It can be a beautiful thing, sometimes, going through life as a casual observer. Never staying too long in one place, choosing instead to live vicariously through the lives of those in eavesdropping distance. I observe miracles; heartbreak, the nuances of monotony. A common place for this happenstance is a bar I frequent, an understanding meeting ground that knows I'm four drinks deep before I remember its name. There's a revolving door of clientele, the occasional pit stop of a 21 run, tired workers and rejected souls. Among the ever-changing details, there has been a new constant, other than myself. She arrives at 9:45pm sharp, every night. Well put together, ironed clothes and sultry gaze. Dark hair, pinned with a knitting needle, freckles across a button nose and a well-traveled smile. The obviously bare knuckle where a wedding ring would lie, one single glass of Rosé. I never speak to her, in fear of upsetting her routine. She'll watch the clock turn 10:16 and sigh to herself, reach for her coat and quietly slip out the door. Tonight, a fellow observer dares to break the regime. She's come in as normal, but the glass of Rosé is waiting for her. Silence. A wave of panic on an otherwise perfect face. Ninety degree head turn, and disappointment disguised in kindness. She is facing him now, and I can hear the conversational details unwind. “I took the liberty of ordering your drink, and don't worry, the barkeep kept an eye on it. Just wanted to pay it forward.” A quiet, but genuine chuckle. He has a softened gaze, barely thirty by my estimate. Blonde hair carefully sculpted toward the left part, and eyes an evergreen shade. He's braver than I. She is polite, if cautious. “Thank you very much, you didn't have to do that.” It appears this is where she wants the interaction to end, but he presses on. “I see you in here, often. Easy enough to see you aren't in the league of many men here; you're strikingly beautiful, no-nonsense, but hey, I figured. Shoot my shot, right? I'm Louis.” “Charlotte.” A handshake, first contact. He swivels the stool closer to her, leaning his knees in. They engage in small talk for a few minutes, and I almost tune out, dissociate. She seems rather uninterested, but gives polite answers and seems one of sophisticated taste. Louis suddenly electrifies the air, and my ears once again have been pricked with interest. “Always 9:45, a glass of Rosé, and gone by 10:16. I've thought of many bizarre reasons as to why you've picked that routine.” Pointed silence, daring the conversation to draw nearer. Charlotte takes a single sip of her wine, removes her gaze from the clock on the wall. Deep breathing. Preparation. “You seem very observant, Louis. I'm intrigued. What do you think I could be doing here besides trying to enjoy a nice glass of wine after a hard day's work?” He runs his fingers through his hair, raises one eyebrow. “Isn't it obvious?” The tone is condescending at best. She doesn't answer, but places the glass down once more and adjusts her body language accordingly. Full attention. “Charlotte, you gorgeous, unappreciated woman. You're waiting for someone. Someone you know is never going to show up. I can see it in your eyes. The way you look at that clock as if you're begging it to show you mercy.” A cold stare. But shaking hands. “I know we've just met. And you've barely shown any interest,” Louis begins. Charlotte chuckles, suddenly warm and inviting the sentence to continue. Perhaps the honesty was more refreshing than the wine. “But honestly, even in the few minutes we've been talking, I can see you're selling yourself short. A woman of your caliber shouldn't be sitting here waiting for some schmutz to walk into this shitty bar and sweep you off your feet again.” She seems unsure of what to do here. Index finger slowly traces the rim of the glass. Louis presses on. “Unless...maybe, at least for tonight, that schmutz could be me?” Charlotte raises her head to see a toothy grin, flushed red face and an outstretched palm. The universe quietly holding its breath, perhaps at the same pace as this man. I suppose luck was in the agenda for Louis, because I watched her place a slender hand into this offering, and led out the door at 10:08. I do not know the fate of this couple, because I never saw Charlotte and the glass of Rosé again. However, at 10:15 that same night, a crimson haired man walked into this bar, and saw the lonely glass of Rosé on the counter, no beautiful woman to accompany it. An indescribable amount of sorrow upon his face. And I cannot explain why, but in that moment, I knew.


There has always been one god I praise: Wendy. You might not know who Wendy is, but I’ll explain everything. There’s this restaurant I go to named Wendy’s to eat breakfast, lunch, and dinner. The mascot is like the mom I never had. I praise her for the hole of depression she pulled me out of from not having someone to care for me. I praise her daily and thank her for my food. I have at least tried everything on the menu 473 times. My sister says I am obsessed but I say she’s crazy. Nobody could understand my feelings. I woke up in the morning feeling refreshed from the chicken nugget sense still lingering in my shirt. I do my morning routine with the hourly praise included. I then head to Wendy’s for the Honey Butter Chicken Biscuit with some orange juice. What a perfect meal and restaurant to start daily. I head inside sniffing the air to know I am really at home. I then wait in back of an elderly anxiously to spit out my order. “Next in line,” the worker says. Moving forward quickly, I say my order and pull the exact amount of money out of my wallet for the meal plus tax. I stop in my tracks bewildered as she didn’t ask for the payment. “We have a special today! You can also get a four piece chicken nugget meal with sixty cents more!” I thought quickly and opened my wallet once more. “Yes, I would like to have the nuggs with my meal, please,” I comply as I hand her my money. I was super excited that I could barely stand and breath to have such a deal! “Alright, you can have a seat. Your meal will be right out.” I sit down clutching my hands trying not to cry. How could I be so lucky?! I had so many thoughts and I could barely think until they called me up for my meal. I thanked them and sat down my tray at the table quickly as I do so too. I open the wrapper with the senseful scents filling my nostrils. “I’m so blessed,” I thought as I stared at my nuggets, ignoring everything else. I then stop and look over at my phone. Wendy’s has a Twitter! I will tweet at them to see if I can get some nuggs for free! I put a nugget into my mouth quickly as I grab my phone to locate Twitter. I press the bird and look up their profile. I quickly write a tweet asking how much retweets would I need to get free nuggs for a year. I wait anxiously as I finish my nuggets and drink my orange juice. Bzzt! I quickly grab my phone and see that they have replied. “18 Million,” I read as I get excited. I send this to all my friends and they share it with the world. This is my destiny. My past. My future.


My husband's name is Clark. When we were in high school, it used to be a pretty popular joke, to call him Superman. After all, he looked the part, with his dark hair and charming smile, not to mention the fact that he was the star of our football team. A perfect boy, my mother used to say. A perfect man, she now whispered to me, whenever we visited her. But, as some of you may know, when a relationship progresses, you start to look past the general, superficial traits that attracted you to a person and you start to learn about all the other little things that make them who they are. After some time, you love them more for those details than for what you first knew them for. Clark has many habits, many little quirks but the one that I enjoy the most, even if he despises it and will always shut me down whenever I mention it, is his sleep talking. Even when we were young, I already loved it, saw it as a way of looking directly into his psyché. Whenever he was stressed, sad or even aroused, I would know it, I would only have to listen as he slept and I would know *everything*. I spent hours upon hours just watching him as he slept and, even if his babbling wasn't always understandable, just the fact that I could know whether he was having a nightmare or not helped me in our relationship. It made me feel so close to him.I've never been annoyed by it, really. At least not until last month. Not until he started whispering other things than incoherent dreams and pieces of conversations that never happened. Not until he started talking about *them*. About the other women. The first time it happened, he had had a busy day at school, having had to organise a Sports day with several other teachers. At dinner, he barely had enough energy left to eat his food and he collapsed into our bed as soon as he reached it, leaving me to deal with the kids. This was no trouble however and, as soon as they were safely tucked into bed, I walked into our bedroom, only to hear him mutter : "Mary..." He said it a few more times, sounding quite stressed out. Already, my mind was whirling. Mary? Who was Mary? A coworker? A friend he didn't tell me about? I spent the next thirty minutes trying to come up with an explanation for this strange bit of sleeptalking and ended up convincing myself that it was nothing more than a strange dream, that nothing was amiss. The next morning, I still asked him if he had any new coworkers. He didn't. Still, it felt good to be sure. The next evening, it happened again. I stayed awake on purpose, my heart beating fast in my chest, waiting for him to say it to say her name again. I waited for a full hour before he spoke. "Janet..." he whispered, and I felt my heart drop. One name was fine but two? Two names of women I didn't know, I had never heard of? I was starting to get suspicious and, from now on, I would stop myself from falling asleep before him, listening with a heavy heart as he listed more names. Mary. Janet. Claire. Alex. When they were apart, those names seemed innofensive enough but, when I finally put them together, a sense of dread immediately fell upon me. It couldn't be... No. No this was just a coïncidence. But still, I couldn't help but wonder, couldn't help but think that... One Saturday, when he left for his usual morning run, I took his phone. It was easy to get in, his password had always been the same : our first daughter's birthdate. Once it was unlocked, I didn't waste any time and quickly went through his messages, noting that he seemed to have a particularly active correspondance with *Sara*, the Spanish teacher at his school, which made me frown. Beyond that, there was no mentions of any of the other women. I opened Safari. As soon as I typed in the first name, Mary, Google gave me an answer. Mary Adams. I shuddered. It was just as I feared. Why would he look her up? Sure, they had been close in high school but why would he search for her right now? Didn't he know that she was-- Biting my lips, I typed in Janet. Janet Clearwater. My former best friend in college. I looked at her, at her smiling face and at her brown, messy curls and, for a second, my heart stung a bit. The day she died had been one of the most difficult of my life. Stabbed to death in a backstreet alley, after partying in a club. It always seemed wrong for her, but-- Claire Sanders. I barely remembered her but, when my eyes landed on her face, blurry, in the old newspaper article, I recognised her as one of his first colleagues. She had been very friendly, always taking us to places. Clark and her used to be so close... Alex. Alexandra Turner. This one, out of all of them, stung the most. She had killed herself three months prior, slitting her wrists in her bathtub, when her husband was away from home. She had been such a good family friend, a friend of Clark ever since he was a little kid...  What were those four dead women doing in my husband's search history? Did he miss them? All of them at the same time? Did he feel bad about their death? Nostalgic maybe? On a whim, I looked up his search history. He had spent hours looking into the women's deaths, into the investigation about them, into conspiracy theories that contradicted the police's version of events. Alex' death was suspect apparently, people were theorizing that she had not killed herself, that someone had actually murdered her. I had no idea theories like that existed and the fact that Clark had read them, according to his history, made me wince. Why would he look at that? I was shaking by now, mostly from shock. Deep inside, I already knew the answer to my question and it left a bitter taste in my mouth. Clark couldn't have-- but if he hadn't, why where those names coming back now? Why had he looked for them? For the first time in my life, I started feeling afraid of my husband, of what he could do to me if he really had... No. No there was no way. It couldn't be that. It couldn't be. I had to focus, let it go. Clark was just feeling nostalgic about his old friends, trying to revive his memories, there was nothing suspicious about this. With a shaky smile, I put the phone back on the kitchen table and went to get a glass of water. I should focus on other things, things that mattered. Sara for example. From their texts, she seemed to be close to Clark. *Too close*. My grip tightened around the glass and, for a moment, I almost thought I was going to break it. Not wanting to deal with the cleaning up and the pain of an injured hand, I slowly relaxed my grip, breathing in and out deeply. Sara. That bitch. I had to deal with her, then I could speak to Clark. Figure out what was wrong with him.  He was always easier to deal with when he was grieving.


It was his fortieth birthday. There was only one envelope in the mailbox. No cards, no emails, not even a slice of cake by mail. It was the mandatory donation form. Once you reach the age of forty, you are required to identify how your body will be used after death - it’s a sacred condition of citizenship. Two main options were on the form: donate your body to the necrophiles or to the cannibals. They also gave you the option to select both, but then you had to fill the supplemental form where you mark a diagram and give specifics instructions (within 400 characters, max). A recommended configuration is the right side for the cannibals, the left side for the necrophiles, eyes mixed use. Joe shrugged. There was no consistent death date, but one was expected to die within a few years of the their fortieth birthday, if not earlier. There was no clear pattern. Some died at 43, some at 47. A few even lived to fifty. One man lived to sixty. There may have been a few seventies here and there. Eighty? Unlikely, but not impossible. Stranger things have happened. The state was likely behind it somehow. But this was the man, the man named Joe. It was at this point in history he resolved to live to be 100 years old. It was not a decision made on mere whimsy. No, it was a decision that had taken him 40 years to make. The rest of his life started here, so he selected neither necrophiles nor cannibals. He turned to the page containing the diagram and drew a large red ‘X’ on it. Of the 400 characters he only required a few, and on the lines available he wrote the most powerful words he could conjure: "Don't touch.” Joe shoved the form in the envelope and decided to get a Birthday Burrito. While people normally get free bus rides on their birthday, the bus driver chose to avoid eye contact when Joe asked for his free ride. Instead, he paid the requisite 50 millilitres of blood at the needle-till to board, walked past some pale 30-somethings and took a seat. The shuttered windows were covered in faded ads. Prominently displayed was the new teen fad: Die Young, Sexy, and Tasty. It was a euthanasia service targeted at 13 to 17 year olds, which made Joe sad. He thought to himself, how can you enjoy being with the ‘in’ crowd if you are dead? The bus came to an abrupt stop and Joe rolled out of the vehicle. As Joe walked down the sidewalk, he passed a group of 13 to 17 year olds. When he passed them by, he overheard one of them. “I love to die young, sexy, and tasty. Forty? That’s selfish.” As a forty year old, Joe was now officially out of touch. He would never understand why this was cool. He arrived at the burrito joint. It was a small, anonymous shack nestled between two burned-out buildings. Peculiar decorations painted the walls, with vectors and math problems that all had the same solution: binge eating. As Joe gently shut the door, a man pointed a sawed-off shotgun directly at Joe’s face. “It’s 10 o'clock, what are you doing here?” Joe didn’t reply with language, only the ultimate expression of hunger. Joe pointed his finger to meal A, subset of X: Birthday Burrito. The host sighed. “We don’t have anything prepared yet, can you just sit down?” Joe complied, though he didn’t have to. As he sat down next to some corpses, he angrily thought to himself. He would never let himself become a corpse. An awkward silence ensued. “This is our destiny: to be one with flavour. A flavour so intense it can unify the necrophiles and cannibals,” the chef softly spoke. Joe didn’t understand. The chef produced a meat of mysterious origin while Joe sat idly by. He glanced over to the chef as he prepared the Birthday Burrito. He worked vigorously, imbued with an unparalleled passion. His sweat dropped into the sauce and soon he went silent. His eyes glazed over as he continued preparing the meal. Any identity he may have previously had was dead. When the burrito was finished, he handed it over to Joe. He had never tasted anything so good and he doubted he would ever again. When the last of the burrito slinked down his throat, Joe tearfully asked, “Sir, how did you craft such a work of perfection?” The man replied. “I did not craft anything. I simply allowed God to use me as a vessel. It is with his guidance that our work be done.” Joe looked down at his own hands and thought if God ever tries to use him he’ll fucking kill him. He clenched his fists and, without paying, barged through the door into the outside world. The host knew not to interfere - this was a man determined to live 100 years. Further down the street, Joe laid on the damp ground. Exhausted. Humbled. Nothing could bother him, until something bothered him. A small, soft man in a suit prodded him with a cane. He was accompanied by a scantily clad hunk. “Good day, I hope all is well on this beautifully foggy late morning. My name is George Shigu, but you can call me Mr. George Shigu. I am a representative of the Department of Organic Recycling. This is my gorgeous executive assistant, Hans Maffew.” George broke out of his monotone voice with a swoon but quickly regained a boring composure. “At any rate, we know that you recently ordered a Birthday Burrito. This was within 24 hours of receiving the mandatory donation form. Six hours, forty-two minutes according to our analytics.” George knelt down closer, still occasionally prodding Joe. “Joe... Joseph… forty-year-old Joseph. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you are...”, George smiled, “trying to live 100 years.” Joe confidently nodded, too exhausted to speak. “Very well. Hans, darling, please escort our special friend to the car.” Joe felt a hypodermic needle in his arm and everything faded to black. Joe awoke in an unfamiliar place. Dim light traced the edges of the walls enclosing him in a cell. He was in a bed. Across from him laid another man in another bed, a very old man. The sound of George’s voice blared from an unknown corner. “So, you want to live to the big 1-0-0! In front of you is a man who is 99 years and 99 days old. Tomorrow he will be 100. If I were you I would listen to what he has to say. I cannot force you to do anything, Joe. But I can warn you: you must not live to be 100 years old, for your own good.” The man across from him sat up and began to speak as if to no one in particular. “Hello again, Daniel. It's Peter. I'm old today.” “Hello sir,” Joe said to the man. “If I had to do it all over again I would've killed myself somewhere between 13 and 17 years of age. Well heck, it ain’t too late!” “Sir, I admire your strength. You are an inspiration.” “I became incontinent on this day 20 years ago. I should've killed myself before then. Well heck, it ain't too late!” “Sir, please don't kill yourself, you're so close!” “It ain't too late Lady D! It ain't too late to die like a little piggy! That's what I like.” Hans entered the room with a handgun placed on an embroidered pillow. He placed it in Peter’s hand, stroking his wisps of hair compassionately. “Fucking kill yourself already you old bitch,” he said to the old man in his Bavarian accent. “I’m the pizza pie,” said Peter before painting the wall with a Rorschach test of blood and brain. George yelled “Next!” A phone rang and Joe picked up. “It’s me, Elie. I served you the Birthday Burrito this morning. Because of this, you consider me to be your closest friend but this feeling is not mutual. Joe, you are being egocentric. An egocentric prick. An egocentric dog, I’d go as far as to say. Think about the society we have created, a world with no borders, no hunger, and ample sex for every man, woman, and corpse. What would cannibals and necrophiles do with a shitty 100 year old corpse? This is the question that none of my students could answer. When one tried, I shot her and am now no longer allowed to teach topology. Goodbye, fucker. Count me out of this entire friendship.” Elie hung up, their friendship apparently over. George opened the cell door with his prodding cane and limped into the room. “Hans, you may leave, but please take that useless corpse out of here, sweetie.” Hans smiled. George grabbed a metal chair, dragged it over to Joe’s bedside with a metallic scrape, and tenderly placed his hand on his chest. “Joe, we cannot legally kill you. Our nation is based on the principles of solidarity, diversity, and accommodation. I swore an oath to uphold those values when I joined the Service. But I wanted to show you something: my pre-clearance mandatory donation form I filled out when I was 33. My body will first go to the cannibals. Then, my bones will go to the necrophiles - they can make use of every part of the body. But my heart...” George stopped and blushed. “My heart will go to Hans.” He held the form close to his chest. “Do you understand?” George asked, some tears gently rolling down his cheeks and onto his medium-priced suit. “Do you see the beauty now?” Joe thought silently for a moment, clearly moved. Touched. Prodded, even. All by a man he just met. He then loudly proclaimed, “The only beauty I see is me living to be 100 years old. Suck it, heart boy.” George immediately revealed a revolver and pointed it at Joe, struggling with his feeble hands to maintain a straight shot. “Get out.” After a small pause, he sighed and continued. “Go through the cell door, head three doors down and take a left turn. The elevator will take you to the atrium and you can’t miss the exit. Remember to rate your client service experience at en-org-rec.worldgov/feedback. Thank you, have a wonderful day!” “Oh. Okay, sorry about that Mr. George Shigu. Maybe I went a bit too far.” “No problem, it happens to the best of us. Bye now.” Joe checked the survey while waiting for the elevator. Extraction quality, 7. Guidance quality (objective), 7. Guidance quality (subjective), 3. Room atmosphere, 8. Agent quality, 8. Peter quality, 5. Perspective on a patriotic 40-50 year old death, 1. In the comment section, he wrote that the experience was good overall, not great, but he still is determined to live to be 100 years old. The elevator arrived as he tapped submit. Five days passed. Joe nursed a normal burrito in his hand before sheathing it within his throat. The static that flared on the TV made way for a special newscast. There was a man who looked like Joe being monitored from outside. “Local man wants to be 100,” the lady began. The newscast turned to citizens on the street. A frumpy woman provided the first comment. “Well I guess that’s why they call him ‘Knuckle-dragging’ Joe!” The crowd around her laughed, but Joe wasn’t laughing. This was his dream. Why would they ever desire to take it from him? Joe slept, woke up, and ate burritos for 59 more years, and for 59 years he was utterly alone. Sometime during the 59th year of his mission he was approached by a man in a medium-priced suit. They shook hands and the stranger spoke. “Hello Joe, my name is Chrint Dringolt, and I'm from the Department of…” “I know where you’re from, and I know why you're here, so let's get this over with.” Chrint seemed surprised. “Very well then.” He produced a hypodermic needle from his pocket. Joe awoke in a room, a room similar to the room from 59 years prior. In front of him was a woman who appeared to be 43 or 44 just beginning to wake up. A voice reached out from the darkness. “So! You want to live to see the big 1-0-0!” The woman became alert. “Across from you is a man. His name is Joe, and he is 99 years and 99 days old. Tomorrow he will be 100. I want you to listen to what he has to say. We cannot harm you and we cannot force you to take your own life, but you need to understand the delicate balance our society has achieved.” Joe looked into her eyes and immediately knew what needed to be said. “Hello lady, I'm fucking old.” He smiled. “I have lived these last 59 years in total solitude. My joints ache, sometimes I pee dust, but mostly I pee blood.” She spoke, her voice cracking. “I'm sorry to hear that Joe.” Joe’s voice became more determined. “If I could do it all again I'd have killed myself between the ages of 13 and 17.” “Don't say that,” she said, “you're so close!” Joe continued. “There is no point in getting old. There’s no need to watch as your body decays. Everyone I might have cared about was donated long ago…” His thoughts turned to Elie. “You have to give up this foolish quest, Samantha.” He paused. “Chrint! It's time.” From a shadow emerged Chrint. In his hands was an embroidered pillow supporting a handgun. Joe picked up the gun and chambered it. Chrint leaned forward, looking directly into Joe’s eyes. “Fucking die already you old cunt.” As Joe lifted the revolver, the woman screamed, tears streaming down her face. “Don't do it Joe, we can both live to be 100! It doesn't have to-” Her sentence was cut short with the crack of the pistol. Chrint collapsed to the floor, blood spilling from his skull. The woman looked at Joe, gun still in hand. “I knew you wouldn't do it! Now we can-” A second shot erupted from the pistol. The woman fell back into the bed, part of her jaw embedded in the wall. Joe casually tossed the gun to the floor. “Fuck all of you, I'm living to be 200.


Red is the color of war, of pain, of cruelty. Since the first violent conflict in human history, when men slept in caves and fire was an incomprehensible, magical thing, and communication was shallow grunts and vague motions, red has been understood. Since before humanity looked at the sky and wondered what force, what being, placed them on the earth. Before we hunted, gathered, built, wrote, sang, played or spoke, we understood red. The Greeks had many gods, gods of dance, of archery, of navigation and wine, but the only god that has ever truly mattered-or existed-is the god of war. No, the god of war is not a being which resides at the top of Mount Olympus, but he does exist. The god of war is a whisper in man’s ear, encouraging man to conquer, to glorify and be glorified, to enslave and plunder and ravage. And this god of war is always cloaked in red. As I stood on the battlefield that day, red was all I saw. I looked at the men who wore uniforms like mine, faces I recognized, contorted into a horror unknown to those who have not seen battle. Their final expression is that of pain and terror, as their bodies were cleaved and butchered like cattle. They too, now wore cloaks of red. I saw red, but I smelled death. When men are terrified, when their hearts are in their throats and in their ears, and their stomachs are in their groins, they lose all control of our bodies. When young men fight their first battle, and walk back to camp with empty eyes and black hearts, you can smell their soil and their waste. Those men who do not come back to camp, mighty warriors and veterans of many campaigns, are reduced to the same shame and embarrassment in the end. It is not dishonorable, as it happens to all men in death. But all the same, the mix of waste and blood reached my nostrils, and I thought to myself that no matter how many men I carved up, I would never get used to that smell. I had become accustomed to the red, and I had become accustomed to the screams of men in pain and in death. I no longer hesitated when my blade passed through flesh and muscle and sinew and bone. My throat no longer tightened from blood flowing down it, as men without swords often throw their knuckles into the mouths and jaws of enemies, as a last ditch attempt at survival. But the smell. The smell is the last laugh of the god of war. For the whisper of the god of war tells men they are different. They are killers, brutal men without mercy or compassion. He tells men that they can kill hundreds, thousands, millions, without regret or trauma. He pushes adrenaline through the brain and heart and arms and swords of these men, invigorating and motivating them to take as many lives as they can. Then, as man stands and admires his own handiwork, the god of war whispers to him again. After the battle, the raging wildfire of brutality, all men face another battle within themselves. The god of war tells them they are killers, and that is all they will ever be. He tells them they have taken fathers, husbands, sons, brothers, leaders, teachers, friends from innocents who will never see those men again. He tells all men that they are not human, they are something lower. The greatest trick that the god of war has ever pulled is convincing men that killing will fill them. Honor, glory, riches, women, land, can be won and lost by the sword, but a man will lose everything else. I understood this, and I think few men do. I was never a man for philosophy, or mathematics or science. I was always a man of war. My compassion, mercy, propensity to love had all been lost after my first battle. For men who live by the sword will die by it, and I knew this from the first time I had put one into my hands. It took me until my first battle to understand it, but once I had felt a man’s life leaving his body, I accepted that I would never love, would never raise children, I would only kill, and then be killed. That day, I defeated a man with a family. He was a killer as well, I know that as well as I know that he was left-handed. I knew he had a unique ability to slash backhand, and flick his sword back in the opposite direction. This meant I had to block once with my shield, and once with my sword on opposite sides of my body, or else be disemboweled by his blade. I knew he was a man of almost unnatural strength, speed, and combat intellect. I also knew he was a man of mercy, perhaps the only killer I had ever known to spare men of the final strike. He was a man of honor, and that is why I won. For he had not given himself to the god of war entirely. He had stood over many lesser men, who would stab him in the back to steal his purse, and he had heard and refused the whisper of the god of war. That is an admirable quality, but that is why he lost. As I approached him that day on the battlefield, our respective comrades all turned and faced us. The other men stood side by side with their enemies, knowing at any moment that enemy could turn and stab him. However, they stopped because they understood that songs would be sang about that which was about to occur. Yes, the battle mattered. The king whom my opponent served wanted a certain piece of fertile land that my king had, but no one much cared about that. Everyone wanted a chance to watch. He was a man of noble blood. He had grown up training for moments such as these. He had fought in and won many tournaments. He had bloodied and notched his sword many times. That sword was a thing of beauty. Truly, his sword could have been traded for all that I owned. It was ten hands long, with a two hand hilt. Not many men had the strength to wield a sword of that size. The blade was etched with the swords name, and his family crest. It had an inlay of gold and silver along the hilt, stretching up the shaft of the blade and finally coming to a graceful end when it met the etchings. It was the sword of a great man, and a great man he was. My sword was also made for a man like myself. It was longer, lighter, and had a serrated edge on the front side. It could not be sheathed, I instead wrapped it in leather to protect it from rust. The blade started straight, and about halfway to the end it curved forward then back. It was truly a brutal weapon. A man had once told me it looked like a question mark, which I had never heard of before. It was plain, other than the design. It had a leather handle and straight hand guard. It was meant for a killer, and that was what I was. The man who stood before me that day was called Lord Peter Talan. He was about my age, and a hand or two taller than me. As the men encircled us, I studied him. His eyes were narrow and focused. I knew he wanted to win, but he didn’t want to kill me. I turned to one of my comrades, and gave him my sword to hold for a moment. I had known what to do in this moment for a long time, for I had watched this man move before. I took my now free hand and loosened the straps on my shield only slightly, allowing my arm just enough freedom to accommodate that which I was going to execute. I took out of my hand a small knife, not much larger than those that nobles use to spread butter on their bread. Lord Peter Talan could not see this, for my back was turned and my shield was parallel to my body. I took my sword back and swung around to face him. Often, lesser men feel the need to threaten their enemies at times like these. I did not, nor did he. Honorable as he was, he did make me an offer. “I know you,” he said. “you are the one they call the son of Micheal, the archangel. Your name is Henry. You have no father, mother, wife or children. They say you are blessed by God to kill.” I said nothing, for I was a quiet man. I knew he had more to say. He said the same thing to all men who he fought, and so far, they all should have accepted. “Henry, son of Micheal, I offer you mercy. I offer you forgiveness, as the Lord commands and the pope preaches that I must offer. I offer you a chance to lay down your sword and walk away with your breath.” I again said nothing. I knew then what all men must know before they fight. They must know that they can kill and kill without hesitation. Lord Peter Talan was a great man, a great fighter, and an artistic killer. But he did not know what I knew. I neither accepted nor declined his offer. I simply pushed my helmet off with my wrist, as my hand was still filled with my sword. I knew he would do the same. Some men would rather have the protection of the helmet. I did not. Some men would rather not see the men they kill. I didn’t mind. He was a man of honor, and would not allow himself any advantage in combat. He took his helmet off for honor, I took mine off to see his face as he died. His visor had not been opened, and as he took his helmet off, I saw his face. A trimmed beard and dark eyes set upon a weathered and experienced face. His neck was thick and muscled, and stiff as his body tightened in anticipation for the fight. As we came almost within a blades reach of one another, I saw that he was even bigger than I thought. For a moment, I felt concern wash over me. Not fear, for I feared nothing. But concern, for a victorious man can still lose a limb to violence, and a killer is nothing without his hands and his feet. The concern was washed away by the whisper of the god of war. When I heard the whisper, I took a step with my left foot, feigning a slash, then attacked. He barely flinched at the feign, and parried my blow, throwing my sword wide to my right. My midsection was exposed for a moment, but I pulled my shield in front of me, blocking his successive jab. I spun around, using the momentum of the swing to power a downward slash. He brought his blade up, and we were locked in a stalemate for a moment. He threw his power behind his blade, and pushed me backwards. I stumbled for a moment, then regained my footing. In this moment, he died. He saw victory much too early. In his mind, he was at home, with his wife and children. They were eating fine food, and drinking fine wine, and his beautiful wife was beaming with pride at the victory he had won. He saw victory because he was stronger than me. He let his shield fall to the ground, and placed both hands on the gold and silver handle of his sword. Then he walked in, smashing my insufficient defense with the totality of his strength. He crumpled my shield with his first strike, and I was throwing up both my sword and my shield in desperation, trying to defend from the next earth-shattering blow. Again, he smashed my shield, and I felt and heard a pop, as my wrist dislocated. Pain shot up my arm, but still, I held on to that small knife. I managed to catch his blade in the corner of my own, where the traditional straight blade met with the curved piece. He pushed hard, and I felt my sword slipping from my grasp. This was my moment. I threw my left arm behind my body, straightening my wrist to allow my shield to slide off of my forearm. Any movement of my wrist sent a torturous message to my brain, but I was way beyond acknowledging it. As the shield came off of my arm, I was also relieved of my sword. He had pushed hard against it, and it had twisted and pulled out of my hand. For a moment, I held nothing, except that small knife. But as he pushed that sword out of my hand, his body betrayed him. Years of training had left him muscle bound and strong as an ox. He had pushed so hard against my inferior strength, that as my resistance left, his arms still pushed. They pushed against a sword that was falling to the ground, and as he extended, his body twisted. A man of Lord Talon’s caliber wore a beautiful suit of armor. Ornate, decorative, and aesthetically pleasing yes, but also, it was fully functional. When he wore his suit of armor, he had no weakness. His feet were covered in sabatons, iron pieces placed over a leather boot. His knees were covered by hinging pieces called a poleyns. Cuisses covered his thighs, where a man could sever an artery and bleed out. He wore a long sleeved chain mail shirt which came down in a tight fit past his buttocks. His midsection was covered by his breastplate, protecting his chest and heart. A blow from the strongest axe wouldn’t leave more than a dent. His arms were covered from forearm to shoulder, the armor overlapping the breastplate and leaving nothing exposed. Couters covered his elbows, a luxury only the richest could afford. There was no place to stab, cut or slash. Truly, when Lord Peter Talon was wearing his full suit of armor, he had no weakness. But he wasn’t wearing his full suit of armor. As he twisted, as my sword fell out of my hand and my shield was laying on the ground, I swung my left arm back around my body, and stabbed him in the neck. The blade pushed through his skin, his muscle, and finally stopped when it met bone. As I felt the resistance, I slashed it sideways, bleeding him like a pig. He was a great man, but he died like all men die. He fell to the ground, lifeless. I felt the pain in my wrist as my adrenaline faded and my body reverted to its normal function. I saw red, and I tasted victory, but I smelled death. And I heard the whisper of the god of war.


I’ve been a police officer for 13 years today. When I came to work this morning, my shift started with a cake offered by my colleagues, it was a chocolate cake with pink sprinkles and pink hearts on it with a large number 13 in the center. It was their way to mess with me, because I was the only female in our department. My cake was left unfinished as my partner and I got called in for a domestic violence case, and off we went.  A neighbour had called 911 after hearing argument sounds coming from an apartment below theirs. As me and my partner pulled up to the apartment building, we heard the yelling coming from one of the open windows on the second floor. I rushed up the stairs with my partner right behind me, we knocked on the door, but there was no response, we knocked again, nothing. We could hear the man yelling and the woman crying. They were speaking a foreign language, so we didn’t understand what the argument was about. It was the third time we tried banging at the door without a reply, yet the yelling and screaming and weeping continued. We decided to knock the door down.  Moments that followed were chaotic to say the least. The abuser was nowhere in sight, but his wife was laying on the floor, bloody and crying. I wen’t ahead with my gun pulled looking for the abuser. The woman was frantically yelling and crying, her black curly hair straight at the ends because of the sweat and blood, her eyes red, cheek bruised. Bruises on her arm showed that this was not the first time she has been physically abused. I made my way through the apartment and found the first bedroom, the room was open, I slowly looked inside only to confirm that the bedroom was empty. With my partner behind me we moved forward looking for the husband and found another bedroom. This bedroom was closed, I turned the doorknob slowly with one hand while holding my gun tightly with another, opened the door and saw a small bed, with pink curtains around it. A princess room. A child’s room. The room looked empty and dark so I figured it was empty too. I was about to turn around when I noticed something in the corner of the bedroom. I moved further in and saw a small child, maybe 4 years old, laying on the floor with her face down in a pool of blood, clearly shot in back from behind. What kind of a coward would do such a thing? With pain in my chest and tears filling my eyes I turn around to call for my partner and I see him. The husband, the father of this dead child, pointing a gun at me. I didn’t have time to react as I heard a gunshot, then another one. The husbands eyes widen as he falls down. Then I blacked out. One bullet shot from the gun my partner was holding, hit and killed the abuser. One bullet shot from the gun the abuser was holding.  Today marks the last day of my 13 year long career as a police officer. Today was my last day alive.  \*Please be honest, but kind.


“Where were you last night?” Max peered over my Economics textbook. He had a look of anticipation, as if he was waiting for some pain relieving gossip. “I was home,” I responded innocently before he rolled his eyes at me. “Now, don’t bother me, I’m trying to focus.” Although normally I would use anything to distract me from school, I wasn’t about to involve Max in last night’s mess. “Are you expecting me to believe you weren’t at Nina’s party?” He raised his eyebrows at me. I didn’t know what I was expecting. Frankly, no expectation in the world would have prepared me well enough. But I wanted to be there for Nina like she had for me. Perhaps I couldn’t fix her parent’s divorce, but I could at least attend her house party. Especially after her break up with Todd, the leather jacket douche that called her “babe” so much I would wonder if he knew her real name. “I promise you’ll have a great time,” Nina had told me. And at first, I really did. There is something comforting about the stagnant smell of beer penetrating every fiber of clothing and hair follicle. Something nostalgic about repetitive rap songs preaching about the wonders of big asses. Everything seemed normal at first. The music was pounding loudly and the dim lights carried shadows across the cramped living room. I could feel the air thickening. Minutes before terror, I was standing unnoticed next to a group of girls I recognized. “Someone told me her dad was abusive,” I heard one say with wide eyes. “Yeah, apparently the neighbors called the cops on them,” another responded. “Well, I wouldn’t point fingers just yet. Nina’s mom’s a bitch. Maybe she deserved it,” a brunette shrugged and took a sip of her drink right before our eyes met. Her face flared red as she realized her words had been overhead. I clenched my fists in rage. “How about you all mind your own–”. My response was cut short by a piercing scream. I quickly stood up in alert. The room became still. The music stopped and those still standing looked at one another with puzzled looks. The source was nowhere to be seen. It came again, this time along with a cry. I recognized Nina immediately. I pushed my way across the living room and ran up the stairs before barging into Nina’s bedroom. I noticed him first. His leather jacket shimmered in the moonlight as he stood tall and angry. A millisecond later, I spotted Nina on the floor. Hands covering her face in defense. The lack of light in the room didn’t stop the fierceness of her blood as it dripped down her temple and into her hair. I stood still. My brain called in fear but my body made no response. Not even when Todd walked passed me, into the hallway and shut the door behind him. Nina remained on the floor. She held herself and rocked back and forth, letting silent cries out into the thick air. “Don’t tell anyone.” She whispered.   “Hello?” Max snapped at me. “Are you going to tell me or not?” I stared at him blankly as the vivid flashbacks flew through my head. My heart stung in bitterness as I recognized that all I wanted to do was say it. To write it out in sharpie on all student lockers. Nina’s bloody face burned in my head. “There’s nothing to tell.


On a particularly lovely Tuesday, in a particularly lovely part of nowhere specific, a tiny seedling (no bigger than the nail on your thumb) began to tumble towards the earth. The cause of this lucky event is unknown; perhaps the winds that day were quite strong, or perhaps a squirrel scampered along the branch where this seedling previously resided, knocking it off on his way to do whatever squirrels do on Tuesdays that happen to be particularly lovely. Whatever the case, the seedling was rapidly descending in the air, swirling and twirling in a most nauseating fashion on its way down from the branch where it had been growing up until now. It landed softly with an unheard thump, surrounded by what appeared to be very tall blades of grass; at least, they were tall from the seedling’s perspective. The seedling did not fully understand this yet, but the soft patch of soil and grass onto which it plummeted moments ago would be its new permanent home, for the rest of its life. If someone were to relay this fact to the seedling, it would regard the situation as one that evokes bittersweet emotions, for the seedling had merely just discovered that not only could it venture to other places besides the branch on which it formerly grew, but that doing so was a marvelously exhilarating experience. The seedling yearned to explore everywhere it could possibly reach and then some, but alas this was physically impossible. However, the patch of ground where it was currently sitting was comfortable, and had the perfect balance of sun and shade. Therefore, although the seedling would be disappointed it could not travel to new, unfound places, it would still be happy to sit in the grass and for once, have an exciting memory. The next couple of days were pleasantly exciting as well to say the least. The seedling -still growing accustomed to its new habitat- was witness to multiple less than dull events from a human’s point of view. However, to a seedling who had only recently discovered that (big shocker) the rest of the world exists, these events were quite groundbreaking. It watched attentively as a brown ant carried a speck of food triumphantly across its unchanging field of vision. It admired the grace of a fresh dewdrop as it slid elegantly down the spine of one of its neighbouring grass blades. It cringed with strange delight as a tiny spider impolitely acquainted itself with the seedling by extending four of its long, prickly appendages and using them to feel the seedling’s smooth, hard, exterior shell. These were all amazingly unique experiences for the seedling, and it would remember them as prime character building events for the duration of its life. Over a period of several weeks, the seedling began to sprout its roots, which dug deep into the ground to secure its place on the earth. At the same time, it was sprouting a stem upwards. It was thin and green; nearly translucent with its infancy. From the stem grew leaves, which gathered energy and nourishment from the glorious sun overhead. The tiny plant felt good, as if it had found purpose in life. A simple, manageable purpose, but a purpose nonetheless: to grow. And grow it did. The tiny plant, now a strong, hearty tree, was home to a multitude of small creatures and was witness to hundreds of moments, both big and small, each one holding a special place in its memories. It grew wiser with each new experience, and just a bit stronger each day. The tree from which it originally sprouted eventually aged too far to continue to flourish with new leaves each spring, or support too much weight on its branches. During a hurricane, a powerful gust of wind blew in just the right direction to knock it down. Its upturned roots however, were now home to a lovely family of foxes, which would have made the old tree very happy if it had known that it would one day be used as a shelter for them. The strong tree held a nest of three baby robins and two adults between three intertwined branches, two squirrels in its belly, seventeen caterpillars who all resided in different parts of the tree, but knew each other as neighbours, five spiders and their respective webs, and a racoon that dug a burrow underneath the tree’s roots. The tree also served as a rest stop to many birds and insects, and welcomed each new resident with the same courtesy as the last. The tree liked to think of itself as a busy, friendly hotel. Over its years, as it slowly aged, the tree saw many astounding sights. At least, they were astounding to the tree and its residents. It survived one hundred and seventy two lightning storms, two droughts, five floods, twenty one snow storms that lasted more than three days, and each spring its leaves grew back even greener than the year before. The tree was forty nine years old, and it treasured each day as a healthy habitat for the woodland creatures who were proud to call it a home. Tomorrow, it would celebrate its fiftieth year on earth. In an unfortunate yet ironic twist, it was cut down before the day could finish to make paper for posters advertising the harmful effects of deforestation.


Safety First As I opened the truck door and reached for the hood latch I noticed a meth kit on the bench seat and a rusty hatchet underneath it. I popped the hood and returned to my security partner to inform him of what I saw. We decided to stall instead of jumping her car off and call the police. After I hooked up the battery pack, without turning it on, I had the lady attempt to start her car. Once the truck failed to start I quickly said, “let’s wait a bit and let It charge.” While we were waiting for the cops to arrive her son walked up with a full gas can. He was just as strung out as she was. My partner and I swiftly informed him we were attempting to jump the car off to not freak him out. The cops arrived immediately after that and arrested them for public intoxication and possession, not to mention her 16-year-old son had five warrants out for his arrest. My first job out of high school was a security guard at mall. During my time there I witnessed many bizarre situations; however, these meth addicted drug addicts were the most disturbing. At nine o’clock at night, the parking lot closed and my job was to patrol the area and inform people to leave. When I approached the lady, she insisted on staying to watch the airshow. I was immediately uncomfortable and knew something wasn’t right. I radio my partner and we approached the situation with caution which was the right decision. I think I subconsciously entered the security field due to the trauma I encountered from my earliest memory. My earliest memory takes place in Birmingham AL of 1998 when I was roughly three years old. On a dark summer night, I was walking down a residential street with my older brother and my mom who was pushing a stroller with my baby brother in it. On the way to the gas station at the end of the street, I noticed a white truck drive past us a couple of times. Being young and practically having no thoughts at all I didn’t notice the danger of someone circling us. We finally reached the gas station for my mom to use the payphone to call my grandparents. While she was on the phone my brother and I to ran up and down in a ditch next to the gas station to entertain ourselves. My mom screamed, “Get over here you two.” I listened and returned to my mom standing in front of the store windows. As I was looking into the store at the twin pack of hostess cupcakes I heard a terrifying scream. I turned around to a giant man wearing a ski mask with devil red eyes, black long sleeve shirt, blue jeans, and black boots holding my brother with a gun to his temple. “Give me all your money or I’ll kill this bastard,” he yelled. My mother pleaded with him in tears explaining she had no money. She just used her last quarter in the phone booth to call her parents. The man pointed the gun at us. “Give me your money or I will kill you and all your children, you stupid lying bitch,” he said. I scuffled more behind my mom’s leg as she continued crying and begging for our lives, still repeating she had no money. The man picked my brother up and ran around the back of the building. My mom screamed out his name repeatedly, “Jacob!” Then I saw my brother running as fast as he could to us as we heard a truck start. As my mom grabbed the phone to dial 911 a white truck quickly left from behind the store. I don’t remember anything from this moment until the sea of cops arrived. Cops quickly became my heroes. I idolized them, and my goal for a long time was to become one until society started to criticize their every action making the job more dangerous than it has ever been. Police officers now work with a handicap while trying to make America a better place to live. Society wants revenge for unlawful killings by cops and the government wants a scapegoat resulting in police officers being locked up for years or at the very worst killed. A political issue I am not willing to risk my life for even though many people could benefit from my service. In this time of needing my family and I had no one else to turn to for help. The platoon of police that arrived found the men who robbed us and locked them up for a long time. To this day there is no better solace than knowing they got what they deserved, but it will never change the impression that night made on me in my foreseeable years. Twenty years later I am still always paranoid of everyone around. I trust no one except my family. I subconsciously pursued a security career to learn how to control my surroundings and secure my perimeter. Only years later did I realize why. I take every measure to be in control of me and my wife’s safety: I travel with weapons, I travel without cash, I lock the house at night, I have a guard dog, I watch everyone, I never sit with my back to the door at restaurants, and I avoid dark places. These are just a few examples of how this one man robbed me of being normal. I wash my face everyone morning and pray for a peaceful day.


\*\*\*A work in progress that I created and wanted to push out.  Jack is dying. The sun burns a hole through our invisible, velvet sheath- creeping so hauntingly from a million miles away. Our eyes pierce the fog that shrouds our claims of forever. We were happy once, sitting beneath the trees, the faint touch of autumn leaves dancing upon our skin. Jack is dying. Autumn leaves, in all their beauty, now turn black and just like these heart-shaped glasses, begin to dissolve and wither between the image of what is real and what is a mere memory. Green to yellow, yellow to red. The shifting colors of every sensible traffic light. We race toward the shifting colors- Jack raises his voice and looks away from the illuminating spots upon the encroaching horizon. He explains his desires and the meaning of music to his tear-stained wife. She cries louder now, screaming at Jack as he races through the night and into the clutches of the reaper's intersection that blindly approached them. She says something about leaving as headlights scream through her window. *When the rain came our heartless barricades were not enough to stop the deluge. If we can talk about those times, maybe we both can live in a happily ever after. I just wanted to dance with you, beneath the autumn leaves, because Jack needed a breath- I needed a spark.* A sandy blonde-haired man stood in the middle of the wreckage, shards of glass burying into the soles of his naked feet. It had begun to rain as Jack's eyes peeled open. An unfamiliar dampness scratched at his eyes. The images were blurry, but the blonde-haired man stood silhouetted in the street- flashing lights dancing behind and all around- Jack could make out the movements of the man's lips, but his words could not breach the rain. Noises, so loud- so distracting like a siren in the distance- it all came screaming through and he tried to move, but his body was too heavy. He remembered arguing, then the sound of screeching brakes and now the man- so familiar yet still so blurry. His face still hidden in the blackness of the night. Jack tried reaching out into the night toward the man and then he saw it- bloody hands covered in glass. Sickness came to him and his panic, he saw the sandy blonde-haired man disappear into the raid and Jack's eyes closed, escaping, for a brief moment- the fate that would cripple his life and destroy him. *Majestically fucked up. Music could bring us back home. I thought I had it figured out, but I was young and dumb. The parallel lines of our life and what we imagine ran endlessly into that unknown place. I thought it was simple. We could look at the other line, but we could never know it- I wish we figured it out sooner.* An empty room, save one soul and a half dozen chairs. The taste of tobacco lingers still, flaunting sway over his deserted body. He had grown accustomed to the task; to the longing. He felt cold and barren within the confines of the room, walls that smothered and pressured. Most rooms felt the same since the accident. Probably why he was here, waiting for some fucked up doctor and his pseudo-science. A screeching monotone pierces the small bedroom. The phone's voice scratches at the ears of the couple laying a few feet away. From beneath the warmth and comfort of a quilt, a man's arm raises up, searching the darkness for the source of such distraction. He pulls himself up and out of his dream, pushing a button and forcing the phone beside his ear. "' ‘ello?", Groggy and still half asleep he answers, already sure of who it is at such a late hour. The day's date made this phone call inevitable- it was just a matter of when. "It's me…", his voice trailed on and stuttered, his breathing slightly elevated and his words coated a hint of sadness. "Jack…" , a tired, female voice broke the momentary silence from beneath the covers. She rustled the quilt from her face and peered up, sleepy-eyed and half asleep, to her husband, Jack Monroe. Jack takes a moment to sift his fingers through her hair before answering. Her eyes, the darkest auburn, barely visible with the weight of exhaustion. "It's Marcus, Anna- I'll come back to sleep soon, try to rest" He takes his gaze off Anna and returns to his phone conversation. " Hey man, you doing all right?", worrying wasn't his nature but Marcus sounded more drunk than usual. Even after a year, Sara's death wouldn't be just a memory for him. Each moment seemed to poison him, even more than the liquor. "Yeah, you know…trying. I just wanted to hear your voice- see how you were doing." The sadness was still there behind his tone, but the slurring seemed to stop when he focused on talking. He continues to speak in a sort-of rambling way," I just wanted to tell you that I love you and Anna both. I'm sorry I could not be stronger." He trailed off murmuring to himself incoherently. There was something different, Jack thought, in Marcus's tone and in the words he spoke. Never did he seem so serious and sad at the same time. Maybe Marcus was off his medication- if so he probably isn't thinking clearly. "We love you too, man. You know that. You sure everything is okay? I can com-" Marcus knew where this was going and interrupted him, steady but starting to slur his words. "No, no. Everything is as it is supposed to be. I'm going to sleep, I'll see you tomorrow." Just as abruptly as the phone call itself, the other line disconnected, and left Jack puzzled and unsettled. "That was a little different", he speaks to himself and tries to dismiss the ominous cloud. He places the phone back in its cradle and wrestles with the quilt, trying to get comfortable. Anna shuffles back awake and inches closer to Jack, reaching her small arm across his chest. She's more awake now but still very out of it. She had overheard portions of the conversation and asked Jack about it. "Is he all right?" "For the most part, yeah, I think. Sara just won't let him go." " I don't blame him, at least tomorrow we'll see him and cheer him up." Her head tilts on his chest and kisses his right breast. It was always so comfortable for her to lay on him- she loved him and couldn't imagine a world that was without him. He nods silently at her comment and brings her closer, hugging her tightly- thankful to the gods that she exists and exists with him. He begins searching the darkness of the room, waiting and thinking. After the phone call, visions of where he was started filtering through and now he had the chance to focus. "Oh yeah, I had the strangest dream right before he called" She peers up, catching his gaze, "Oh yeah?"- It wasn't odd for Jack to dream- some of them even end up being in his novels. "That's good, right?" She asks, already knowing the answer but curious all the same. "Everything was just so different. And it seems odd now, but everything seemed in place and right. But, I have a new novel- an idea that may bring Marcus back to us." Jack smiles and leans back, drifting off back into the world that seemed so perfect. Annabel rests peacefully, already wisped away by some warm, salty breeze that pursued her from a distant ocean in her dreams. I remember screaming out your name. A tight fitting ball of rage seething in the bowels behind my eyes. In a dream I stood on a cliff, a vexing deluge pouring around my tears- a torment of dismay violently crashing against rock and bone. I cannot be this lonely- this angry- this hopeless without you. It would never be just you and me- a movie of our lives plays across the angry sky- the ocean horizon begging at our feet. I have grown old now with a numbing secret- you do not exist- you never have. All your voices can never let me go and this hate for you swells and grows harder as time passes- you laugh in my visions and hand me another glass- a pill soaking at the bottom. As you scream into these filthy ears of mine, I will not cry for you and tears will not fall at the thought of you. Maybe if I was blind I could see you, if I had no fingers maybe I could feel you and if I had no tongue, I could say all the pretty words you need to hear.


Part 1: I could fill a book with the wonders I have seen. Far off galaxies, the near and distant past; worlds of fantasy that are beyond imagination. The beauty of this is that all these places are real. Imagine a world where World War II never ended. The atom bomb was never used and countless more lives are lost. That world is in disarray, on the brink of utter apocalypse, but it is a sight to behold. The dystopian scenery and utter despair are truly a writer’s dream, for the best stories are the ones that have been experienced. While it is true that said world is completely doomed, take confidence in knowing that it is not our world. Or your world. Or whichever world you are reading this in. I suppose this is all quite confusing to hear. Sure, you may think my claims bold and unfounded, but I assure you, everything I am saying – and everything I am about to say – is true. You see, in a Sir Isaac Newton’s book \*Opticks\*, which was published quite a few centuries ago, he first posited the concept of a multiverse. I am no physicist, so let me allow his words to speak for him: >And since Space is divisible in infinitum, and Matter is not necessarily in all places, it may be also allow'd \[sic\] that God is able to create Particles of Matter of several Sizes and Figures, and in several Proportions to Space, and perhaps of different Densities and Forces, and thereby to vary the Laws of Nature, and make Worlds of several sorts in several Parts of the Universe. At least, I see nothing of Contradiction in all this. Confusing, sure, but ever since then, many have expanded upon this theory. For example, Schrödinger, whether joking or not, purported that while some of his equations seemed to describe multiple histories, these histories were occurring simultaneously and not alternatively. This fits in well with the parallel universe framework. But like I said, I am no physicist. All of this merely interests me and has become a bit of an obsession for me since I started \*that which began this entire ordeal.\* Lucid dreaming is what happens when the person is aware that they are dreaming. I have read some stories of people lucid dreaming, or even using lucid dreaming to remind themselves during sleep paralysis that they were indeed dreaming. Usually, there are certain steps you can follow in order to lucid dream. However, since I was born, I have been able to do it and I remember every single dream. Of course, I was no cognitively aware of this as a baby. Furthermore, there was not much to do in those dreams because I merely dreamt of being a baby. Of course, there were notable differences in these dreams, such as my parents being different, the environment being alien (even to a mere infant), or even different languages. But the constant that always persisted throughout these dreams was me: I always looked the same and was the same age. As I grew older when I was “awake,” so too did I in these dreams. These dreams afforded me a tapestry of stories to weave. As I grew older, I also began to discover my love and style of writing. Perhaps it was because of these dreams; perhaps I needed an outlet to express what was in my mind each night. I kept a journal as well, describing the world I saw in the dream from the night before and naming it. At first, I decided to be creative and name each Earth something that fit its scenery. But as time wore on, I could tell that my mind was creating a lot more of these fantastical worlds than I could have consciously imagined. I could revisit these dreams at will, even switching between a few of them in a night. So far, I have tallied and explored around 8760 different worlds. As fantastic as that seems, I should have known that something was off about a long time ago. Like I said, I can remember every dream in perfect detail. It’s almost as if my mind can create a complete 3D reconstruction of the dreams that I can mentally view, almost as if it were a diorama. It’s quite handy and I did experiment with this as well. Alas, I am getting ahead of myself. My apologies, there is just quite a bit to say and I do not know how much longer I have. In these lucid dreams, I would often act out whatever part was given to me: soldier, detective, Kate Upton’s husband (that one is one that I do tend to visit quite often). I play them out as if it were a real situation that I had to respond to. For the most part, I seemed to play the role quite well. Every now and then, though, something odd would happen. I would do something that appeared, well… out of character to the denizens of these dreams. My replies would elicit confused looks or disgusted stares, as if I had done something gravely offensive. I suppose the best example of this is in World 978 where everything is mostly the same as our Earth (as far as my limited scope can tell) except for two things: 1. I am a farmer and 2. I am not allowed to eat any of my own crops and butchered livestock. It is that simple second fact that got me in quite a bit of trouble. I will spare you the politics of this world and what led to such a rule existing, but in short, I disobeyed the rule. In fact, I had no idea that the rule even existed until I had been reported and imprisoned for it. Usually, when I revisit my dreams, I pick up in different places. In one dream for one world, I could have just won the Stanley Cup, and in another dream in that same world, I am relaxing at home with my wife – my trophy on the mantle. They seemed episodic and generally unconnected, as if I was watching a syndicated TV show. However, upon revisiting 978 the next night, I found that I was still in prison and the time between the prior night’s dream and that dream coincided with how long I had been locked up. It seemed that my dreams had a constant concept of time that persisted even when I was awake. But that didn’t quite make sense. There was no way my mind could keep up with 8760 different worlds, managing their rules, keeping track of them in real-time, and maintaining them while I was away from dreamland. Unless they weren’t dreams. It was after 978 where I started to grow suspicious. I started paying very close attention to the details, both minor and major, in my other dreams. I would write down consistencies in my journal and make sure I kept track of them, revisiting certain ones sometimes weeks in a row. Over time, I began to understand that I wasn’t the one that created these worlds. Perhaps there was more to this than I thought. Then, one night, I visited a world that I could only visit once. I did not try to go there; I was drawn there. I was seated in front of a table, tied down, with an open letter on the desk. >Dear Mind, > >Whether you have figured it out now or not is not of any importance. Your link to the other worlds is unnatural as is the Body’s and the Spirit’s. These are not dreams that you have been having; you have been INVADING other worlds and posing as their version of yourself. You and your ilk are a stain upon the natural order of the world and we are aware of your presence and power more now than ever. You three are difficult to reach, this is true. There appears to be something special about your worlds. Perhaps you three lie at the end of the vast multiverse. Yes, there is an end. And yes, you will have an end as well. We have taken up the mantle of your killer. Have you not noticed? Have you never seen us? Surely you must be aware that there are some dreams that you can never return to. Do you ever wonder why that is? It’s because \*you don’t exist there anymore.\* Soon, you won’t exist anywhere. I woke up in a sweat, gasping for breath as if I had been trapped underwater. I shakily reached my hand over to my lamp and turned the light on, carefully retrieving my journal from my nightstand. I took a moment to catch my breath before I began flipping through the pages. >August 24, 20XX – World 27: This dream was interesting, as this has never happened before. The job I had in this dream required me to cross about four lanes of traffic on a busy street. There was no stoplight or stop sign for the other drivers, so I was forced to cut across. As I did, I noticed this large semi-truck barreling down the road. I thought I saw something in the driver’s seat – almost like a shadow – but before I could register it, the truck hit me, and the dream ended. > >August 25, 20XX – World 27: After the accident, which apparently caused my death in the dream, I can’t visit world 27 anymore. It doesn’t seem to be an option. I began flipping through the pages, looking for other such incidents. “Shadow” “Death” “Accident” all appeared in worlds I could no longer access. This was all too much – I had to be going crazy. I was visiting other worlds? How did that even work? My mind worked and worked, but I just could not grasp the concept. It made no sense to me – parallel worlds were something reserved for entertainment like comics or books. They couldn’t possibly exist. At least, that’s what I thought at the time. As of now, I’m not so sure anymore, but that doesn’t matter anymore. I began to replay my earliest dream – the one I had the day of my birth. From the womb to my mother’s arms, there was a unique sense of unease that I could not have fathomed as a child. I had never had a reason to revisit this dream, but for some reason, I felt myself back in it. As my infantile eyes darted around the room, barely able to make sense of anything, I froze. The air around me went cold as I saw it: in the corner was an unholy beast, pitch black, but covered in scars that seemed to bleed endlessly into a dark green puddle at its feet which bore no reflection. It seemed hunched over, as if it was too tall for the room, its legs long and endless as they exited the floor into the puddle of blood beneath it. It had no arms, but I still felt like it could grasp me at any moment. Its face was the worst part: it wore a pearly white mask over its face with wide eye holes and a long, smiling mouth. Its eyes seemed to go deep into its head, almost too far back to may sense. They appeared as deep black holes behind the mask, seemed to give way to bloodshot pupils that darted around insanely, unable to rest. Its mouth was constantly smiling a wicked grin, its teeth splintered and uneven; jagged and covered at the tip by the same dark green blood that dripped from its unholy carcass of a body. No one in the room seemed to notice it, but as it came closer and closer, the infant in my mother’s arms began to scream and cry, startling the doctors quite a bit. Something was wrong and everyone in the room knew it. My mother – the very image of the one I have in my world turned towards the being, as if unafraid of its horrid appearance, locking its gaze to hers. She seemed to be the only one, aside from me, that could move: “Non toccare mio figlio. Non sei benvenuto qui.” I heard her words echo like thunder around the room causing the room to shake and the lights to flicker. The monstrosity stopped moving for a moment, its face unchanging, before it suddenly sank into the puddle, vanishing from sight. Then, as if nothing had happened, the room returned to normal. “Hai deciso un nome?” the doctor asked, a returning his face to a smile in spite of my sudden outburst. With a warm look of joy, she looked down at the baby – at me – and said “Spirito.” Snapping myself out of this trance, my mind was less at ease than before. There was no doubt that the creature I saw in my dream was the same one that wrote me that letter and forced me to read it. It was the same creature that was hellbent, for lack of a better term, on ending me not just in one universe, but in every universe. I was at a complete loss for both words and actions. Once again, the cogs in my mind began turning. This was an impossibly ridiculous scenario that went beyond any laws of nature in this world or in the others. Was I the only one that could cross worlds like this? Apparently so. But why were these beasts after me? As far as I’m aware, I didn’t do anything wrong. Was this ability so special as to cause these creatures discomfort? I looked at my clock; it was 3:21 a.m. I set my journal down, the words on the front a warning to anyone who would seek to read it. “Proprietà di Mente. Non aprire.


“Oh, oh Look, Hannah! This one looks nice and simple.” Amanda said, surprisingly excited as she was reading off the request wall for a quest. “Nope, I’m done! Call me a turkey and stick a fork in me because I’m done!” I snarled and crossed my arms. I have had it with these quests today. They were ridiculous, unreasonable, and no one wanted to pay up. I swear, those people, who were requesting quest, needs to look back on the Guild Guide to understand what was classified as a reasonable quest. Amanda then gave me a pitiful smile as her eyebrows started to curve up. Before I knew it, Amanda was in my personal bubble, wrapping me around her arms while giving me some cheek to cheek action. Arghhh, Amanda was a close friend of mine, but she took the term close literally and had no respect for privacy or personal space. “Get off, Amanda!” I said, and tried to at least gain some distance between our faces, but, it was useless, I was no match for this over grown half breed. “Personal space! Personal space, girl!” She then started to make a devilish grin while giving me an Eskimo kiss. Things were getting weird and unpleasant, fast! “Not until you agree to do one more quest.” She said. “No!” I replied, forgetting the situation I was in. “I’m tired, hungry, and I possibly stink.” “Well, I guess I just have to keep holding on to my little Sweetpea.” Amanda then stopped with the Eskimo kisses, and went back to having our cheeks together. She had me now, and she knew it. I could either do one more simple, tiny quest, or get stuck with this cuddly business with another female, and on top of that, people were starting to stare. I had no choice. “Okay!” I shouted. “Yippee!” And she cheered. I didn’t understand why she was forcing the both of us to go through another doggie dooky storm. Amanda knew, just as I, that we sucked today. Every quest we took was just out of control. Earlier today, we took a quest to chase boars out of a garden, and we were the ones who got chased out of the garden. So, we didn’t get paid. Then there was one where we had to hunt a Jelly Queen Fighter Fish, and that was just the biggest headache. When we finally caught the dang thing, we apparently caught a Jelly King Fighter Fish, and our client wasn’t satisfied. He flipped out about it and refused to pay, but Amanda refused not to get paid. So, she ended up mugging him for the amount owed, and left him with the Jelly King Fighter Fish. That was the funky stuff that left me wanting to give up, and apparently leaving Amanda wanting more. Once I had my freedom, I released a sigh that explained my frustrations, and took a seat on a bench while Amanda dashed back to the request wall, trying to find that perfect quest. “Oh, Hannah!” Amanda shouted as I was trying to rest. “What now!?” “I’ve found a quest that you’re going to just simply adore!” “Amanda, there is no quest that I would possibly ado-” “It’s from Lent.” Just as her words hit me, the blood rushed to my ears, and I felt a second color turning my face. I was speechless for the moment. “N-no way. Let me see.” I said as I found the words I needed. Amanda then came like a ballerina, walking on the tip of her toes moving inch by inch while performing spinning jumps. All that, just to bring me the request form. Once she was in my reach, I snatched it and gave it a good look. It was exactly as she said. It really was from Lent, but what was more breathing taking, was what his request was. It said: I’m looking for a special flower to give to a very special girl, but I can’t seem to find it nowhere. I’m a bit shame to post this, but I really need the help. If anyone knows where the Snow Ice Flower is located, then please let me know, or bring it to me. So, I can finally take the next step in my relationship with her. My mouthed then gapped open and my hands started to sweat. I couldn’t believe it. Lent was finally about to confess his love… to me. “You know what, Hannah?” Amanda said as she snatched Lent’s request form from me. “I stink too. Let’s draw a bath and call it a day.” “No way!” I shouted, but after I realized how eager I was sounding, I cleared my voice and started again. “I-I mean, you always stink, Amanda, and umm… Lents apart of our Guild, so it’s like our duty to assist.” Amanda just looked at me as she pushed her lips to the side. “What?” She continued to just stare with that stupid look on her face without saying a word. “Say something!” I demanded, but she made a hum instead of doing what she was told. I then felt her eyes judging me. I knew what she was thinking, and she was completely wrong! I then clutched my fist as my teeth started to grind on each other. I closed my eyes to try and help control myself, but I couldn’t, I had too much energy stored in me; I had to let it out on her. “Shut-up! You, stupid judgmental panda! We’re doing this quest because we are a Guild and that’s what Guild’s do! So, stop saying we’re doing it because I like him, because I don’t!” After I let Amanda have my rage, she just took a smile to her face. “Sweetpea, I didn’t say anything.” She said. I snarled at her as I turned myself away from her. “You were thinking it, so I just told your mind to shut up.” She then giggled before saying, “You’re so cute, Sweetpea.” “Let’s see how cute you find me, when I stick my sword up your butt hole.” She then turned my threat into a joke as she walked past me. “Stop playing around, Sweetpea. If we’re going to get this done, then let’s get to it. the Snow Ice flower isn’t easy to obtain.” Amanda said, getting serious. Who was playing around? I was serious. If she kept thinking nonsense, then she will find my sword up her rectum. After Amanda got her head straight, we went over to the gate keeper, so we could be transported to where we needed to go. “Good evening, ladies, I’m the gate keeper, Dino, where would you like to go?” Dino the Gate Keeper said. I then hummed and realized, I didn’t have a clue to where this ice flower was even located. But, if I had to guess, then it would be somewhere icy and cold. Arghhh, just thinking about the cold was making me shiver, but luckily for me, my soul was that of a phoenix, which made my normal body temp 298.9 C., and if needed, I could always raise it up, but I wonder how Amanda would survive? “We would like to go to Cave lite by Flames.” Amanda said to Dino the Gate keeper. When I heard that, I nearly flipped my beanie. “Whoa, whoa, wait a sec.” I said stopping Dino the-, you know what? Let’s just call him Dino. Anyways, after I stopped Dino from opening the gate to Cave lite by Flames, I looked at Amanda as if she was crazy. “What are you doing, Amanda? Hello, ice, flames, call me crazy, but I don’t think those two go.” I said. Amanda then closed her eyes while smiling, “Don’t be so quick to call me an oxymoron, Sweetpea.” I then remain silent for a brief moment. It seemed Amanda new something I didn’t. “I’m not your Sweetpea, and I wasn’t even calling you that, jeez.” Even though that was exactly what I was getting at, I still denied the truth. As I folded my arms, I waited for Amanda to say what she needed to say. “Now, if rumors and research prove to be in our favor, then the Snow Ice Flower should be dead center of a volcanic area, the hotter the area the higher the possibility of its existence.” Hearing her, made me looked at her even more confused. I wonder if Amanda was listening to herself? The Snow Ice Flower was a mythical flower that covered itself in a clothing of ice, that was believed to remain at the temperature of dry ice. (Which is -78.5 C. if anyone was wondering). Did I needed to explain myself any further on why Amanda’s theory didn’t even remotely make sense. But I just sighed and kept quiet. Although I was starting to question Amanda’s level of common sense, I decided to hear her out because she usually wasn’t the one to get mythical facts wrong. If anyone knew where the Snow Ice Flower was, then it be her. “You see, Sweetpea,” Amanda said. “I’m not your Sweetpea, but go on.” “Unlike most plants that use light energy for photosynthesis, the ice flower actually uses extremely high temperatures to make photosynthesis, and instead of it releasing oxygen, it releases carbon dioxide, causing it to instantly freeze its roots and eventually freezing itself. So, with the high temperatures it will eventually defrost and repeat its cycle.” “… I… guess that makes sense?” I was starting to figure out why it was a mythical flower. The dang thing didn’t make sense. “Umm, well, to Cave lite by Flames then?” at this point, I was starting to question everything that made sense in my life. “To Cave lite by Flames!” Once Dino heard our request, he put in the coordinates to send us to where we wanted to go. When we arrived, waves of hot lava splashed like the ocean in a storm. The sky was sickly black with matching clouds that created its own lighting. The air was thick and hard to breathe. Amanda, who was next to me, instantly started to sweat and wheeze. She was having a difficult time adjusting to the certain change in climax and atmosphere. That was to be expected of her, from anyone. I’m sure I would have been the same, if my soul wasn’t of a phoenix; it embraced and welcomed my body to heat. “There,” Amanda said, pointing to a volcano, center of the land. “That is where we’ll find our flower.” Amanda then fell to her knees as she coughed, gasping for air. “Amanda, are you going to be okay!?” I said as I went to her aid. She then looked at me with a smile before saying, “Don’t worry, Sweetpea, this is nothing. I will see you through this.” Hearing her words made me return the smile. But still, I couldn’t help feel a bit selfish. “Thank you, Amanda.” “I’ll do anything to help you attain true love.” “W-w-wha? I-I-I, umm, well… No!” my face soon became surprised as I pushed myself away from Amanda. Once I got a hold of myself, I had to remind Amanda what the purpose of this quest was for. “I told you already! No one loves that lazy bum. We are doing his request because he’s a friend and because we are a Guild, nothing more, nothing less.” “Sweetpea, there’s no shame in the burning flames of love.” “Stop calling me that, and the only thing burning is this hot lava. Now come on, we’ve wasted enough time.” I said as I started to lead the way. “Yes, let’s not prolong this quest for true loves test, any longer.” Amanda said, and started to follow behind me. At this point, I realized that it was just easier to ignore her. I couldn’t believe I was actually worried about her. As we hiked our way up the volcano area, it was silent and calm. The only thing you could hear was the environment, and the clicking of our shoes against the dusty old lands. But just then, the ground started to rumble and a screech was heard throughout the land. It made me feel a bit worried of what could be living in this hell resembling place. I was about to ask Amanda, but after seeing her coughing and wheezing, I thought it be best to let her save her strength. As we got closer to the granddaddy of volcanos, a faint blue light found its way through the thick black fog. “Th-that’s it.” Amanda barely managed to say. She was drenched from sweat, her knees were shaking, and her voice sounded as if she was a smoker for years. Once my head registered how bad Amanda was doing, the guilt soon race to my heart. “Amanda, how about you stay and rest. I’ll get the flower from the volcano. Okay?” “No, it’s too dangerous for you to go alone.” Amanda said, trying to show she was fine, but it was too late, I was already running to the top of the volcano. “Well if you can keep up, then you can tag along.” “Hannah! Wait a sec-” Amanda tried to stop me, but I was already realizing why she didn’t want me to go alone. Out of nowhere a dark black dragon appeared before me. His blood red eyes stared me as he opened his mouth to let out his battle cry. “You got to be kidding me. Amanda, why didn’t you tell me there was a Darkness Dragon here.” I said as I placed my scarf over my nose and drew my blades. Before I could even act, Amanda came running with her spear and jumped on the back of the dragon’s neck, and pierced her spear through. “Well, you heard the screech and didn’t asked about it, so I thought you knew.” She said, as she struggled to stay on top of the dragon’s neck, but it was proven to be more of a challenge than she could handle because the dragon started ringing his neck around until Amanda and her spear was off. As Amanda went flying south, it was my turn to get a piece of the action. I wasn’t as reckless as Amanda. I then started running to the side of the dragon to try and reach a blind spot. When I saw an opening, I lunged to stab the side of his ribs followed by a cross slash, but when I struck him, my blades couldn’t pierce his skin. It was like I took a slash at metal. In my moment of surprise, the dragon gave me a tail whip to the cheek that sent me rolling on the ground. Once I regain my balance, Amanda came in next to me. “Hannah, you okay?” Amanda asked, but I didn’t have time to answer because the dragon came in with its razor-sharp wings, trying to take our heads. I ducked then rolled to dodge the fetal attack. Amanda did the same, but she was acting much slower because of this, she got nicked on one of her panda ears. The atmosphere of the place had to be taking a toll on her, plus she was already tired. But I didn’t have time to worry about her because the dragon was giving us an energy beam from the mouth, to be sure we were toast. As soon as he fired, I jumped out the way while Amanda did a back-flip. When she landed, she was barely standing, and the dragon had his eyes set on her. He then ready his sharp wings and came zooming in on her. “Move!” I said as I came just in time to shove her to safety, but in result, I got the ball on my beanie cut off. “H-Hannah,” Amanda said, when I was rising from on top of her. “My crystal edge spear is the only thing that can penetrate its thick skin.” With that, her eyes closed and her breathing went steady. Another thing I wished she had inform me earlier, but now was not the time. I knew what I had to do. I sheathe both my blades, and then picked up Amanda’s spear and ready myself. As the dragon was swirling around us, I closed my eyes and focused on my inner power, my soul aura. With my phoenix soul, I raised my body’s temperature to at least 12,678 C. With my soul aura causing my body to glow hot pink, I dashed into the air charging at the dark beast. He seen me coming a mile away, but instead of trying to dodge me, he chose to blast me with his plasm breath. I went straight through it. Just as I thought, his plasm breath was just a heatwave and my body was hotter than it, so it no longer had an effect on me. With Amanda’s spear, I rammed the dragon straight in his throat. I then lift Amanda’s spear in him, so I could have time to use his head as a stepping stone to go higher into the air. Once gravity had its grasp on me, I unsheathed my swords and put all my body heat to them. As I was coming down, I dove head first with my swords in front to make a X, and I sliced his head clean off like a hot knife through butter. His skin was tough, but with my hot aura, I was able to melt through it. I guess Amanda forgot about my little trick. He was done. As the dragon felled, so did Amanda’s spear, and of course, I retrieved it. “S-Sweetpea, did you do it?” Amanda asked as she was waking up. “You know I’m not your Sweetpea,” I replied with a smile. “And yes, I did. So, just rest, Amanda. I’m gonna grab the flower, so we can go home.” Sure enough, it was there as Amanda said, and as beautiful as the legends told. When I picked it up, I kept up my bodies high temperature, so I wouldn’t get frost bite. When we got home, Amanda put the snow ice flower in a special case, so it could keep its beauty. “Well, Sweetpea, are you ready to give the flower to Lent?” Amanda asked. “I can’t give it to him like this. I’m a mess. Let me at least freshen up first.” Without wasting time, I hopped in the shower, redid my hair, and put on one of my special dresses with a luxurious beanie. “How do I look?” I said as I modeled for her. “You look beautiful, Sweetpea.” Amanda replied, with her eyes tearing up. “You grow up so fast.” “Hehe, stop it, Amanda, your embarrassing me.” Amanda just cupped her mouth as she went to get the flower for me. “Here, go to him.” I just rolled my eyes at her. I didn’t like Lent. I just was doing all this, so I could get free dinner for all my hard work, but I didn’t bother to tell Amanda that, her head was stuck in the clouds. Once I made it to Lent’s place, I took a deep breath and ignored all the butterflies in my stomach. This was it. I wanted so bad to just run back home and say, I couldn’t do it, but my heart wouldn’t let me. Next thing I knew, I was knocking on his door, waiting for him to answer. As the door cracked open, I felt my heart pounding at the sight of his face. “Hannah?” He said as he saw me. “I’m sorry, but I can’t make the guild raid because…” I just sighed, and turned my head to the side. Sometimes I wished he was a better person, but he was a lazy man before being a man. It was only natural for him to make up an excuse to get out of work. “No, Dummy, I’m here because I have something for you.” I said trying to get to the point. Lent’s laziness was something I learned to accept, but I’m still working on beating it out of him. “No way! Is that…” He said, finally realizing the reason why I’m here. I felt my face changing a color as I nodded my head to confirm what he couldn’t believe. “Thanks a million! Seriously you rock!” He then grabbed the flower from me and shut the door in my face… What, the, HECK! I then banged on his door as loud as I could until he opened it once more. “Is there anything else Hannah?” He said while still holding my hard work. “That’s it!? That’s all you have to say!?” Lent then took a good look at me before he spoke his next words. “Umm, Nice outfit?” “You, idiot! What about what you said on your quest form!” “Oh that? Ha, I didn’t think you were interested.” I then calmed down and put a smile on. “Well, I wouldn’t say I’m interested, but I am curious of what this is…” I couldn’t believe I just said what I said. After that, I couldn’t dare look him in the eyes. “Yeah, me too.” I then found the strength I needed to left my head and look at him. This time, he couldn’t look at me as he avoided my eyes. “Her Name is Katherine.” “What!?” “I met her by actually doing a quest. Can you believe it?” I couldn’t believe this stupid, rotten, bum! I went through all this trouble for him! And he’s talking about another girl! Out of sheer spite, I snatched the snow ice flower from him, broke open the container, and ate the dang thing. Instantly I regretted eating it, but I just couldn’t control myself. “Y-you can go f-find your own f-f-freaking flower!” I said, stuttering. Now that the ice flower was inside me, it made me feel chills that I never felt before. “A-and I expect you to be at our G-G-Guild meeting or your k-k-kicked!” I then blew my cold ice breath to his face, so it could freeze that stupid look. “What the…?” He barely managed to mumble because his lips were frozen together. As I was leaving, I made up my mind right then and there that Lent was a lazy pig, and I will never do anything nice for that freeloader ever again.