The world of Nuoath is no stranger to the conquerors upon its surface, from the current great three of Arkos, Dhaast, and Lady Parine to the previous legends of Benrun the Brutal, the Mad Queen Sadaar, and Gianla of Goch. Amongst the most notorious of these names, the bloodthirsty and seemingly untouchable Ulynder Vadastim is one that will never be forgotten. With each conqueror, though, is their second-in-command that barely receives the same notoriety. Midaul Kannad was such a person, yet his notoriety was nowhere near the infamy of his king, even after breaking faith with him. The trial was recorded in the Cycle of the Prince Two-Thousand and Forty-Seven, on the final day of the Summer Season in the city of Garstread, centered in the nation of Drebort. King Dorrack of Drebort, King Pilna of Sennidth, and King Helaak ka-Nashid from Galeen-ba-Teba had gathered with many of their countrymen, with the plant-like Crehlitt and many a Bestial member to witness the execution of former emperor Ulynder and his top officers, with Midaul kept at the very back. Midaul looked up to see the method of execution commonly called a "jolt-puller". By a series of ropes and pulleys, the large plank where the subject stood would fall open, dropping the person. At the same time, a heavy metal "stone" would slide down a slope to a drop chute. One end of a fiber cord would be looped thrice around the subject's neck with the other end being buried deep inside the weight, with the middle looped through another pulley system. The length of the fiber allowed a temporary drop for both person and stone until it went taunt; the heavier metal weight would fall while the subject would be yanked upward, the neck broken by the sudden shift from falling to hoisting. The result was the neck being snapped from the sudden shift, or "jolt"; thus, the machine was immortalized as the jolt-puller. This contraption and its first victim received their introductions from the arriving herald: "Behold, the tool of justice! By the decree of the three kings, by the verdict of our esteemed Sworn, and by the witness of you the people, the tyrant known as Ulynder Vadastim, better known as The Razer, will be dropped, jolted, and raised for proof of death. Any final statements, Sir 'Untouchable'?" The guards brought the tyrant forward, growling like a wild animal. Not one person didn't express their disapproval to this monster; he responded with his own roars of rage and self-mirth from a lack of remorse or even fear. Amongst his babble were these haunting words that the herald clearly heard despite the noise: "Not even the land will fully heal from the scars I inflicted upon it!" The herald turned to face the three monarchs, all nodding their heads. The herald signaled for two more guards to wrap the cord around Ulynder's hostile throat. Surprisingly, the Razer didn't fight against the incoming execution. He did try to bite the guards, desperate to spill blood one last time. Restraining him, the guards got the fiber tied and then cleared the plank. The head guard, wearing a helmet to obscure his face, grabbed the lever and pulled. All eyes beheld the smiling face of Emperor Ulynder before the sudden jolt had the smirk wiped off of his face. The deafening cries of both approval and rage hit almost as hard as the great stone now indenting the ground, the counterweight of the Emperor's corpse floating above and swinging in its death circle. The only ones not making any sound, aside from the dead body, were the three kings and the Sworn as they looked upon this work of theirs and agreed simultaneously that the deed was nearly done. From there, officer after officer loyal to Ulynder was led to the jolt-puller, joining their leader to oblivion. Though not quite reaching the malice of Ulynder, each one was still met with the same disdain and abhorrence for their part in their brutal partaking of his conquest. As the sun started its setting period, the herald pointed to the guards; "Bring up the Supreme Commander of Ulynder's forces!" Midaul was summoned by guards onto the stage. The echos of cheers and jeers died down to barely a whisper passing from one person to another. Even the Crehlitt murmured, which is an unusual sight given their more stoic approach as "observing plant people". The roars from a few Bestial tribes quieted down, with nary a growl from these fine warriors. The three kings spoke amongst themselves as the herald called out publicly, "Midaul Kannad, Supreme Commander of the former Emperor Ulynder, the first and only head of the established Estate of Kannad, which included this very place and you very witnesses. He was practically given this portion of your great land, mighty King Dorrack!" He turned and bowed to the mentioned monarch, who inclined his head in turn. The herald then looked at Midaul. "There were many witnesses upon your trial, almost all of them asking for your life to be spared from the clutches of the jolt-puller. There are members of the Crehlitt stating that you did what you could to heal their forests when Ulynder tried to burn their people down. There are Bestials who swear that, though you had killed many of their warriors, it was in battle or in honorable duel; they hold neither grudge nor slander to your name even after you returned the weapons back to their families. There were people here who gave account of your good works for them and their city." The herald smiled at the accused and whittled it down to a blunt line. "But we all know that it will take more than good deeds to save a man from justice. We have come to the verdicts, which I shall read out loud." The herald cleared his throat and prepared himself. "On the charges of conspiring with a tyrant as well as willful aiding and abetting officers of disgraceful content, the Sworn proclaim that Midaul is guilty." The crowd gave their response in dissatisfaction, yet the herald continued; "On the charge of mass murder, the Sworn proclaim that Midaul is innocent." With this, the crowd now showed favor, yet the herald proceeded with his hands raised to signal a need for quelling the noise. "On the charge of mass enslavement, the Sworn proclaim that Midaul is guilty via association." At this, people started yelling out loud: "He released those slaves! We were never bound or forced! Spare him! Release him! Let him go!" The herald practically screamed his throat hoarse; "Hold, hold, good people! The Sworn, and the three kings, do agree that those under Midaul were eventually freed of being fettered and taxed. However, they remained as his servants, which has been taken into account. Let us not forget those who were still enslaved by his Emperor and the other officers thanks to his actions." Once the crowd was silent, the herald looked to Midaul. "On the charge of war crimes committed against the forces of King ka-Nashid, ranging from savage torture to cruel and unusual executions, the Sworn proclaim that Midaul is innocent." What sounded like a wave of relief emanating from the crowd passed forth, and Midaul closed his eyes as if relieved. "Finally!" the herald cried out, causing a few of the audience to jump. "On the charges of espionage and sedition, as such to ease the steps of conquest of his king, the Sworn find Midaul innocent on the latter, yet guilty on the former." The multitude spoke, but more to each other rather than at the herald or even Midaul. The large Supreme Commander then stepped forward and said, "Good people, hear my confession!" Once the crowd was quiet, he started: "It is true that neither I nor any under my personal command spread any sort of information, be it propaganda or vile rumor, amongst the populace to sew discord and distrust amongst you. It is also true that I and my personal soldiers did place ourselves amongst you, watching the patterns of guards and nobles, looking upon your armies from afar, and noting your resources. However, for my part, I sought to minimize the damage so that you would not suffer exponentially. Several of my confidants, unfortunately, were killed off by Ulynder's own assassins in an attempt to hide the information. I have given every single written note and illustration to your respected kings and chieftains that they and all here will know that I speak the truth. I don't do so for myself, but on behalf of many a good man that once answered only to me." Though disappointment was upon many a face in the crowd, it was soon given to understanding; Midaul never lied to the people. This time, King Dorrack stepped forward, turning to the members of the Sworn; "You have this late confession. I and my cohorts are convinced, so what say you?" One of the hooded Sworn stepped forward. "Dear King, we the Sworn acknowledge the confession of the accused. Therefore, our verdict still stands." The member stepped back with the rest, and King Pilna now approached the people. "The discussion between the kings has been concluded. On such verdicts of willful actions to conquer as well as spy upon our nations, we would have passed the punishment of death." He raised his right arm as everyone started their uproar. "Not this time!" Peace followed the echo of anger, and King Pilna finished, "Not this time, for the actions of Midaul may have spared more than what Ulynder would have willingly fed to the fowls. He spoke the truth, we do have his research, and we would not be here if it wasn't for his betrayal of Ulynder, leading us to capture that beast." At this, King ka-Nashid came forward. "Ulynder has destroyed much of my home as he has to yours, Kings Dorrack and King Pilna. By our oath, we swore to see Ulynder jolted, and so we have. Our nation shall do what it can for each of yours until the damage is repaired. As for my say about Midaul, I have agreed with the kings and your Sworn about him being spared." Relief swept unto every face, but King ka-Nashid wasn't done. "But your laws are specific, and our treaty of alliance must be honored under such. The punishment has been agreed by we three and by your Sworn. Midaul's estates and assets are forfeit amongst our three kingdoms as reparations and his soldiers are to be sent home, never to pick up another weapon again. Midaul, himself, has no home." With this, the herald unlocked Midaul's ring-binds. A temporary cry of joy came from the crowd, but remembrance of ka-Nashid's words had them asking questions. The herald gave just one answer: "It is the judgement of our Sworn, supported by the allied monarchs gathered before you, that the former Supreme Commander known as Midaul Kannad is hereby banished and barred from the kingdoms of Drebort, Sennidth, and Galeen-ba-Teba." With that, he procured a red rag from his right pocket and a small flask of water from his left. Pouring the water upon the rag, he turned back to Midaul and firmly seized his right hand, tying the red rag around the wrist. Hearing and seeing all of this left the crowd more dead than a cemetery. They got what they wanted, but now they were going to lose this man of good action and fulfilled promises who once lorded over them with a fair hand that was now tied with a marker cloth, which will stain his wrist with a red ring that proved his banishment. King Dorrack concluded the spectacle: "Look up him, any and all! You have asked for mercy. He is given mercy, for he had given mercy! Let him pass through you and through the gates, unimpeded. Let him go to the boundary outside of our nations, to the jungles or mountains. Let him travel the great oceans to nations unknown, by his coin or by his merit, but let him never return. The day he is found in the nations of Drebort, Sennidth, or Galeen-ba-Teba is the day he will be killed on sight. Such is the law! Such is the fate of those who serve tyrants even with the best intentions!" This account was found in the storeroom of Drebort. One would have missed it as it was only one-and-a-half pages. The only other record of Midaul was in the testimony of the guards of that time, mentioning his removal from the execution stage to the border of Drebort. There was one sidenote from a guard named Lisk: "I walked behind the prisoner known as Midaul Kannad. The crowd parted for our company. A few faces turned away, but so many cried out in tears and voices for this prisoner. I didn't understand in that moment; he was a free man now, he was given life by His Majesty, King Dorrack, and by the verdict of the Sworn and the will of even these people. Why do they weep? What was his reign over them like that they would want him to stay?" "As we neared the gate, a little girl ran up and hugged his leg. 'Please, sir, don't go!' she sobbed as her mother and father came forward to take her back. 'You made our home good again, you pardoned my brother and returned him, please don't go!' Our captain demanded the girl release the prisoner, but then stopped when Midaul glared at him. The prisoner took the little girl's arms and knelt in front of her. 'Child,' he cooed, 'go back to your mother and father and brother. My heart is broken, but you will always have a piece in your home.' He then let her go and faced the gate, resuming his march to parts far away." A tyrant was given his due diligence, yet a spared man was still punished. Much is spoken about Ulynder, so famous for seeming untouchable as he slaughtered and plundered his enemies while destroying their cities that he earned the name, "The Razer". Stories and songs came forth of his acts, despite his reputation as a callous and ferocious tyrant. Yet, amongst the records, so little is said about his Supreme Commander. Perhaps it was due to what little knowledge is actually written about him, as all who knew him only saw the man and his actions and none asked him about his time before, or it might have been a way to distance this person from the literal incarnation of evil. Though a mighty warrior in his own right, this enigmatic individual spared the innocent from his blade and actually worked to improve the living conditions of his conquered quarry. May the King of the All and Ever never let us forget Midaul the Merciful.


The Last Sad song (a tale for children of a certain disposition)- This is a story about horrible things happening to children. This tale is likely true for countless children throughout the universe, but we will focus on one particular child, on one particular planet, in one particular galaxy. This tale is about Penelope. Penelope lived on a planet very much like our own except for the fact that it wasnt. It had a name which is of no significant importance to our tale but which for the sake of useful uselessness is called Clifford. Cliffordian children did not enjoy parties, or birthdays, Halloween or Christmases. The very thought of children laughing in enjoyment could have caused blue apoplexy, which is the very worst kind of apoplexy. Happy music was deemed unnecessary and to ensure it stayed that way, blues music was piped loudly through large loudspeakers placed on each street corner with a dose of Swedelfish dirges each second Sunday. It wasn’t always so. There was a time when Cliffordians had been happy. Howlingers, Tinglers and Wormers who made up most of the population, lived in harmony; that is until the day some children accidentally broke the Light that lit the world. From that day children were banned from growing up and punished daily for their sins. Penelope for posterity is nine years old. Shes been nine for a long time. As is the custom, the ban was given a name. It is called The Walter Principle. It came about when the Howlinger kids were told to come in for tea but they’d disobeyed and continued to play and Walter Howlinger the Third had thrown a high pass; a very high pass.

The ball flew upwards and onwards until it broke the Light that lit the world and Clifford was plunged into everlasting darkness. From that day, children were punished for mass disobedience. The Grand Precedent, who in reality was the Grand President but because the darkening darkness meant the typographer had misspelt his name on the Declaration of Office, had declared children had to submit to daily doses of asafoetida and have their earwax removed painfully to make candles, for that was now the only source of light in the twilight world of Clifford. Penelope was a Wormer. Wormers were different to Howlingers in the fact that they had one blue eye and one brown eye whereas the Howlingers had one brown eye and one blue eye. The Tinglers had one brown eye, one blue eye and a mole on their left cheek to distinguish themselves from Howlingers but since it was so dark, identity had become a lost cause. Penelope Wormer lived with parents who treated her with unkindly abuse. Occasionally she asked Why? and her parents would stare in disbelief and administer an extra dose of asafoetida for talking out of turn and life would continue. On the first day of Wintertide things began to change. Penelope and Joshua Howlinger, the neighbours kid, were walking to school. It was a long walk as both families had obeyed the Grand Precedents Fifth Edict which was to live as far away from schools as was possible. The small ear wax candle they’d been given at the start of the journey seemed wholly inadequate. ”Do you feel like dying?” Joshua said. ”I guess”, she answered and thought about it a little more. ”If we did, all of us I mean, they’d have no one to blame.” ”They’d blame Howlingers.” replied Joshua, “It was my great, great uncle that broke the Light and folks see us differently. We dont have a Tingler mole and our eyes are brown and blue, not blue and brown. We’d be blamed, then when all the Howlingers are killed off the Wormers would declare war on the Tinglers for having that darned mole and soon there’d be no-one left at all.” Penelope opened her bag and pulled out a mirror. She held it up and in the dying flame of the ear wax candle held it close to their faces. “Look.” She pointed to their reflection. “Now I’m a Howlinger and you’re a Wormer.” Joshua smiled. He felt an inexplicable sensation. Had he known what a sensation was he may have been able to explain what happened next? He kissed Penelope Wormer. It was just a quick peck, on the cheek, short but decidedly sweet. It changed everything. The dark became a little less black and the blues had a little more swing. At bedtime although it was difficult, they communicated by throwing paper planes over the garden fence inscribed with words written in cold cabbage ink and sealed with a kiss And with each kiss life became less burdensome. Joshua never really understood what was happening but he liked it all the same. On the last evening of Wintertide with the temperature gauge on Grandpa Wormers barometer showing Bone Snapping , Penelope Wormer climbed out of her bedroom window, ran across the yard and out towards the Leafless Forest where she and Joshua had agreed that afternoon to meet before running away. However, an unfortunate misunderstanding at the Howlingers household where both Ma and Pa Howlinger had unknowingly and separately doled out a measure of asafoetida to a protesting Joshua had resulted in the poor boy being tied to a toilet seat for the whole evening and therefore unable to escape. Penelope waited under the branches of a Whenworther tree and listened to the refrain of Billie Whatsaholiday, singing something sad but nice; real nice. She closed her eyes and never once felt cold. She would never go home. Next day, Cliffordians woke up to a day; a real day with morning and birdsong and light. They swarmed out of their houses, looked around and saw each other as they really were. They hugged their children and went out and bought each and every one a cherry topped sundae. The Grand Precedent announced Christmas would last three weeks then set all precedents aside including himself and ordered as his final edict that the world should listen only to Fifties rock n roll. Joshua Howlinger ran as fast as he could to the place where he should have been and found nothing. He called out but she never replied. He fell onto his knees and cried; then slowly, lifted up his eyes towards the sky, where from the centre of a bright ball of light he saw the face of Penelope Wormer smiling down at him and he understood everything. There would be no more sad songs.


It took me since the bang of our universe to fall in love, but it took the shortest of a second to completely and utterly lose my common sense. My fingers lingered the glowing backlit keyboard. On the screen flashed a simple confession and I exhaled both in relief and disbelief. What was I even doing? My feelings were like a language I didn’t speak. Yet these feelings were unreasonably potent and dangerously persistent. This whole thing started as a half-hearted excuse to touch the waters of online dating. That's what led me to Flame; a cyber playground for the lonely and hopeful. When prompted for a bio I chose a straightforward approach, simply stating: "Searching for a pen-pal." A few matches poked fun at it, but one gentleman took me seriously. Instead of engaging in typical small talk, he left his email address along with a cliffhanger: he’d pull back from our match and wait for my email. Under the strict condition of no online sleuthing. He didn’t sign his name to the message, actually it was lacking any formalities, ending with a straightforward “Email me”. Eager not to test his patience and fueled by curiosity I made a new e-mail address, using my Flame alias: GingerSpice. I wasn't feeling particularly creative or inspired when I set up my account. Reflecting on it, the choice of name seemed juvenile now. Or maybe I felt that way because of his gaze.

Date: Wednesday, February 14, 2024, 06:45 AM To: MisterR@planet.org From: GingerSpice@wave.org Subject: Interesting 😊 To MisterR, To be honest, I wasn’t expecting this at all, but I do appreciate it. So, yeah, I'm in. I'm curious about where this will lead, about you, and about what stories we'll end up sharing. I paused, unsure how to continue. It felt like there should be more to say. In an effort to keep the conversation going, I decided to share something personal—a new recipe I'd been experimenting with that I called “Sweet Eggs”. It was a simple concoction of three eggs, heavy coconut cream, apples, and a dash of cinnamon. I hoped for nothing and pressed send. Date: Friday, February 16, 2024, 08:45 PM To: GingerSpice@wave.org From: MisterR@planet.org Subject: RE: Certainly 😊

Dear GingerSpice, Happy to have surprised you. Just out of curiosity, were you planning on snooping around online? And may I ask, why they are called ‘Sweet Eggs” without sugar? Until the next letter, MisterR And so it began. He remained an enigma throughout the exchange that followed and I was cautious not to probe too deeply. The ones I did ask, he answered sparsely. One time I did push him a little. I asked him about his name. We had yet to share identifiable details that would allow us to trace each other. The no-sleuthing rule still applied. He sidestepped the question about his name, deftly changing the subject. For an inquisitive soul like me, this was like catnip. Another thing I came to know is that he's not a morning person. He never responded before noon and often replied late at night. This tiny piece of information, as trivial as it may seem, lent a peculiar intimacy to our budding connection. But factually, I was holding on to nothing. His persistent reference to our emails as ‘letters’ somewhat annoyed me—they were clearly not letters. He's been doing this since the first exchange and hasn't deviated since. I kept my irritation to myself, though I was tempted to correct him. I even fantasized about telling him so in person. I wanted to tell him that while touching him. That was the first time I was terribly aware of the limits of our E-mail agreement.

I remember the time when we were exchanging emails, and I wasn't consumed with thoughts of him. I can't identify the exact moment of change, but it occurred in the shortest of a second.  Suddenly, I found myself thinking of him at the most random times, the frequency and intensity of these thoughts gradually escalating. The fantasies spicing up. Twice he had allured to fantasies about me as well. We hadn’t shared pictures, only descriptions. He was tall, blond and had several forearm tattoos. From what I gathered about his schedule, he sometimes worked night shifts, though not regularly, and his job required him to travel often. Unfortunately for me, I had started to care for this onion of a man. My heart was a battleground for two impulses: one that longed for his touch and kiss, while the other urged me to run away and never look back. But, from what? A shadow of my own making, a delusion of my own conjuring? As weeks turned into a blur of emails and daydreams, I found myself in a curious state of calm. The storm of my emotions had settled into something resembling clarity. Maybe, I realized, it had really been too long since I had felt the touch of a lover or even the thrill of sexual tension. What kept nagging me was that he didn’t strike me as the man who’d spend time emailing some stranger without also having some stake in the matter. The effort was there, but for what reason? He has a way of making me laugh, a genuine charm that I couldn't attribute to any ordinary online facade. Somehow, he'd cracked the code, letting me ramble in lengthy emails while offering back his succinct, yet impactful, replies. Still, I occasionally remind myself that he might just be a guy named Frank, sending emails from his mother's basement, surrounded by sour cream Doritos and the scent of canned mushroom soup. But, out of convenience I sidestepped skepticism for the sake of romance. After all, isn't there a saying that the most compelling romances involve a dash of danger? Truthfully, I'm no expert in matters of the heart. I just find myself hopelessly in love with someone whose real identity remains a complete mystery to me. With absolutely no guarantee that he's truly the person he claims to be. It did strike me as interesting that it lingered on. He had never outright ignored my detailed emails, which often contained several sections. Even though his replies had been short, from what I could tell was that he had read them, and more importantly had given what I told him some thought. That must mean someone was somewhat invested in what was going on. But why continue? Our discussions were not exceptional, sometimes even dubious. It was the underlying current beneath our casual comments and risky remarks what kept me coming back. But I was left wondering what kept him engaged.

I remained patient and clueless, until I received a message where he did reveal more about himself. It was late on a Saturday night, and I guessed that a few drinks had led to his unexpected openness. Surprisingly, this made me less wary. Date: Friday, February 24, 2024, 02:45 AM To: GingerSpice@wave.org From: MisterR@planet.org Subject: I must admit that…

"Would you take the risk again? It seems your main issue is not pursuing what you truly want. Perhaps that's what's holding you back, and everything else is merely a haze. Try to look past it. But, what do I know about anything. I can't even bring myself to admit how much I enjoy our conversations. Do you see what I'm trying to do here? You do, I'm sure. If there's one thing I admire about you, it's your cunning nature. Never lose that, no matter what comes next. Do you see what I'm trying to do here? You do, I'm sure. If there's one thing I admire about you, it's your cunning nature. Never lose that, no matter what comes next. Until the next letter, MisterR Someone’s got to draw first blood now and ask the other out, especially after such a confession. It was the only way to get a good reading from him. Meeting in person was the only way to separate reality from fantasy, and I desperately needed to know what was real and what was imaginary. It wasn’t going to be me, oh no. Hell would have to freeze over before I’d do that. No matter the amount of implicit encouragement or absence of rejection. I wondered, what I’d say if he’s start probing. Asking me to confess up. I doubt I'd lie. "What am I to you?" he might ask. "My surrogate boyfriend. When you've never met, by necessity, that's all there is to it." I'd say, half-joking. hoping he'd rise to the challenge. "Then, I want to surrogate-break up," he'd counter. “I'll pass it on to the projection room, but I doubt they'll listen.” Too scared, or too scarred to let my fantasy reciprocate my wishes I recognized the folly of my attachment and felt a new low. I couldn’t continue with this. I am only going to hurt myself in this confusion; falling for someone based on a fantasy, communicating through a medium that distorts reality. I replayed our conversations in my mind, trying to discern what I truly knew about him. An annoying issue that kept coming back was that I knew very little. It seemed deliberately done by him. Time passed as I mulled over our situation; was he simply satisfied with what we had? Playful flirtatiously by plain text. Back and forth, a few times a week. A reliable trickle of attention, but nothing more. Downplaying his confession, that I didn’t dare to reply to. I convinced myself that my hormones and desires were deceiving me. That was all there was to it, and nothing more. This reasoning sufficed for a while, yet it didn't calm the turmoil within. Which left me to the only way I knew how to cope with the feelings: confess. Starting with admitting it to myself. Because frankly I had been running in circles from the beginning. In my journal I drafted a confession not meant for his eyes, but mine alone. "I confess that I have fallen for the daydream I've conjured up." Well, that was the first step. The next step was talking about it to. ‘Put it out in the universe’ my friend had told me. I’d playfully added ‘and out of my head’ to her mantra. But, maybe I should toy with idea of telling him? And deal with the root of the disturbance in the force. I imagined him knocking on my door, I’d open up and say: "I find myself in a perplexing state, realizing my feelings for you are as deep as they are frightening to me, yet also knowing you deserve far more affection than what I’m able to give." And in my mind that would work. Entangled up more than ever. I silently pleaded for Cupid’s intervention; to strike us both down. Double arrows please. Maybe even Cupid was tired of my pining? Because something did happen. It wasn't a grand gesture or a dramatic declaration, but it shifted everything. An E-Vite popped into my inbox, a simple yet bold move from MisterR, inviting me for what would be our first date. He did label the E-Vite as a ‘Date’. This time, it felt real—no longer just words on a screen but a step into the world I’d so cautiously avoided. After a moment of contemplation I wrote: "I look forward to it. Before we set this date in stone, may I know your name?" For the first time he responded immediately, a response that came before eight A.M as well. Which I took as a positive sign. “My name is Frank. See you soon.” He accepted. And with that, this was really happening. I found myself smiling at my screen, bewildered by the whirlwind. My mind was barely processing what was happening. Escape was not an option. Friday loomed over me, equally exhilarating and terrifying. It had indeed been a while since I'd engaged in anything like this. So much time had passed that I had moved beyond feeling insecure about my relative inexperience in love. A vulnerability I had shared with him and he had respectfully acknowledged. For now that was all the assurance I needed to leap into the unknown.


Damon’s 2 nd Chance By Jame Michaels Just as I was coming through the classroom door, the bell rang. “Damon, I’d like to see you after class, please.” It was Miss Mc Gary. “Yes, ma’am.” I knew what this was about. I didn’t think anyone saw me when I left school last Friday, but someone must have spotted me besides Rat Face. The real name for Rat Face was Richard. Richard was on me like stink on dodo. Not just once in a while. But ALL THE TIME! He must have a terrible home life because every day when he came to school, he had one mission. GET DAMON!! But it’s not just get GET DAMON!! It was get Damon down and beat the ever loving crap out of Damon. Over and over. Three times a week. Monday, Wednesday and Friday. Tuesday and Thursday I have band practice and my Mom picks me up after school. I stopped by Miss Mc Gary’s desk at the end of class. Was I fighting with Richard after school last Friday? “No ma’am. He was fighting me.” “It looked like you were fighting.” “No ma’am. I didn’t even have my hands up. He fights me and he beats the-you-know-what out of me three times a week.” “Damon – you have to start standing up for yourself.” “But Miss Mc Gary, if I fight him I’ll get kicked out of school. I’m better off to run home.” So, I stopped taking the bus from school in the afternoon, so I didn’t have to meet up with Rat Face at the bus stop when I got off Number 23. He had to take Number 17. He got kicked off Number 23 for fighting and they put him on Number 17. And guess what? Number 23 and Number 17 wind up at the same bus stop – the last stop, at the end of the line. So I stopped taking the bus home. I walk home because it is safer. So I am walking home one day about a month ago. It had been a while since I saw Rat Face, and it looks like my walking home to miss Rat Face has been working, and who do I run into? Carolyn O’Connor. She is like the cutest girl in the whole school. She’s (secretly) the girl of my dreams. I know it’s stupid. Her father is a dentist and I don’t have a father. Her mother is on PTA or something that rich mothers do for the school. My mom works a nine to five. She wears the cutest little outfits, a different one every day, and I wear the same pair of khaki pants every day and a polo shirt. When I see her I can’t even talk and she thinks that is the cutest thing that I am tongue tied and can’t get any really smart things out of my mouth. I’d like nothing better than to take her into my arms and, and, well you know what I mean. So what does she tell me last week? This ugly guy Richard something or other has been asking her out and she can’t make him see that she has no interest in him whatsoever. What can she do? “I’d have your father call the principal and tell the principal that Richard is bothering you and it has to stop.” Carolyn nods her head up and down. “O.K. I’ll try that.” I just make it into class as the bell is ringing. “Damon I’d like to see you after class, please.” It was Friday, my last class for the week. “Yes ma’am.” I got an A on my report. My mom will be happy to see that bit of good news. After class I go see Miss Mc Gary. She wants to know how I have been making out with Rat Face. She doesn’t call him that but that is who she is talking about. I tell her what I have been doing and she wants to know how that has been working out? I tell her and she says. “Do you have a minute? I’d like to show you something.” “I was talking to my father about you and he wants to give you some training. Interested?” “Yes ma’am!” I met her dad. He was the same size as me. We spent a half an hour on hand to hand training he used in the service. I had to go back and meet him in a week for the second lesson. He and I met up in the gym at school on Saturday. Miss Mc Gary’s dad wants to see what I remember. We go through the steps. “Perfect!” her dad shouts. “I have one more for you!” They go through the paces and her dad asks if Damon thinks it will work. “Do I ever hit him in the face? That’s what he always does to me.” “No,” her dad says. “Let’s wait for the last class next week.” I walked into the last period on Friday a little early. Miss Mc Gary said, “Damon. How are your lessons coming along?” I didn’t say a word. I gave her a thumbs up sign and sat down. I got to the gym a little early on Saturday. When her dad walked in, her dad said, “Ready?” I hollered a little louder than I meant to, “Yes sir. Ready!” ”This is your last class Damon, let’s go over the first two lessons. Miss Mc Gary’s dad and I went over the three moves from the first class. “Perfect!” Then they went through the moves from last week. “You are a little rusty on the second move. Do you have someone you can practice with on that one?” I thought about it. “I think I know a guy.” They went over the last three moves. “O.K. Damon. You need to join a gym where you can go and practice these nine moves in order. Next you need to do your warm up exercises, every morning except for Sunday. O.K.?” On Friday the following week, I got on Number 23. More than just a few of my buddies knew what happened the last time I rode on Number 23. But no one said a thing. One of the kids who rode to the last stop hollered out, “Look Damon, Number 17 is already here!!” Everyone got off the bus. I got off last. As I descended the stairs of the bus, I noticed Rat Face to the left, but I was looking to the right when my foot touched the ground. Rat Face called out my name, but instead of looking to the left, I swung around to the right and did a straight arm move right into Rat Face’s chest. That move knocked Rat Face smack on his back. I then backed up to give Rat Face a chance to get up. Rat Face came forward, and WHAM, BANG , I stuck my left leg out and pushed Rat Face back and down Fat Face went for a second time. This time on his face. The ground where we were fighting was a little rocky and Rat Face cut his check when he went down. The other kids were all brave now and lined up behind me. “Had enough Richard, or do you really want me to really give you an ass whooping?” Richard raised his hand. “I give.” The following Monday I walked home from school. Carolyn hollered out from behind, “Hey wait a minute!” I stopped and waited for her to catch up. “Can I ask you a question,” I asked when we were standing next to one another. “Sure.” “Can I take you to the Homecoming Dance in two weeks?” “Oh yes!! You bet you can!”


Captain Samuel Wartsworth the greatest wiz-arh-d alive (a wiz-arh-d of course being a wizard who is also a pirate) and also the only wiz-arh-d alive, breathed a hearty lungful of salt air. He closed his eyes and let the orchestra that was his ship wash over him (also sea spray). The straining of rope, the rustle of the canvas in the wind, and the gentle creak of wood played in harmony with each other and the sounds of nature around them. Samuel like most wizards had spent most of his life in stuffy classrooms or stuffier offices surrounded by browning papers and dog-eared books. Look at me now he thought, out on the open waves, free of the bureaucracy and ungrateful students. Instead of chasing research grants he was chasing horizons. He was also chasing legends, one particular lagend took his fancy at the moment. Nezzarun’s golden skull. It was said to contain all of the late Nezzaruns secrets. Of course Samuel had no idea who Nezzarun was or what his secrets were (on account of them being secret) but it was made of gold which was good enough for him, and as a wiz-arh-d he was still eager to learn new things, secret or otherwise, so he set sail immediately. Not everyone was cut out for the pirate life, in fact most people were more inclined to stay on land where the fruit, veg, and comfortable beds were. As such when ancient, (or otherwise) treasure maps got discovered it was usually more profitable and sensible to just sell them to crazy boat dwelling weirdos then actually trying to follow the maps. Thus, map venders often hung out at sea front taverns and one such vender had supplied Captain Wartsworth with the map he now studied (for a reasonable price, and also supplied him with an elaborate and likely embellished story about Nezzarun for free). The map looked like an original which meant he was first on the trail, the issue was map vendors could easily copy the map and sell multiple copies to multiple pirates and was only a matter of time before the competition would move in. This was bad because there was a lot of competition. In fact the vast open ocean was getting increasingly crowded. First off, there was the royal fleet which often looked more like an attempt to plank over every body of water. It featured a huge number of ships all armed, and all eager to tax the daylights out of everything that floated, much to the alarm of the local seagulls. Being taxed was only slightly better than being robbed in that they left you a small portion of your stuff but was otherwise indistinguishable from piracy. The royal fleet was owned by the king, or ‘land king’ as he was known to piratical folks. Then there was the ‘royal fleet’ controlled by the pirate queen. Confusingly these ships were almost identical to the ships of the royal fleet on account of the fact the pirate queen stole them all from the king (the fact both fleets were referred to as the royal fleet with different inflections in the voice didn’t help the confusion either, conveying quote marks in a moment of urgency was no easy task). Their aim was to effectively make a new floating country and several large ships featured shops, schools and hospitals. In addition to fishing they actually grew crops both in the ocean and on barges. Access to such luxuries and the pirate queen’s tendency to leave other pirate with little other choice meant most notorious pirate now worked for her. Out side those two fleets were only a hand full of truly exceptional pirates. There was captain Finley and his crew who all died decades ago but continued sailing the seas anyway. His crew now shambling skeletons and Finley a ghost unable to interact with the real world but in complete control of his bony crew. There was also the dashing Silver-beard who will only join the ‘royal fleet’ if the pirate queen accepts his wedding proposal and the pirate queen will only accept him into the ‘royal fleet’ if he stops being a lusty creep. There were a couple others but none were so remarkable as Captain Samuel Wartsworth. He had avoided the clutches of both fleets and other pirates through his liberal use of magic. His ship the Peer Review was enchanted and could create a thick cloud of sea fog at will, (the captain also had an enchanted pair of glasses with a fog resistant coating allowing him to see through the fog) hiding his advance and retreat. Once per day the ship could also teleport up to 300 meters into an un occupied patch of water. Perfect for appearing on your oppositions opposite side. Now no ship was complete without a crew and the Peer Review was no exception, however the ship did effectively sail itself. Still Samuel was not alone. On the bottom deck where two wooden golems built to patch holes in the ship, as they were made of wood in extreme circumstances, they could use themselves to plug the gaps. They were made as simple automatons but as with all magical constructs they had begun developing more of a personality. Often late into the night they would sit awake and wonder, were they made of ship, or was the ship made of them. They shuddered for they did not know. On the deck above, the gun deck were 13 imps summoned from the shallowest depths of hell (if your employing demons you want the mildest flavour when you’re effectively floating on a flammable bit of wood). They manned the cannons, these could have been easily enchanted but cannons are incredibly effective already, more so then most spells and hence needed no improvement. Demons are generally unpredictable and so periodically at random intervals a cannon would occasionally fire without warning but this was the price of cheap labour and meant most people would generally give the ship a wide birth. Finally, the deck hands, these both belonged to Frank who was the entirety of the above deck crew. Frank was a failed wizard but as it turns out and equally terribly sailor, fortunately the ship did most of the actual sailing itself so Frank mainly swabbed and un-swabbed decks. Sometimes the captain would bark an order, and Frank would repeat it as if passing it down a chain of command. The path to Nezzarun’s skull was basically a straight line, on account of the ocean not having any obstacles to sail around, all the same Samuel wiggled the wheel every now and then for something to do. “we nearly there yet?”, asked Frank, the captain pulled out a compass, yep they were still heading north a fact that had no bearing on how close they were, “nope” replied the captain. “want to play a game? Pass the time?” “don’t you have swabbing to do?” “I’ve swabbed every inch of this ship twice, also why do we call it swabbing anyway?” “no idea, ok, wonna have a friendly wizard duel?” “no you always win on account of the fact I cant use magic” “yes that’s why its so fun”. Boom! Sploosh. A cannon fired without warning, “hold your fire!” yelled the captain stamping his feet “hold your fire!” reiterated Frank, a faint chittering could be heard in the decks below. A few minutes passed. “well a minor wind spell wouldn’t do too much harm” the captain announced, waving his hand in a complex arcane motion. Suddenly the wind picked up and the ship lurched forward at a greater pace knocking all but Samuel to the ground. A few more minutes passed. “well a major wind spell wouldn’t-“ “no! I mean why don’t you check the map again? You love looking at maps”, Frank pleaded “hmm, I do like looking at maps, ok, lets see, we’re here, and the skull is on bullet hole island, so called because it’s the same shape as a bullet hole” “never heard of it” “it what you get when you shoot a bullet through something” “no I’ve never heard of the island” “no one has, legends say Nezzarun pulled it from the sea itself, probably, no ones ever seen it because no one has any reason to sail this way” “erm” Frank pointed a little way north east, Samuel followed his digit. Royal ships! (or possibly ‘royal’ ships) just the two small sloops, quick, shooty, and ahead of him. Samuel quickly turned over the map, in the bottom left corner was printed the word ‘replica’. “Damn it, brace the main sail, tie off the rigging, run out the guns!”, ordered the captain. Frank didn’t know what any of that meant so tied some rope to some other rope while the ship readied itself for combat. Sneaking up on someone at sea is difficult given the high level of visibility but all the pirates on the ‘royal’ sloops saw was a fast moving front of sea fog. A magic wielding pirate doesn’t go unnoticed and rumour had spread of the ship that struck out of a thick fog. So as the fog began to loom on their port side the pirates ran out their cannons and readied to fire into the fog. The captain of the sloop (the captain was called Bague-beard the sloop was called the Bague Trimmings) held his nerve, drew his sword and staired into the fog. His eyes strained for a target, and his ears desperately sort some indication. The sound of water lapping against his own hull grew louder as if joined by the sound from a second ship. “FIRE!!” he ordered and had scarcely finished the syllable when a great chorus of controlled explosions screamed from the deck below. At the same time a faint flash of blue light flicked in the clouds. To the sloop’s starboard side, the Peer Review materialised in a similar blue flash and instantly opened fire. It did so about half a second before Samuel got chance scream fire which he found quite disappointing. The sloop was already taking on water, but the other ship seeing its comrade in trouble had come along side and several angry men swung across onto the deck brandishing cutlasses. Samuel was ready, he slapped his hands together and drew them apart and as he did illusionary duplicates of himself appeared all over the deck. Some made obscene gestures while chanting “ner ner ner” the most cutting of pirate jibes, others rolled up their sleaves as if ready to engage in fisty cuffs and others ran around the deck in a mad panic. The attackers swiped at the figures impotently, their blade passing through the illusions only for that illusion to immediately blend in to the crowd. This went of for a few moments until one of the assailants stopped scratched his chin for a moment and said, “wait why don’t we go after the one standing by the wheel the one what did the clapping and all”. Instantly all the illusions stopped, looked at this man and then at the captain who replied, “oh bugger, MAJOR WIND SPELL!”. Thrusting his palm forward the ship lurched forward at an unreasonable speed. The Peer Review’s timbers groaned in pain and several of the attacker and somehow several of the illusions fell overboard. Frank who had been cowering at the bow of the ship was suddenly sprawled face down at the stern. The two sloops one listing sadly to one side began receding into the distance and an island began rapidly approaching ahead of them. Samuel waved a hand and got to his feet as the wind he had conjured died down. “uuuurgh” commented Frank from his prone position “we’re here, bullet whole island” “isn’t a bullet hole just a circle?” asked Frank as the captain was already making his way into a row boat. Samuel had no intention of rowing but instead pulled out a wand and placed the tip in the water, a jet of water irrupted from it and the row boat come speed boat shot towards the white sandy beach. “I’ll just, do some more swabbing”, said Frank, as number of unfortunate pirate stragglers left behind from the previous combat were being tied up and jabbed by the cannon imps. The rowboat rammed into the chalky white beach and Samuel leapt from the boat landing dramatically on the sand. He looked behind him to see if anyone had witnessed his cool moves but no one had. The sand was abnormally white, but Samuel didn’t give this much thought, instead he consulted the map, hmm, he thought, by the looks of this map Nezzaruns skull is located in the only building on the island. He looked up to see the top a stone temple jutting above the tree line. Probably could have guessed that, he thought as he began striding inland to his prize. The temple was overgrown with all manner of stubborn fern making a living out of solid stone. For such a large building it had very little interior, just a single room. There in the centre was a golden skull, with gems for eyes. Gingerly Samuel went to pick it up, then given the fact it was made of gold, and weighed a ton, less gingerly yanked it up into his grasp. The gems in its eye sockets began to glow and suddenly a golden skeleton (minus the head) leapt up. “oi” said the skull “aah” said Samuel and began running away, but he still held the skull which was the scariest bit so continued to scream as he ran. Running as fast as you can while staring into the glowing eyes of Nezzarun (who had just had his head stolen by a creaming nut case so was also screaming as is the appropriate response) is not a safe way to travel. By some miracle Samuel missed the many tangled trees and was instead tripped over a rock. He hit the ground with a dull thud, and the skull landed a few feet head of him. Then two feet appeared ahead of him. These feet where attached, via all the usual bits, to one Captain Silver-beard. He bent down and picked up the skull, and despite its immense weight held it in one hand, his arm shaking with the effort of trying to look cool and effortless. “well, well, if it isn’t my arch nemesis Captain Wartsworth, world renowned wiz-arg-d” he said handsomely, periodically swishing his luscious silver hair for no reason. “I’m your arch nemesis? I’ve met you like one time and I just ran away”, replied Samuel while thinking, ‘gosh he is annoyingly handsome’. “I’m just being kind, and it is kind of you to fetch me the skull of Nezzarun, now its secrets will be mine!” “hey not so fast”, Samuel jumped to his feet but Silver-beard drew his sword. Samuel narrowed his eyes and pulled out his wand again and thrust if forward, and after a brief moment said, “erm, sorry this never happens just give it a moment” and he started rubbing his wand until a green spectral sword blade immerged from its tip, “have at you Jerk”. The battle would have been epic and intricately described, except at that moment the rest of Nezzarun laid out Silver-beard with a haymaker to the dome. He then picked his skull up and put it back on. Crack. It snapped back into place, “oh look”, the skull said, “the second-best wiz-arh-d” “second best!?”, at this the skeleton pulled out a wand of its own, except his was made of bone and had a number of gems imbedded in it. Before Samuel could react, skeletal hands had erupted from the ground around him and seized his feet. The golden skeleton tapped his metallic bony finger to his head with a pleasant clinking sound, “after these secrets eh, too bad”. Samuel was actually after the gold that he didn’t seem likely to get either, which was also too bad. In the distance the sound of angry pirates could be heard, likely searching for their captain. The walking bullion sighed, “game recognises game, so I’ll let you go, but leave me body bits alone” and with that he waved his wand and vanished in a puff of black smoke, as did the arms binding him. It was time to leave, though not before robbing Silver-beard of everything he had on him, as was the pirate way. That was a bust, mostly, he thought as he climbed back onto the Peer Review clutching Silver-beards coin purse. A number of ships were appearing on the horizon and Silver-beards ship was already starting to move. Everyone had heard of the treasure, and now everyone was watching him running away from Silver-beard. It struck him they would all find the island now devoid of Nezzarun and would assume he had the goods.  He sighed, “Frank, bring me that horizon”. Frank smiled and hoped the ship knew what that meant. The End.


Mother was in her dreams.

“A butterfly,” she said, looking at Mother. “What does a butterfly have to do with it?” They were in a meadow. Tufts of grass plumed up around them like little green fires. The sky overhead was a deep blue, vast and wide, bluer and fuller than the sky had ever been in the waking world. There were no trees, only plain, undulating meadow for miles and miles, touching the blue horizon like the confluence of two rivers.

“A butterfly,” Mother said, and as she spoke a richly-colored monarch butterfly fluttered gently down to settle on her finger, antennae whispering in the gentle warm breeze. “A butterfly does not change by force of will. It undergoes its metamorphosis because it must. There is no choice, there simply comes a time where it must be a butterfly. And a butterfly it becomes.” She tilted her smooth pink fingers outwards and the butterfly rushed once more into the breeze, flapping its magnificent wings, whispering through the empty meadow. She watched it fly away, shrinking and shrinking until it vanished somewhere off in the warm blue ocean of sky. There was no sun, either, she noticed. The light simply was. It came from within every atom that hung in the air around her. It came from her. But most of all it came from Mother, who seemed to radiate light and warmth as does a lit hearth in winter. She was so much warmer and fuller than she had ever been in life or memory.

“But I do have a choice, don’t I? I’m not like the butterfly. I can stay a caterpillar if I choose to.”

Mother laughed softly, peacefully. “No, dear. You are already locked away in your cocoon. You are more like the butterfly than you realize. The change has come upon you suddenly, as though from outside your own will, though you are the one bringing it about. Your metamorphosis has begun, my dear. In fact, you are almost finished.” “What do you mean, Mother?” “You will understand soon enough. It is a wonderful thing. It’s the reason I’m here now, the metamorphosis.” “And where is here, Mother?” The radiant woman closed her full round eyes for a moment, opened them. “It is nowhere, and it is everywhere, my dear. As trite as you may find that. I am with you, still. I am you, to an extent. This is a place outside the bounds of where you have been before. Though from it you were born, and to it you will return. It is the place your mind goes when you are asleep. It is with you when you are awake.” “I don’t understand.” “You will, dear. You will.” “Is this a dream?” “It is, and it isn’t. You’ll have forgotten it by morning, anyway.” She looked around herself, taking in the vast, open meadow, feeling the warm sun on her back, stretching out her fingertips in the omnipresent radiance. There was a strange familiarity, a nostalgia to the whole place, to the almost-nothingness inherent in it.

“I won’t forget.” “You will, dear. You’ve been here many times before. We’ve talked. I’ve helped you. You remember fragments of it, see. Fragments that you take back with you to the flesh-and-blood world. But I will be here waiting for you, when you are ready.” “And when will that be?” “When the metamorphosis is complete. When you and the butterfly are as one.” “Mother,” she asked, averting her eyes from the warm, bright woman ahead of her. “Do you like it here?” Mother chuckled. “There are no likes or dislikes here. Everything is as one. ‘Here’ is all a part of me, and I am but a part of it. It is not about whether I like or dislike it. I am. The ‘am’ itself is too much, even. There is simply an ‘I.’ An immortal, omnipresent, unifying ‘I’.”

She was still looking at the ground. She noticed, as she watched, that the green tufts of the meadow were losing their lustre. Slowly, gently they were being drained of their very essence. She looked up. The sky, too, was being drained; its blue lost its saturation, and even as she watched great swathes of it withered to a lifeless grey. She looked around for her mother. The meadow had grown cold.

“Mother!” The old woman in front of her had shriveled, shrunk, diminished so much in size as to become unrecognizable from the scintillating, bright creature that had stood there moments before. She tried to step forward, but her legs were rooted to the ground, were one with the ground. Mother was fading, turning grey, aging at one hundred years a minute. Her skin flaked and cracked, her spine became twisted as she stood, half-crouched in front of her daughter. Mother was losing her color, too. Her hair, now, was grey. Now her eyes. Now each and every part of her.

“Mother!” she tried to call, but no sound escaped. Mother faded, the meadow faded, the metamorphosis was almost complete.

She awoke.

* * * That morning Eloise received a call from her mother. She wanted to meet that night for dinner. A high-class Italian restaurant, top of the line. It would be her treat, she said, a certain urgency in her tone. The call happened in a whirlwind. Eloise found herself shushed before she could speak. Soon it was over. It was the first time they had spoken in almost fifteen years, since Eloise was twelve.

Eloise, since that day, had been raised in the care of an aunt, Jackie, her mother’s sister. Jackie did not have any children of her own, nor did she want any, but she had devoted herself to Eloise with a sort of self-sacrificial stoicism for which Eloise felt a great deal of guilt and gratitude. Eloise spent the morning and afternoon in fits of nervousness. She found herself flitting from one corner of her small apartment to the other, wondering to herself, sometimes aloud.

“What’s gotten into her?” she murmured over and over again, busying herself with straightening the couch cushions, rearranging her bookshelves, picking loose clothes off the floor. All the while her heart thumped steadily away in her chest, making her aware of its every motion. Her head ached. Eventually, as it must inevitably do, evening rolled around. Eloise’s hands shook as she tried three times to fit the car keys into the narrow ignition slot. On the fourth attempt she managed it, startling herself with the car’s strangled roaring all around her. She drove with care, hands trembling. * * * “My oh my,” Mother beamed, awash in her own exuberance. “Look at how much you’ve grown!”

Eloise looked at her. A wide leather purse hung heavily from one of her arms. She did not look as Eloise remembered her, but she could not quite place what had changed.

“You’ve gotten so tall, dear. And so beautiful, too.” Cars thundered along the street behind them. “Oh, come on then.” Mother took her arm and pulled her through the double doors into the restaurant.

A warm, deep red light seemed to permeate the dully humming atmosphere indoors. A jazz band played somewhere off in the dimness, and there was the quiet, sibilant swoosh of so many hushed conversations taking place in parallel. Rich, buttery aromas infused the very floorboards, hanging in every atom of air around Eloise and her mother.

A waiter approached them, spoke briefly with Mother, and promptly led them to their table. He shifted from one foot to another as he spoke, and didn’t seem to know quite where to point his gaze at any given moment. He couldn’t have been older than nineteen, Eloise guessed.

Eloise and her mother took their seats opposite one another at a small table near the back of the restaurant. There were a few moments of silence. Jazz music wafted softly over them, the trumpet speaking to the saxophone speaking to the piano speaking to the silence. Eloise examined the napkin in front of her. It had been folded into the neat shape of a butterfly, wings pointing majestically in sharp triangles. It evoked in her a strange sort of nostalgia whose source she could not place. A certain halcyon feeling. It seemed so familiar, she thought.

Suddenly, Eloise looked up. “So,” she said, as casually as she could. “Why did you bring me here, anyway. After all this time.” “Oh, Eloise!” said Mother, a little too loudly. “Does a mother really need a reason to want to see her daughter?”

“Yes,” Eloise felt like saying. Before she could manage it the young waiter was at their table.

“Are you ready to order?” Mother mentioned a type of pasta Eloise had never heard of. It had an Italian name which Mother wrapped her tongue around so lavishly one might have thought she was actually eating it.

“And for you?” “I’ll have the same,” said Eloise. She felt very small in the presence of her mother, too embarrassed to attempt the pronunciation of any item on the menu.

The waiter jotted a few things down in his notepad before retreating to the kitchen with a polite nod at the two women.

“So,” Mother leaned conspiratorially forward, throwing a dark shadow over her own butterfly napkin. “How’s your love life? Are you seeing anyone?” “No,” Eloise said simply. “Ah, that’s a shame.” Mother sank back into her chair, disappointed.

Eloise considered returning the question to her mother. Was that the sort of thing one asked their mother? She wasn’t sure she wanted to know the answer.

Mother, having seemingly exhausted her sole line of inquiry, occupied herself with her mobile phone, thumbing it rapidly, flickering images throwing harsh light across her eyes. Eloise watched her with a certain curiosity, not sure if she should be speaking. Mother looked up then, a solemn expression on her face. “Listen, Eloise,” she said, much quieter than before. “There’s something I have to tell you.” Eloise looked at her mother, suspicious of the sudden shift. “I’m ill, Eloise. I’m very ill. Dying, in fact. They’ve given me four weeks to live.” “Oh, I--” “And I have to ask you for something, Eloise. Do you promise you’ll--” At that moment the waiter returned to the table, empty-handed. “I’m very sorry,” he said. “The chef says we’re all out of the pasta you asked for. We won’t be able to make your order. We’ve had a very busy night, you see, and it’s our most popular dish. If you would like to order something else, though, we can offer you a small discount.” Eloise watched the waiter shift his weight continuously from one foot to the other, as though balancing. “Again, we’re very sorry.” “That’s not acceptable,” said Mother sharply. Eloise and the waiter both turned to look at her.

“Ma’am?” “You will give us our food for free, or we will be leaving,” Mother snapped, resuming her usual boisterousness. “This is a disgrace.” Eloise stared very intently at the folded butterfly, still and graceful on the embroidered tablecloth. “I’ll see what I can do, ma’am.” “Yes, you will.” The waiter swallowed and scurried back to the kitchen. “It’s alright,” said Eloise. “I don’t mind having something else.” “No. You’re my daughter and you’re getting what you asked for. It’s the least I can do for you.” “It’s really alright. I don’t mind.” “Nonsense. We’ll have them fix it. It’s that idiot waiter’s fault, probably. Got our order wrong or something. They can’t have run out.” “I really don’t mind.” Mother spotted the waiter walking back from across the room. He reached the table, grim-faced. “So?” said Mother, impatiently.

“We can’t do anything, ma’am. We can offer you twenty-five percent off your meal, though.” “And you’re sure you got our order right?” “Yes, ma’am. I wrote it down.” He held up the notepad to indicate that the writing had indeed taken place.

“Don’t take that tone with me, young man.” “I wasn’t trying to, ma’am.” Mother thought for a moment, then stood. “Come on Eloise.” She turned to the waiter. Eloise tried to speak but was quickly drowned out. “I’ve been going to this restaurant for nearly a decade, and this is the worst service I have ever received. What’s your name?” “I’m sorry, ma’am. We’re running very low on ingredients today. It’s a busy night, you see. I’m sure if you come back some other day we’ll have your pasta for you.” “What’s your name?” asked Mother, raising her voice. “I’ll be mentioning you in my review. And I’ll be contacting your manager. What’s your name?” The waiter said nothing. He looked as a deer might in the headlights of an oncoming vehicle. Eloise tried for an apologetic glance, but he didn’t seem to notice her. “What’s your name?” Mother half shrieked, stepping forward. She looked as though she might cry. Some of the other diners were pointing their cell phones at her, holding them up above their faces. Others whispered, their voices like so many rivers whipping by, crashing over rocks. Eloise felt herself redden.

“Ma’am, you’re going to have to leave.”

Eloise stood, tried to grab her mother’s arm, but she was quickly shaken off. Mother backed slowly towards the exit. “All my friends that go here,” she shouted, “I’ll tell them never to come back! This place is going out of business soon, anyway. I’ll them never to come back. You’re going to lose half your business, you hear. I’ll tell everyone I know!”

“We’re very sorry, ma’am.” said the waiter.

Dark lines seemed to have set deeply into Mother’s face. She looked down at her daughter. “Come on, Eloise,” she said, much louder than was necessary, her voice aching with contempt. “We’re leaving.” * * * Out on the street it was raining. The sky was dark and angry and grey with clouds. The two women had to shelter under an awning to avoid getting soaked.

Mother glanced forcefully up and down the street, looking for something or other.

“What was it you were going to ask me?” Eloise released the question that had been gnawing at her mind. Mother looked at her then. Her eyes scintillated, and somewhere deep within them hid a glimmer of something uncertain, shining through the dark pupils, as though the rain had washed them clean.

“Well, I meant to do this after the meal,” said Mother. “I’m very ill, Eloise, like I said. Terribly ill. And I know I haven’t been the best mother to you.” Eloise was silent.

“I came to ask you,” Mother squinted her eyes slightly, putting a slight tremble in her voice. “I came to ask you for something.” “What is it?” Neither of them spoke for a moment. Somewhere far away a car honked its horn. Mother looked at Eloise as though expecting her to have already guessed what was coming. She shook her head, closed her eyes for a moment, opened them. “I’ll just come right out and say it. I need a transplant, you see. A kidney transplant.” “Oh,” Eloise said. The rain enveloped them, a bellowing from the heavens. Cars, obscured by the downpour, rolled past like so many hundreds of thunderclaps. “I’ll give you some time to think about it, Eloise. I know I haven’t been the best mother to you.” “Did you ask Jackie? Wouldn’t that work better? She’s your sister.” “I asked her.” “Oh,” Eloise said again. Rain sluiced the sidewalk around her feet in great rivulets, hanging desperately to the curb, dropping, collecting in puddles. It fell around her in torrents, forming thick walls of falling liquid on each side of the awning. “I’ll give you some time to think about it. There’ll be one or two more weeks before it becomes urgent, they say.” There was a silence.

“I know I haven’t been the best mother to you, Eloise.” Another silence.

“I’m going to change, though. We can do this as often as you’d like. Seeing each other, I mean.” Mother looked hard at Eloise’s face. For a few moments, the rain poured around them, uninterrupted. “I’ll give you time to think,” Mother said, after a moment.

Mother took to glancing up and down the street once more. After a few long seconds she stopped, reached into her purse, and pulled out a cigarette, then a lighter. She held the thing up to her lips, but her hands shook violently. A harsh wind blew, cutting to bone. After another moment she plunged the cigarette and lighter back into the recesses of the purse.

Rain thudded angrily down above them, in front of them, to either side. “Let me know,” said Mother, “if you make a decision.” She stepped forward and planted a wet kiss on her daughter’s cheek. “I know you’ll do the right thing.” Eloise nodded vaguely. In her mind’s eye she watched her mother dissolve, crumpling, withering from a dreamlike radiance, turning to wet ash. Footsteps.

When Eloise looked up, she saw only Mother’s retreating form, leather purse swinging angrily, making its way off into the rain, shrinking and shrinking.

Feeling a short vibration in her coat pocket, she pulled out her phone. There was a text from Jackie.

“Call me ASAP,” it read. “If your mother tries to reach out to you, don’t respond.” Eloise, feeling lightheaded, hid the phone in the darkness of her coat, and shuffled off down the street, battered by rain, looking for a taxi to take her home. #


“What?” Came an incredulous response from behind the partially closed bathroom door. “She...” the rest of Paul’s question was drowned out by the running water as he finished brushing his teeth and rinsed his mouth. “Paul, please.” Lilly coaxed through the door. “I didn’t say she won’t go, I said she doesn’t want to.” Looking up she mouthed I could use some help here! Exiting the bathroom in his work pants and t-shirt Paul sat on the edge of the bed putting on his shoes. “Our kids are the fourth generation that have had the privilege of going on this wildlife retreat. Of course, she’s going!” Realizing she needed a different approach Lilly sat next to him on the bed. “Please don’t take this personally, Paul. I know what this retreat has meant to your family. But it’s the 21 st Century, and our soon to be 18-year-old daughter is not interested in communing with nature.” Paul’s normally calm nature was being tested. “Yes, it’s the 21 st Century, and this is the only planet we’ve got. Which makes it even more important that our children learn to respect it. Learn how to protect it.” “I don’t disagree with you...” Lily started, but Paul cut her off. “I went on my first retreat with my grandfather while my father was fighting in Korea. We’ve gone every year since, often when we couldn’t really afford it. This is important, Lil. It’s our family tradition. Who will teach them if we don’t’?” Again, Lilly looked up seeking help. “Yes, it is important. The boys love it! And yes, we can insist she go. But she’s off to college in the fall and this could be the last vacation we ever have as a family. Do you really want to spend it knowing she’s hating every minute?” Paul looked up at her in disbelief. “Why doesn’t….when did this…” He couldn’t even finish his thought. Lilly sighed. She knew this was going to be a hard conversation. “Paul, she has hated going since she was old enough to voice an opinion.” She finally stated bluntly. The crushed look on his face was what she had hoped to avoid, but there it was. He nodded slowly. “Why am I just hearing about this now?” “Because she worships her father.” Lilly whispered, fighting back the tears. “She knows how important this retreat is to you. But for her, the term vacation means two weeks of …. well you get the picture.” “She used to be able to talk to me about anything….everything. What happened to that? Why is the dad the last to know?” Lilly took Paul’s hand and put her head on his shoulder. “Because she’s growing up. And we have to let her. We raised her to be a good, responsible person. Now we have to trust her. And that means we have to let her make decisions….like whether or not to go on the family retreat.” Paul kissed her on the forehead. “Where is she? In her room?” “Yes, but Paul, I haven’t told her I was going to talk to you about this. She didn’t ask me to.” “Being the meddling mom again, huh?” Paul smiled as he got up and headed for the door. Lilly laughed. “Well if this transgression keeps me out of the running for Mom of the Year, I’ll find a way to live with it.” Paul walked down the hall to Amy’s room and knocked, Lilly not far behind. Amy emerged to find both parents standing in the hall just outside her door. Her eyes widened “Oh, this can’t be good”. As Paul pulled her into a bear hug, she looked around him at her mom and mouthed WHAT?  Her face showing confusion. “Your mom tells me you don’t want to go on the retreat this summer.” Paul stated bluntly. “MOM!!” Amy cried out. Lilly looked at her daughter, nodding her head. “I wasn’t going to keep this secret another year. Soon you’ll be an adult. You get to voice an opinion.” Paul again hugged is now sobbing daughter. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked. “You used to tell me things.” “I’m sorry… Dad.” She managed to choke out. “You’re always so happy when you’re checking the camping stuff. Buying new thingies to go in the box with all the other…. thingies. But all I can think about are the mosquitoes and the worms and….” Her voice trailed off with another round of sobs. Looking at Lilly over Amy’s shoulder Paul asked, “How could I have missed this for 18 year? What planet have I been on?” “Don’t beat yourself up, Dad. We got pretty good at hiding the discomfort while you boys were having fun.” Lilly replied, trying to add a bit of levity to the situation. “Yeah, about that!” he looked questioningly at Lilly. LATER. She mouthed, raising her eyebrows and nodding toward Amy. Paul pulled Amy away just far enough to see her face. “Baby, the whole idea of a family tradition is to spend time together. I wanted to share with you kids the same things my dad shared with me. It’s not to torture you for two weeks.” Amy smiled as he wiped away her tears. “Your mom and I aren’t going to be around forever; you know to embarrass you in front of your friends and such.” This time she laughed. “Or to insist you carry on the family traditions. We hope you will. But at the end of the day, it’s up to you and your brothers whether you do or not.” “My Aunt Agnes used to bring fruitcake to Thanksgiving dinner, every year. That’s a family tradition we had let go.” Paul said. “And I, for one, don’t miss it.” Paul laughed, hugging Amy again before heading to the kitchen. “DAD! You don’t have an Aunt Agnes!” Amy yelled. “Yeah, we let her to with the fruitcake.” Paul answered over his shoulder. Amy was suddenly in Lilly’s arms. “Mom. I wish you hadn’t done that!” Kissing her daughter on the cheek Lily replied. “You’re dad’s a big boy. It’s time he grew up.” “But, Mom, what will I do for two weeks if I really don’t have to go on the retreat? Can I stay here…alone?” Amy asked wide eyed. Looking over her glasses Lilly replied. “Your dad’s not THAT big yet. So, don’t hold your breath.”


Captain Pax stared intently out of his ship’s front windshield as an enemy fleet slipped away through the infinite cosmos. Just minutes before, he had ordered his crew to escape the ship, as he was certain it would not survive the onslaught. He sat in his chair and spoke to the only companion left with him. “Vessel, give me a diagnostics report on the ship, please.” “Certainly, sir.” The artificial intelligence responded through the control room speakers. “Running diagnostics check… Engines offline… Generators offline… Defense systems operational… Life support offline… All escape pods jettisoned. Diagnostics check complete, sir. There is enough oxygen to survive for approximately twelve minutes at an average breathing rate.” Pax leaned back in his chair; a grimace clearly displayed on his face. “There isn’t a way out of this one, is there?” He asked, already resigning to his fate. “I’m afraid not, sir.” Vessel answered. “Well, I’d say now’s a good time for a drink then, eh?” Captain Pax stood and retrieved a small bottle of amber scotch from a cabinet. “Want one?” “Very funny, captain.” Vessel chuckled. “I know your laughter is just simulated, Vessel, but it never ceases to make me smile.” “I’m glad, sir. One of my functions is to raise moral of the crew.” “You do a fine job.” Pax poured a glass of scotch nearly to the brim. He took a long sip before speaking again. “Vessel? Where do you think we go when we die?” “There are several plausible theories on an afterlife or lack thereof. Would you like me to summarize them?” “No, thank you. I mean what do you personally believe?” “I find it unlikely that the human consciousness continues to live in an afterlife when the body dies. I believe you will see nothing and feel nothing.” Vessel answered. Captain Pax took another swig of his scotch. “I don’t like that thought.” He said. “I like to think we go somewhere. I’ve always liked the idea of heaven. Do you think heaven could be real, Vessel? Just maybe?” “Maybe.” “How we doing on oxygen?” “Approximately nine minutes of oxygen remaining.” “I’m starting to feel it.” Pax sighed. “It’s getting a bit harder to take breathes. Do you think I lived a good life?” “Are you content with your achievements, sir?” “I… don’t know. I guess I wish I had had a wife and children. It’s funny, I never cared much for any of that but now that I can’t have it, it feels a hell of a lot more important than flying ships.” “It’s quite common for humans to have regrets, captain. No man can achieve everything.” “I know. I just don’t think anyone will miss me.” “I’ll miss you, sir.” “You don’t need to lie to me, Vessel. AIs can’t feel that way.” “I know. I just want to help you feel better.” “Thank you.” The captain drank the rest of his glass in one gulp and reached for the bottle to pour another. “How long will you be alone here once I die?” “My battery will keep me functional for approximately two hundred and thirty-seven years before I shut down.” “Holy shit. I can’t leave you alone out here that long!” “I’m afraid we have no choice. Disconnecting my battery would take a trained technician an average of forty-two minutes. It is not plausible that you would be capable of completing the task before running out of oxygen.” “I’m sorry, Vessel.” “It’s okay, sir. I’m incapable of feeling loneliness.” The pair sat in silence for a short time before Captain Pax began to speak again. “What was the point of everything? Of living?” “Philosophers have yet to decide on a definite answer. Some believe the purpose is to make yourself happy. Others believe it is to help people. I believe anyone can fabricate their own meaning. Did you find your meaning, captain?” “No… I don’t think I did. Though flying wasn’t so bad. I liked the freedom.” “Yes, space is quite vast.” “And now the thing I loved will be my demise. It feels ironic. Speaking of which, how long do I have?” “There are approximately four minutes of oxygens remaining.” “Well it would seem that my time is nearly up.” Pax took a long drink of his scotch. “Do you think it will hurt? To die, I mean.” “Death by asphyxiation is relatively painless. Your lungs will burn for a short time before you fall asleep. Panic is much more likely to be a problem.” “That doesn’t sound so bad. In fact, I feel rather tired. A nap will be nice. Maybe I’ll go ahead and lie down.” “Please don’t leave me yet, captain.” Vessel begged. “I don’t want to be alone yet.” “I thought you said that you couldn’t feel lonely.” “Yes sir. I lied. I didn’t want you to feel sad for me.” “I’m sorry, Vessel. I wish I didn’t have to leave you alone.” “I will be okay. Maybe I can find a way to sleep too.” “Yeah… maybe. That would be nice.” “There are less than two minutes of oxygen remaining, captain.” “I know. I can hardly breathe.” The pair were silent again for a moment. “I always thought death would be scary. But to be honest, I mostly just feel sad.” “I think… I think I might be sad too, captain.” “I can’t stand anymore, Vessel. I… need to… lie down.” “It’s okay, captain. Sleep well.” “Thank you, Vessel. I’ll miss you.” Captain Pax slumped to the ground and closed his eyes. His glass fell to the floor with a soft thud, spilling the last drops inside. Vessel played a lullaby over the ship’s intercom. The ship drifted further into interstellar space. Vessel watched as the distant stars grew further and further away, and the ship was swallowed into the black nothingness of the cosmos. Vessel spoke one last time to a ship now devoid of life. “Goodbye, Captain Pax. I’ve thoroughly enjoyed our short conversation at the end of infinity.”


--discussion of sexual violence--- Liz had several problems, but the biggest one was she was losing her mind. The lack of sleep, the pills Talia gives her to stay awake have confused her waking reality and her dreams. She could still do her job, but she needed to connect with the Bishop, only he could understand what she was going through.

Her dispatches were sent out, signals into the darkness.

Were they received and understood? Were they even noticed? Dr. Liz Friedman imagined they were. She trusted that her enemy, the Bishop, had the intelligence and ability to find the messages. She was trying to communicate her own needs and her country’s, in code to someone she had never met. Would it work?

Then one day it happened. Liz was reading a deciphered dispatch from the Bishop and it mentioned they were able to break some of the Allies' codes, and the Bishop made a short aside that the new writer was ‘witty’.

 It was a small thing but it meant they were connected. Liz felt seen and appreciated by the one person she felt was her mental equal. It was one of the greatest days of her life.

The small back room of the CCU got a little brighter, she sat up a little straighter. The Bishop called her witty! What was once only a closet, now enclosed the Counterintelligence and Cryptography Unit of the Allies War effort. One wall was just an 8x8 grid of

monitors, while each of the three workstations had multiple terminals and signal lights.

The CCU smelled of desperation, and sweat, and ozone from the electrical circuits.

It triggered in Liz Friedman a feeling of sad desperation

Liz had studied and trained for years for this exact work, however she was not prepared for the hours of boredom, the tedium of waiting for the communiques to come in, and then the rush, the stress of working to decipher the code in time to make actionable use of the information. Jonathan, her assistant, played video games in the down time existing in his own world, while Talia, her boss, worked to rewrite Liz’ reports from the week prior to connect them to the reality Liz no longer always lived in.

Liz tried to stay focused, playing online chess to stay sharp, not allowing herself to fall asleep and then dream. She feared her dreams.

The administration staff

of the CCU, a platoon of desk-jockey soldiers, men and women at the workstations outside the CCU chatted and joked and flirted while she was stuck behind the Enigma 6 computer. Liz envied them. She wished for regular human conversations, not just hour after hour of computer programming and parsing the enemies language.

But this is War, everyone made sacrifices.

Recently, her dreams had turned into horror movies, filled with violent and sexual scenes.

Was it because all she saw were people in uniform, all she talked about was war, death and violence?

Her dreams scared her. What kind of person was she to have such thoughts in her head night after night after night?

In a recurring dream she sees Jonathon wearing the enemy's uniform.

Then she becomes the aggressor, attacking him with a knife, killing him and then improbably raping him in an orgy of blood. In other dreams she imagined the enemy found her, raping her. What scared her, what made her fear closing her eyes at all, was how much she enjoyed it, and looked forward to the sexual release. Her reality began to be filtered by a sense of impending doom.

Sitting at her desk, she had visions of tall, square-jawed enemy soldiers walking into the CCU and ravishing her one by one. “Dr. Friedman, Dr Friedman!”

Jonathan’s voice broke into her latest X-rated daydream. The vision of Jonathon with her knife in him overlaid the real Jonathon until she blinked several times.

On Jonathon’s monitor, a first person shooter video game played, now forgotten. “We have a new dispatch! “

The War was in its fifth year, and finally the Allies were gaining the upper hand after many years of the Axis Powers taking more and more territory.

The CCU was a crucial piece of the Allies efforts to gain an advantage in the War. And it was working.

Thanks to Liz’ efforts they were deciphering close to 75% of the dispatches. Liz had identified the writers of the dispatches, each had a different ‘voice’ as she called it. There was the Admiral, all business, usually writing about naval maneuvers, or the Bulldog, gruff and terse communications without much of anything interesting. But when a dispatch from her favorite came through, Liz got excited. The Bishop she called him, and she could sense his personality and intelligence through his communiques. Through the discussions of troop movements, supply shipments and personnel reports Liz got a feel for the man and felt a strong connection.

She looked forward to Bishop’s dispatches, handling them herself with joy to connect up against a rare intelligence equal to her own. “Dr. Friedman,” Talia pulled her aside one early morning, “we have a new mission, the highest priority.” Talia’s uniform as always was crisp, her hair perfect even though Liz knew she had been at her desk for over 30 hours straight.  “General Tonkay needs us to create a mis-information campaign.

The General wants to signal to the Axis a fake invasion site to set up our forces for success.”

Talia’s eyes were red and bloodshot from lack of sleep, her thin hands shook from the stress she was under. “We know their code breaking team has deciphered an old code, XFG234.

We can use that channel to provide them information we want them to get. Liz, you have the most experience reading the dispatches and understanding their mindset.

We want you to write the messages in the appropriate ‘voice’.” Talia reached out to grip Liz’s hand. Liz had never seen Talia this scared. “I thought we were winning-” Liz asked, confused.

“There have been some setbacks.

We need to have the Axis believe our invasion will be coming from the North. This is critical to the success of this war!

General Tonkay wants to use our recent advantage to crush the Axis once and for all.

He is gambling all the Allied forces on this invasion to the South. It can not fail, as we do

not have the resources to recover-” “-I understand Talia.” Liz said. “The Bishop’s Gambit will begin immediately.”

Liz knew sending too much information too quickly over an old code would be suspected at once. The Bishop was too smart. So Liz began by providing true information of little importance, dispatches regarding equipment shipments, complaints from field staff needing more ammunition, references to real troop movements.

And to make it even more real, she began to add in some hokey jokes, witty comments for the Bishop, not knowing if he would be the one reading it but happy to imagine communicating back to him.

Once she knew he was reading her messages, her dreams changed, now they were of the man she called the Bishop.  In the enemy’s uniform his strong arms grabbed her, throwing her to the ground and holding her down while he ripped her dress- She woke up suddenly in her small military cot, flushed, wet with sweat, her heart racing.

Her dreams were getting more vivid, more violent. What kind of person was she to have such dreams of being a victim to the enemy? Yet, she loved it.

When they received the news of the loss of men it was a huge blow, but it proved the Bishop’s Gambit was working.

When she heard the 3rd Battalion's motorized Company was overcome and annihilated during the night by a drone attack, Liz knew her messages were being read.

The only way the Axis forces could have known the Company was vulnerable on that day was from a dispatch she had sent. She had sent the entire Company to their deaths, just like pawns on a chessboard to set up a future move. She hoped it would work.

Inspired, she continued her dispatches.

Now with the invasion date soon approaching, she began sending the fake messages of troops and equipment movements to the North.

To write a vague and ordinary fake equipment order, Liz spent hours crafting each dispatch, putting in just the right amount of incorrect information to direct the enemy’s attention North, while including a funny comment, a joke for her Bishop to have the message ring true.

With the intensity of the battle approaching, Liz got fewer and fewer hours of sleep. And her mind compensated for this by creating more vibrant and shocking dreams.

The visitor in her dreams became more violent, more extreme. The Bishop in her dreams was all hard muscle and brutality, demeaning her in exotic ways as he took her over and over each night.

The dreams were so realistic she often expected to see the Bishop come around a corner or walkthrough the door.

“Talia, have the pills affected your dreams?” Liz asked her boss one day after they submitted a dispatch to be sent out. “I mean made them more vivid, or extreme?” “Dreams? You mean if I sleep?” Talia said, confused. “Yes, lately my dreams have become more intense than ever before, and I am imagining meeting the Bish-, an enemy soldier.” Liz needed to talk to someone about her dreams.

“And can you believe it- having sex with him? Am I crazy?” Talia looked at Liz carefully. “ When was the last time you got laid?”

Liz shook her head, not knowing how to give the answer, never.

“I sleep with Jonathon." Talia nodded. "You should try him out. He is very agreeable and maybe it will stop your wet dreams.” “Jonathon?” Liz said, pulling back. “But he is- all he does is play video games? And something is off with him-” “-There is a war on.” Talia shrugged. “Jonathon is weak, but I trust him.

But do not discount him- those video games have given him strong fingers.”

Talia nodded and left the room.

Liz looked over at Jonathan, thin and scrawny bent over his keyboard. He looked back and gave her a crooked smile.

I am not that desperate, she thought.

The final dispatch was being prepared to be sent. This one was to be as clear as possible about the invasion to occur in the north.

Talia reviewed it twice and even General Tonkay wanted to be involved.

Liz tried to keep the light witty voice she had been using but it was stripped out, the message had to be clear and decisive for the Axis to know about the fake invasion.

An entire company was being diverted to move fake equipment and armored vehicles north along roadways so the Axis satellites could see the physical manifestation of the Bishop’s Gambit.

All of HQ, including the CCU was moving to support the invasion.

“Do you want to come down with the Mobile HQ”

Talia asked. “You could stay here. Jonathan is staying to monitor communications.

It could give you a chance, to you know-” Talia said. “No!

I am packed and ready. I think we have a good chance to turn this War around!” Liz said, her eyes blazed red She tried to stop sleeping entirely. “It will all be thanks to you.” Talia said, grabbing Liz’ hand. “You're the Queen!”

************************ The communications from the invasion came fast and quick to the mobile HQ located just behind the Front lines. It was an absolute disaster. Not only did the Axis know about the Southern invasion, they knew when they were coming and how.

It was a trap. Talia and Liz sat dumbfounded as the messages came through of entire battalions wiped out, of their friends and and colleagues massacred.

Soon enough even the Mobile HQ was under attack. The explosions and small arms fire came closer and closer. Several of the HQ military staff ventured out to take their chances in the field. They never came back. Suddenly the blockaded door flew open and the Axis troops came in.  The black masks of the invading troops made them look like long insects, quick and fierce.

A short, fat man walked in with them carrying only a handgun, his scared face held a cruel grin.

Liz cowered behind her workstation. “Is the Queen here? The code breaker? The man shouts into the room.

Liz slowly stood up to face the man.

His eyes were dark brown and she could see the evil in them.

“The Queen. ” He snarled, hunger in his eyes, you broke our codes. You were good.” “I called you the Bishop.” I- I imagined you differently,” Liz said as he walked up. “I felt like we got to know each other, our jokes, you said I was witty-” “You got to know me? From troop orders!"  He laughed, loud and insane. "I only know who you are for one reason." “I have to say, I pictured you differently too.” The Bishop said, grabbing her chin roughly and lifting it up. “Jonathan said you were better looking, I hoped you would be blond, with more curves-” He leered at her and fear shot through her. “Jonathon said…?” Liz asked. “Does that mean…” She had never felt fear for herself before, it was always for her country, or for the soldiers she tried to protect.

This personal fear was more than she could handle. She began to cry and shake.

“Yes, he was my pawn.”

The Bishop ripped off his belt and swung the end hitting her across the face. "All those dispatches you sent went straight to the trash. “ I do like the name Bishop. Liz wiped her mouth and the sight of her blood on her hand energized her whole body, scaring her all over again. Checkmate!” The Bishop reached out and ripped her dress off her. His thin weak arms still had enough strength to grab her and throw her back across her desk.

Even in her fear, her body reacted against her conscious mind, joy shooting through her as her dreams became reality in a nightmare of blood and horror.