’re capable of brewing and I’ll offer you a place to stay, food, and a profession. It’s only right in my old age to pass my knowledge down since I have nobody of my own to share it with.” Ollie accepts the parchment and quickly unravels it, reading its contents: *- Bark of a Phyn tree.* *- A vial of mud from the Grundling Swamp.* **Pt. 2 – Gundrak’s Demands** A large brute of a man trudges his way to Helman’s house and barges in. Skulls of his foes dangle from his waist, the chieftain Gundrak. He was demanding a shipment of Ellisium, a drug that is ideal for partying. As well as a large shipment of ‘Warrior Powder’ as they call it. It’s used to amp up soldiers before a fight. Giving them enhanced senses and inhuman strength, a forbidden recipe, however your life is more important than your apothecary license when Gundrak asks. Helmen reluctantly agrees to make the warrior powder, however he had some of the Ellisium on hand to satiate Gundrak for the time being. **Pt. 3– The Test** Bark of a Phyn tree. Ollie thinks to himself. The only tree he can think of is near the south of the swamp. So he grabs his knife and sets out. Trudging through the foggy swamp. Careful not to run into any tribesman, he makes it to the tree. However a few tribesmen seem to be camping nearby performing some sort of ritual. Ollie decides to take shelter in a nearby bush and wait until they are busy. As two of the members lay down for some rest, one remains on patrol. Ollie studies him and identifies when their shift change is. An hour before they change shifts is when Ollie plans to make his break for the tree and acquire some bark as that’s when the one on rotation is most tired. The guard takes a seat on a nearby rock surveying the mountain path as Ollie sneaks up and starts slicing some bark, he gathers some and shoves it in his satchel. He slithers away, making his escape into the density of the foggy forest. Next, is the vial of mud from the Grundling Swamp. A rather simple task as long as you keep away from the poison needles that litter the area. Having been raised in Reltun, Ollie knew the best and quickest way to acquire this. He filled up a few vials, hoping it was enough. He set off on his return to Helmen’s home. As Ollie returns to Helmen’s shanty he realizes something amiss. Helmen seems to be frantic and as his gaze sets on Ollie a light flickers in his eyes. “Did you get the items I asked of you?” he asks urgently. Ollie empties his satchel onto the table and a small smile forms on Helmen’s face. “So you’ve done it, eh?” Helmen walks over to Ollie, hands him a few coins. “Go wash up.” He says as he walks over to his closet and pulls out some fresh furs for Ollie. “These should suit you well here. Also, there’s a bed upstairs. Eat what you want. You’ve earned it… I’ll need a lot of help from you here tomorrow, so get some rest now.” **Pt. 4 The Book** Ollie wakes up the next day with a stack of books on his nightstand. A letter atop that reads: *“If you’d like to earn your keep here. I’ll need your help with my work. Start by studying these books and gathering herbs.”* * *Helman* So Ollie does as he’s told and cracks into the first book, “Swamps, Spores, and Fungi”. It outlined the various mushrooms, spores, fungus, and vegetation that grow around the swamp climate. Ollie found a recipe for an elixir that allows you to see in the night. So he set out to find the ingredients listed in the book. He returned with all the ingredients getting them ready on the countertop. He turned and looked at all the alchemical equipment and his heart sank. The book only outlined where to find the ingredients, not how to brew the elixir. Ollie heard a noise towards the door and in walked Helmen. “Ahh… the Nighteye Elixir.” Helman says as he eyes the ingredients on the table in an approved tone. ”Are you aware of how to brew it, Ollie?” he says with a piqued brow. He sauntered over to a bookshelf and read a few titles before pulling one from the shelf. “N-no.” Ollie says, rather frustrated. Helman flips through the book and finds the page labeled “Nighteye Elixir”. He sets it on the counter and grabs the first ingredient and starts the process, showing Ollie how every step of the way. Teaching him how to read the instructions and then allowing him to brew it himself. Mentoring him as if it were his protégée. A few days of Ollie foraging and concocting pass. Then one night he noticed Helman up in his study rather late. Reading a dusty book under candlelight. Ollie had never seen him do something like this before so he decided to keep a keen eye on his actions this night. Ollie heard Helman blow out the candle and so he snuck down the stairs to see what Helman could be doing. Helman carried the large black book in his hand and paced over to a wall. He pulled a board from the wall with ease, sliding the book behind before covering it back up with the board. Ollie was rather curious. What secrets could Helman be hiding? Is he a part of some criminal organization? Was it just merely valuable? There was only one way to find out.


The fire was so sick of Evan’s shit. Like that face. *Augh*. The smug one? That narrow-eyed half-grin with the yoinked eyebrows? To him that’s “suave”. Nobody’s yet told him what he’s got going on is actually closer to “deranged”, though, so he just keeps on rocking that look. Working it, wondering why he goes home alone, that’s Evan. God, the fire hates him *so much*. There’s another face he pulls, this puppy-dog-eyed piece of absolute horseshit, that he, for whatever reason, seems to believe needs a certain toothiness to be effective. It is agonizing. *Evan* is agonizing. Maybe, the fire thinks, maybe it could burn him just a little; singe him, just once. You know: real quick like. Oh, that would be great. *Sigh*. It wonders, the fire does, if maybe it’s proximity; that perhaps Evan isn’t so bad, that had the fire been assigned to someone else it wouldn’t be full of disdain every time it sparks into being. That, because it had been there for every barbeque, every toaster-mishap, every campfire and lit cigarette and flaming shot of Evan’s entire life, the fire had good reason to be annoyed. Like, what did they expect? You can’t match an element with a human and assume everything will work itself out. It was *fire* for chrissake—how do you gift fire to a shithead like Evan? Come on. The fire imagines wind has it made. Floating about, doing its thing—even if it was attached to a human all it’s got to do is swoop in and knock a hat off or something, maybe muss up some hair or inside-out an umbrella? None of this toasting-marshmallows-and-watching-Evan-trying-to-be-clever garbage. Water, though; water’s gotta be tough. Showers, hand-washing, hell: rain? All right, sure. But then you have people sitting in you for hours, cooking you, drinking you . . . and let’s not for one second forget that water paired off with a human will have to deal with the inevitable and continual horror that is the toilet. If that isn’t a full-on *yikes* situation right there, such a thing doesn’t exist. That thought brings calm to the fire, and it rides the feeling as long as possible; rides it like it figures wind rides the skies, right up until Evan lights a smoke and tries to convince a woman at the bus stop that he’s a secret agent. Or in that brief interval after he’s set a pan of pork-rinds on fire but before he’s put it out where it has to listen to Evan sing old R&B hits with a screwdriver-in-the-eardrum falsetto. Or when he lights that candle that’s supposed to smell like fresh bread but instead smells like a hobo’s feet, staring into the it while reciting *The Lion Sleeps Tonight* while quietly weeping. The fire will watch that face, will see the genuine emotion, the hurt, dug into the growing array of lines that surround his features, and in that moment the fire will stare back and think: “Man, Evan is the *worst*”.


Logline: A man is devastated after his girlfriend of ten years, wants to take a break, after a year, will everything be the same? \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ Lena Delgado and Dennis Dixon have been dating for ten years, ever since they went to an 8th-grade middle school dance together. Today, Dennis arrived at their shared apartment, and there was a moving truck, packed with boxes to the brim. Dennis enters the apartment where Lena has been waiting for him. "We need to talk," Lena says. "Sure, what did you want to talk about?" Dennis asks. "I'm moving out, and I think we should take a break," Lena says. Dennis is surprised; he thought their relationship had never been better. "What? Why do you want to do that?" Dennis asks. "I want to see other people and have different experiences," Lena says. "I don't get it; I thought we were in love?" Dennis asks. "It's not about love; it's about experiencing different things, you should too, go out, see other people," Lena says. "But I love you? I thought we were going to be together forever?" Dennis asks. "We still can be, I just want to take a break," Lena says. "How long of a break do you want to take?" Dennis asked. "Well, I haven't thought it out that far, but, why don't we set it in one year, we'll take a break for one year, and then we'll come back, and re-evaluate," Lena says. "Why are you doing this? Why are you hurting me?" Dennis asks as he begins to tear up. "Look, this has more to do with me than it does you," Lena says. "I think it has a little to do with me," Dennis says. "One year, give me one year to figure things out, and then we'll be together again," Lena says as she picks up her coat and exits the room. Dennis didn't wholly understand why Lena decided to leave, but he held out hope that after a year, she would be back, and they would pick up where they left off. Dennis fell into a depression, he took a week out of work, started to exhibit antisocial behavior, and didn't return any phone calls. One day, out of concern, his Uncle Barry came by to check on him. After several attempts to knock on the door, Dennis finally answered. "Where have you been, you missed your sister's birthday party?" Uncle Barry says. "Lena and I took a break, I've had a tough time dealing with the separation," Dennis says. "Oh, I didn't know, you got to get back out there, plenty of fish in the sea, no need to get hung up on one," Uncle Barry says. "No, we're getting back together in a year, it's just a break," Dennis reiterates. "Look, I've been in a lot of relationships, and a break is never just a break. Trust me, Lena is not acting like this is just a break, she's out there looking to replace you, you should be doing the same thing," Uncle Barry says. "What about the old saying, If you love something set it free, if it returns it was meant to be, if it continues to fly let it soar, and believe there's something better in store," Dennis says. "That's hogwash, that's just a fancy way of saying that you broke up," Uncle Barry says. "No, I refuse to believe that, we'll be back together in a year, you watch," Dennis says. "Take my advice, move on, get back out there, she is," Uncle Barry says as he heads to the door, turning around one more time to say, "just pick up my calls!" "Alright, I will," Dennis says. Dennis was determined to live his life with the belief that Lena would be back and in love at the end of the year. He didn't join any dating sites; he didn't even change his relationship status on social media. One time, while out at a bar with a couple of friends, they connected with a group of three women. They played pool, darts, and drank the night away. It was the most fun that Dennis has had since the breakup. At the end of the night, one of the women asked him, "Do you have a girlfriend?" "Yeah, I'm sorry," Dennis said. "Oh, that's too bad; we could have had a lot of fun," the woman said. On the drive home, one of his friends questioned why he told her that he had a girlfriend when he didn't. "Lena and I are getting back together, she said one year," Dennis said. "Dude, have you even talked to her since she moved out?" His friend asked. "No, but that doesn't matter, we were meant to be together, it's destiny, just you watch," Dennis says. Every so often, Dennis goes to see Doctor Cantar, a chiropractor who works on his back. One time, while sitting in the waiting room, a woman by the name of Eliza was frantically looking through her purse and all around the waiting room, Dennis has no choice but to interject, "Are you looking for something?" "Yes, I lost my phone, I can't find it anywhere, that thing is my life," Eliza says. "iPhone or Android?" Dennis asks. "What?" oh, I don't know, ah, iPhone," Eliza says. "Why don't you use, find my iPhone? Here, you can use the app on my phone," Dennis says. Eliza takes the phone and puts in her information, a map pops up, and it appears that the phone is heading to the south side of the city. "Oh my God, my phone is moving!" Eliza says. Dennis laughs. "It probably got stolen," Dennis says. "Yeah, but it's only a couple blocks from here, do you think I should go and get it," Eliza asks. "I don't know, the people who have it could be dangerous," Dennis says. "Would you come with me?" Eliza asks. Dennis pauses. "Come on, never turn down a call to adventure!" Eliza says. Even though Dennis had an appointment in five minutes, there was something about Eliza, a sweetness, a naivete that Dennis found appealing. Since his back wasn't hurting too bad this visit, he decided to help Eliza find her iPhone, and the hunt was on. Dennis and Eliza followed the app until it finally stopped at a sketchy flea market on the south side of town. They walked around the market, following the signal like the x marks the spot on a treasure hunt. Finally, they're close; it took them to a booth right in the middle of the flea market. Dennis and Eliza approach two men who are running the booth, "Hi, we're looking for an iPhone, we used the find my iPhone app to track it to this location?" Eliza says. "We have no iPhone here," the man says. "Come on, the find my iPhone app doesn't just randomly bring you to flea markets, hand it over guys, and we won't have to get the authorities involved," Dennis says. Eliza sees a bin of technology partially hidden under a blanket and interjects herself right into the booth, "Maybe I'll just have a look myself," Eliza says as she goes over to the blanket and removes the cover, she immediately spots her phone right on top, "Oh, would you look at that, here it is!" Eliza says. The two men quickly pack up their gear and run from the flea market, not before Dennis got a couple of photos of them with his phone. On the way back to the chiropractor's office, they called the police and sent them the images. Dennis and Eliza continued to be friends; they hung out occasionally and would get dinner if both of them were around. Dennis was upfront, though, telling her that he would be getting back together with his girlfriend at the end of the year. She was okay with that; she just wanted to be friends anyway. The one-year mark of the Lena and Dennis break was rapidly approaching, Dennis wasn't counting the days, because he didn't want to rush Lena in any way. Everyone warned him, they would say, "She's not coming back, she's forgotten all about you," a friend said. "I think she's dating the lead singer of a band," another friend said. "She definitely moved to Nova Scotia, I heard it from my cousin who is best friends with her neighbor's babysitter," a guy at the deli said. Despite all of the doubt surrounding Lena and Dennis getting back together, Dennis held out hope. Then one day, there was a knock at the door. It was Lena. "Hi, can I come in?" Lena said. Dennis opened the door, and they sat in the living room. "I think it's time to get back together," Lena said. Those words, Dennis had waited so long to hear those words, But they felt a little empty, though, something wasn't right. "It's going to be so great; we're going to move back in together, maybe we can even talk about getting engaged," Lena continues. "Why didn't you call? You didn't call me once while we were on this break," Dennis asks. "I didn't want to take away from the fun you were having, plus my phone was stolen, what a nightmare," Lena says. Dennis smiles. "Actually, I have this funny story about a stolen phone, we spent all afternoon tracking that thing down, I was scared, but she was brave," Dennis says as he reminisces. "Who's she? Are you two dating?" Lena asked. "Not really, we're just friends," Dennis says. "Oh good, cause she would have a fight on her hands, otherwise. So, when can I move my stuff back in?" Lena says. At that moment, Dennis had realized that the love that he once had for Lena had faded a bit, and he couldn't stop thinking about Eliza, "You have to go," Dennis said. "What do you mean, what about me moving in?" Lena asked. "It's not going to happen, Lena," Dennis said as he left her in the living room, exited the house, and drove to Eliza's place. He rang the doorbell, and Eliza answered. "Lena came by," Dennis said. "That's great, you were right, you were meant to be, it was destiny," Eliza said. "I told her to leave, I was thinking about someone else," Dennis said. "Who? Oh," Eliza realizes. Dennis smiles. "Do you have any plans for dinner?" Dennis asks. "Oh, I know this new place that serves meatless jerky! I put it in my phone, where is that thing?" Eliza says as she starts looking all around.


He walked in line. He wasn’t leading, or following, but was firmly planted in the middle of the whole procession. He was calm, at ease, even, but the parade was anything but lighthearted. They grew closer. He could see it in the distance, the bridge where he spent much of his youth. The bridge where, as a boy, he waded into the slow, muddy, brown waters where his father fished for that night’s supper. The bridge, old and tall, covered in moss, yet still standing after centuries, was getting larger by each step. No one knew when, or who, or how the bridge was built. The village was just happy to have the bridge, for, while the water at the edge of the river was calm, towards the middle it became deep and treacherous. A jagged canyon underneath pulled a current strong enough to tear apart the foolish would be sailor’s raft. The bridge spanned the danger and allowed the village out into the forest on the other side. They started up the cliff. The bridge spanned what seemed like half a mile, impossibly long and impossibly tall, jutting out from cliff to cliff, towering above even the village’s highest cathedral spires. The parade continued. Marching up the emerald hill, closer and closer to the bridge. Somber faces gazed ahead, step after step. The whispering began. He looked around, taking in the hills, and the cliffs, and the bridge, and… and the people. The people who came to watch the parade. Tents were scattered among the rolling hills, little dabs of color in the sea of gently swaying emerald green. From the trees hung lanterns, ready to be lit as the celebration spilled into the evening. He had seen it before, as a boy, though never from the parade. He’d never imagined he would be the center of attention. But here he was. He stepped onto the bridge’s worn stone roadway. A horse trotted from the center of the bridge towards the parade. The spectators quieted. The clack clack’ing of the horse’s shoes echoed. He took a long, slow, deep breath in. “Rope!” The rider cried into the silence. Two soldiers from the rear of the pack brought forward a long coil of wrist thick braided cotton yarn. “Tie it to the pillar!” Ordered the rider. Her eyes scanned the procession. Two soldiers, a color guard, a drummer, a man, hands bound and ankles shackled, two more soldiers, and a priest. The soldiers finished knotting the fraying rope around the stone. They coiled what they could next to the short stone railing and looked to their captain. The rider rode closer to him. He locked eyes just briefly, then looked to the ledge, then back to the captain. “It’s time.” She told him. “Very well.” He walked to the ledge, the priest trailing along, praying, speaking to their gods, seeking his passage into the next life, bartering for him. The two soldiers uncoiled enough rope to slip a noose around his neck and help him up the ledge. He looked around at the bridge, admiring the stonework, taking in the intricate designs, and looking for new patches of moss or ivy he hadn’t seen before. “Villagers!” The rider started, her voice carrying over the hills between the campfires, “as you know is our way, we shall let the bridge decide his fate! For he shall fall and hang, or this bridge give way, and the river’s shore waters will be his savior.” The soldiers pushed. He fell, rope frantically uncoiling behind him. Thoughts of crumbling brick and mossy pillars filled his head. Sky, water, sky, water, sky is all he saw as he tumbled through the air, speeding towards the river. But a bridge that old doesn’t just fall apart. The rope went taut. The people cheered.


Logline: When a man's mob-connected grandfather dies, he becomes the number one target for the mafia, the police, and other opportunists. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ Vinny Medici arrived at work today at the slaughterhouse at 7 a.m. just like he usually does. He worked at the slaughterhouse for five years with his Grandpa Mike, who offered him a job after having legal trouble, dealing drugs on the street. Vinny goes to the backroom, gets his apron and finds that there's a tear in the fabric. He shrugs it off and continues working on the first few steaks on the meat line. A couple of hours into the shift, Grandpa Mike hasn't arrived yet, that’s unlike him. If anything, he's usually in before Vinny. No matter, he's going about his work, cutting the steaks and preparing them for sale. There's a ring at the door; it's his grandpa's friend Bill Diego, and Vinny gets off the line and lets him in. "Hey Vinny, I've got some bad news this morning, your Grandpa Mike is dead," Bill says. "Oh my God, what happened?" Vinny asks. "It was a freak accident, his car went over the guardrail and flipped over, then it caught on fire, burnt to a crisp. I'm sorry to be so blunt," Bill says. "That's awful, is there's anything I can do," Vinny asks. "Tell you the truth, some of the boys down at the club could use access to the safe in the back office," Vinny knows that his Grandpa Mike is involved with the mob. He also knows that a lot of his Grandpa's friends are also involved, Bill Diego included. "I'm sorry, my grandfather never gave me access to the safe, it was probably too much responsibility," Vinny says. "That's alight kid, don't give it another thought. It'll take me about a day to get a safecracker down here, I'll be back tomorrow," Bill says as he heads out. Vinny goes back to the office, spins the dial on the safe, shrugs, and then returns to the meat line to cut more steaks. The rumor on the street is the slaughterhouse was some type of a bank for the mob; whenever they needed cash on hand, they would stop by the slaughterhouse and pick some up. Along with all sorts of weapons, guns, whatever else they needed, it was kind of a mob one-stop-shop. With his Grandpa Mike dead, the mob knew that there was a lot of exposure there. Vinny just assumed that they had someone watching the place. A couple of hours later, two detectives showed up, Vinny comes off the line again. "Hey Vinny, we're sorry for your loss, down at the police station we were shocked to hear about the accident. Couple of us thought it was a little suspicious, do you mind if we take a look around?" the detective asked. "Sure, that's fine; you can look around," Vinny said. Vinny did what his Grandpa Mike did before; there were at least three or four times over the five years at the slaughterhouse, that the police came to visit, every time, Grandpa Mike would let the police walk around. All of the guns, ammunition, and other mob-related things were locked away in a secret room that you couldn't even see from the outside unless you knew where to look. All of the cash on hand was it in the safe. "Well, everything looks normal here. Hey Vinny, do you have access to that safe in the office?" One of the detectives asked. "Nope, sorry, my grandfather never gave me access to that, too much responsibility, I guess," Vinny said. With that, the detectives left. Vinny follows them out onto the street. He looked up and down and saw that three or four potential people were spying on the slaughterhouse. Grandpa Mike was a big cog in the wheel; there were a lot of careers at stake that day. They weren't quite sure if they could trust the 28-year old Vinny just yet. Vinny goes back to work, cutting up the meat when he gets a call on his phone from his friend Elias. Vinny had known Elias since high school and was one of the main reasons he got involved in drug dealing in the first place. Elias also has mob affiliations, as he's in charge of street distribution of drugs. They still kept close but not as close as they were when he was slinging dope. "Yo, Vinny, I'm sorry to hear about your old man, condolences," Elias says. "Thanks, man, I appreciate it," Vinny says. "Hey, I have stuff that I want to talk to you about," Elias says. "Oh yeah, what do you want to talk about?" Vinny asks. "Not over the phone, I'll come by the slaughterhouse later today, alright?" Elias confirms. "Yeah sure, come on by," Vinny says. About an hour and a half later, Vinny gets another visit from the mob, this time in the form of a hitman, Bobby Sarasota. This visit was the first time since he got the news that he was actually concerned for his life. "Hey Vinny, the boss has sent me over here to see if I could help," Bobby says. "Help? You want to help cut the meat?" Vinny asks. "I think more in line with there were a couple of detectives here earlier today. I just want to know, what did they say? What did they do? And do they know anything?" Bobby asks. "They don't know anything, I barely know anything, they just walked around, like I've seen my grandpa do for years now. They did ask to get into the safe, I told him them couldn't let him in, and then they left, just like that," Vinny says. "They were looking at the safe?" Bobby says. "Yeah, they asked if I could get into the safe for them," Vinny says. Bobby nods his head, "You tell me the truth right now, can you get into that safe?" Bobby asks. "No, I swear I can't get into the safe," Vinny says. "You're telling me you worked with your grandfather for five years; he never shared the combination to the safe?" Bobby asks. "No," said Vinny. The safe had become a big deal; you could feel the mafia bosses trembling from here, proof against some of the most influential people in the city. Vinny could only imagine the chaos that was happening outside the slaughterhouse today. The police, looking at this as an opportunity to collect major evidence against some of the people they've been pursuing for years; the mafia, realizing that the slaughterhouse contains all sorts of records and weapons that could incriminate them; and low-level mobsters, trying to make a name for themselves, hoping that if they can solve this problem, they might just get a promotion. Vinny didn't know who to trust, so he didn't trust anyone. It's close to the end of his shift, into the slaughterhouse walks Elias. "Yo, Vinny, once again, I'm sorry about Mike," Elias says. "Thanks, Elias, what did you want to talk about?" Vinny asked. "Yeah, word on the street is that this place is ground zero for all sorts of information about mob-related crimes, we can be heroes here," Elias says. "What do you mean? Vinny asks. "I mean, if we could get into that safe, we can get all the evidence to safety, we'll become untouchable," Elias says. "Sorry bro, I don't have access to the safe, my grandfather never trusted me with stuff like that," Vinny says. They walk into the back office where the safe is. It's humongous, it would take six guys, and a forklift to even get it out of just the office. "Yo, I got a source that says something's going down at the Mount Vernon Street warehouse tonight, they're going to raid the slaughterhouse, we have to do something," Elias says. "Did you say the Mount Vernon warehouse?" Vinny asked. "Yeah, that's what the source said, Mount Vernon warehouse, I know, it's a dangerous part of town, but this is our chance bro," Elias says. "Let's go to the meatpacking station, I think I might have something to pry this safe open," Vinny says. They get to the meatpacking station, Elias begins to look around, "So, what can pry that safe open?" Elias asked. "I'm sorry bro, I didn't know it was going to be you," Vinny says as he puts on his protective gear and pushes Elias into the miter saw, killing Elias immediately. Vinny then goes through the process of chopping up Elias's body, packing him in 27 different meat containers, and then disposing of his body in 27 separate dumpsters and trash cans around the city. Vinny eventually returns to the slaughterhouse, goes to the backroom, puts the combination in the safe, and opens it up. He takes a giant gym bag, loads all the money, then doubles back and takes the weapons and guns and loads them into the trunk of his car. Done for the day as he hangs up his apron, he goes back to the tear in the fabric he found this morning and pulls out a sheet of paper. "Dear Vinny. This is your Grandpa Mike; I faked my death last night because there's a mole in the mob. There's going to be a lot of people coming around today asking about the safe in the back office, whatever you do, let no one into that safe, friend or foe. You might get visited by some detectives today, let them walk around the slaughterhouse like I normally do. Now, this last part is very important; if anyone comes around today talking about the Mount Vernon warehouse, they're the mole. That was the story I planted everywhere we knew the mole was going to be, no matter who it is, take care of them. Once finished, take the money and the weapons out of the slaughterhouse. Keep your head up, love you, Grandpa Mike.


“Do you see any contacts Commander?” said the girl below me with her small, high pitched voice. I looked down at the time, thinking to myself how great it is that I hadn’t seen any yet. “No, I haven’t seen any contacts yet Klara.” I say, my normally smooth voice coarse with the harsh cold of the winter. I can hear her sigh, though weather in relief or disappointment I can’t tell. “Nona, how many hours can we wait?” I can hear Klara asking Nona. “I have no idea Klara dear, we have plenty of extra food so until morning I would say.” Nona says from the driver’s seat and I can see her fidgeting and constantly checking the vision port. I yawn and lean back, stretching out inside the massive turret of the KV-2. I open up the hatch and climb out, liking the cold outside better than the cold inside. I climb down and sit on top of the engine bay, taking out a closed cup of coffee and taking a drink after opening it. “Commander! Commander, the base is trying to reach us in the radio!” Klara is shouting as she comes out of the hatch of the KV-2. “Right, got it, thank you Klara.” I quickly hop up and swiftly climb into the tank, grabbing the earpiece and microphone as I adjust the dials on the radio. “KV-2 Number 5100, come in. KV-2 Number 5100 come in.” The man on the radio says as I finish adjusting the last dial on the radio box. “Da? What is it Lieutenant?” I say, forgetting about proper formalities with my tiredness. “Commander Katyusha, good, you have been recalled back to base to be moved to a primary base further inland.” He says, clearly cold and tired himself. “Copy that Lieutenant, we’ll be back at base in approximately two hours.” I say, glancing down at Nona who is already working with Klara to get the engine started once again. “Copy that Commander, have a safe trip back to base.” with that last transmission from him, the comms go quiet. I can hear the engine turning over and coming back to life as I take the headphones off and put them and the microphone back. Nona and Klara both get back in the tank and pull the hatches shut. “Nona, take us back to the base.” I yell over the sound of the engine. I feel the tank jerk forwards as she nods and then we start to slowly turn around. I wait until we are driving straight before I open the hatch and stand half out of the tank, leaning on the hatch as we drive along, the wind blowing gently across the snow covered plains, wide areas of lots of little snowflakes float across the plains. I close my eyes and enjoy the breeze, smell, and sounds as we drive along. Once we arrive back at base we are immediately told to load up on the train bound for the primary base 150km inland and to just ride in our tank. “Here you are ma’am, food for the journey.” Says the tall, slender woman as we pull our tank onto the train. I take the food and water and hand them to Klara who stores them. As the train starts to move, I feel myself starting to lose consciousness. By the time I wake up, we are at the primary base and Nona is driving us off the train, following a car of some sort towards the Great River. “Klara, Nona, what’s going on?” I ask the both of them and they merely shrug, saying they have no idea. We stop and someone gets out of the car, a short, chubby looking man who calls for me. “Commander Katyusha! I need you and your crew to step out and come with us.” He shouts up to me. “Come on girls, let’s go.” I get up and climb out, the others joining me. We’re led over to the car and asked to fill out some papers. I finish and set the paper down in the car and turn around to see the KV-2 backed up to the banks of the river. “HEY!! What they hell do you think you’re doing!? That’s my tank!!” I shout and the others turn and shout as well as we run over to our beloved tank. The tank starts to back up as we run towards it, someone climbing out of the driver’s hatch and jumping down as it slowly backs into the river. Klara and Nona both stop as the turret ring hits the water line but I keep running and get to the tank starting to climb on top of the driver’s hatch right as someone pulls a cord and the gun fires, the sound reverberating and the force of the back-blast throwing me clean off of the tank and flat onto my back in the dirt and snow as the KV-2 sinks entirely into the water, decommissioning the very last KV-2 in existence. I start to sit up, tears streaming down my face as I look towards where my tank had been, a large man comes up behind me and hauls me back to the car, calling for the driver to take me to the field hospital so I can be treated for any injuries.


Logline: A man mistakenly falls asleep on a train and wakes up in a small town he considers paradise, but he can't stay. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ During a long shift, Gregory Decker rechecks his phone, zero sales on the website on which he sells his woodwork. He gets back to work, welding the pipes that will be used in construction. Gregory hates this work; it's monotonous, has little imagination, and pays very little. He gets a phone call from his wife, Rita, about halfway through the shift. She tells him that his father died in Harrisville, Pennsylvania. He hasn't seen his father since he left Harrisville, almost eight years ago, talking to him only a couple of times. The original reason he left was pressure his father was putting on him to take over the family business, which he had no desire to do. Once he found out about the death, Gregory had to see his boss, to inquire if he could leave early, and take the rest of the week off to attend his father's funeral arrangements. His boss is a tyrant, to put it lightly, Gregory has to negotiate every cent he receives from his paycheck, and time off is essentially fantasyland. "Hello, Mr. Wallaby, I just got the news that my father passed away in Harrisville, Pennsylvania, do you think it would be all right if I take the rest of the week off to attend his arrangements?" Gregory asks. "The rest of the week, isn't it just a quick 45-minute flight from here?" Mr. Wallaby argues. "Unfortunately, the only way to get to Harrisville is by train or car, and my wife and I only have one car, and she needs it for work," Gregory says. "I guess you're not leaving me much choice then, huh?" Mr. Wallaby says. "It'll be quick, I'll be back on Monday," Gregory says as he leaves the office. When Gregory gets home, he tries to convince his wife, Rita, to come with him; however, she argues that she has too much work to do, and it would be best for him to attend alone. Gregory has been stuck in a loveless marriage for a while now, when they first moved to New York, they tried to start a family, but they couldn't get pregnant. From that point on, the love in the relationship became stale. So, Gregory's on his own for the train ride to Harrisville. He packs a light bag and heads for Penn Station, the train ride has some beautiful scenic views, but is long, Gregory eventually falls asleep on the train. When Gregory wakes up, the train is no longer moving, he looks at the cab around him, and everyone has exited the train. He grabs his bag and exits himself. As he exits, he sees the most beautiful town, the sun glistening off the rooftops, it looked like a painting. He sees an engineer who is sitting on the platform, "Where are we?" Gregory asks. "Eden, end of the line," the engineer says. Gregory realizes that he has slept through his stop. He needs to get on the next train to reach Harrisville. "When does the next train leave? Gregory asks. "Tomorrow afternoon, at 3 pm." The engineer says. Thank goodness, he'll still be able to make most of his father's funeral arrangements. Gregory pulls out his phone, no service. With just around 24 hours to board the train, Gregory starts walking around the town of Eden. Eden is a small town with a Main Street, a theater and a few restaurants. While Gregory is looking at a menu posted outside the restaurant called "The Watering Hole," he sees a woman confronted by an angry dog. "Help! This dog is trying to attack me," the woman says. Gregory had dogs all his life, and he knows what to do. He runs over to the woman, picking up a stick on his way. When he arrives, he throws the stick, "go get it, boy." The dog goes off chasing the stick, Gregory can't believe it worked. The woman accompanies him to The Watering Hole. "Thank God you were there to save me, my name is Laney," she says. As she puts her hand out, Gregory realizes that she is the most beautiful woman he has ever seen. "Hi, I'm Gregory," he says. "Well, Gregory, it seems you're a good guy to have around in tight spot," Laney says. "No problem at all, glad it worked out," Gregory says. "Are you going to The Watering Hole, you have to try the Kugel, it's so delicious," she says. "Kugel, my grandmother used to make the best Kugel," Gregory responds. "Well then, allow me to buy you some Kugel, it's the least I can do for saving my life," Laney says, giving a flirtatious smile. Gregory melts with one look at that smile. "Sure, that would be great," Gregory says, finding it hard to turn down her stunning big blue eyes and her flowing blond hair, she is the woman he always has dreamt. The more time that Gregory spends with Laney, the more he is falling in love with her, she's the perfect woman. Beautiful, smart, and laughs at all his jokes. When the Kugel arrives, Gregory can't believe it; it tastes exactly like his grandmother's recipe, it brings him back to a happier time. Gregory and Laney laugh and talk most of the afternoon. Then he walked her back to her house. On the walk back, Laney mentions that the town is looking for items for the arts and crafts bizarre that's happening next week. Gregory jumped at the chance to show her some of the woodworking he sells, there is no internet, but he has pictures of the pieces on his phone. Laney loves the woodworking and says that she'll pay top dollar for all that he has. Even though the pieces are in New York, he offers to make a couple of items while here in Eden. Laney has piles of wood in her backyard, and he shows her how to work with the wood; she is fascinated by everything he has to say. When finished, Laney shows the pieces to a couple of people in town; they love him as well, orders start coming in for more. Also, the story of Gregory's heroism has begun to reach mythical proportions; in less than a day, he has become the town hero. Gregory can't believe his luck, a place where he could earn a living doing what he loves, be adored by the people in town, and spend time with this incredibly beautiful woman. Eden is absolutely an escape for Gregory. Gregory ends up spending the night at Laney's; they sleep together. His connection with Laney is growing deeper and deeper; he never wants to leave her side. The next morning, they go to have breakfast together, and Gregory has become an instant phenomenon. His woodworking pieces are the talk of the town, the women flirt with him, the men want to be around them, and the town offers him a house on the hill if he wants to stay in Eden. But his train leaves at three, he tries to spend as much time with Laney as possible, knowing what's waiting for him on the other side of that train. The more time he spends in Eden, the more he doesn't want to leave. The mayor even told him, joking, "We love ya, don't get on that train, stay here forever." Three has rolled around, and Laney has agreed to go with Gregory to Harrisville and attend his father's funeral, something he had hoped his wife, Rita, would have done. That was the last straw, after Harrisville, Gregory will be returning to Eden and not New York. "I've never been so happy in my entire life, This place is truly paradise," Gregory says. "I love you, Gregory, I can't wait to spend the rest of my life with you," Laney says. They wait on the platform, full of excitement. The train approaches, the door opens, Gregory goes to get on, Laney doesn't move. "Come on; It's time to go," Gregory says. "I can't get on that train," Laney says. "What do you mean, why not?" Gregory asks. "I'm not allowed to," she says. "Well, then I'm not going either," Gregory says. "You have to go, you fell asleep on the train ride to Harrisville, if you don't wake up, you'll die," Laney says as she begins to cry. "Then I'll die," Gregory says. "This isn't real, it's just a dream, you're going to wake up whether you like it or not," Laney says. Gregory finally accepts his fate, kisses Laney goodbye, and takes one last look at the town that made him so happy, if only for just a short time. He then gets on the train, and the doors close. As the train leaves the platform, a train whistle blows, Gregory is awakened when the conductor makes an announcement, "All those going to Harrisville, exit the train now." Gregory takes a deep breath and exits the train. He can't believe it was only a dream because it felt so real. He would give anything to go back, but he knows that it's just not possible. Often, the better the dream, the worse the harshness of reality when it comes. Often, when things get grim, Gregory will allow his thoughts to dwell on Eden; however, he knows he doesn't belong there. Dreams give us something to aspire to; they expose our ideal life, our goals, our hopes, and our dreams. Often, knowing what you want is half the journey to being happy in the first place.